Chapter Text
Arthur didn’t get sick often. Something about being part phoenix, he supposed. Fire didn’t leave much room for weakness. But when it came, it came all at once.
It started as a pressure behind his eyes, a slow-building ache that curled up in his temples. He thought nothing of it. There were children to wake, breakfast to make, garden beds to weed. Talia had been in a mood again, and Lucy had declared that morning's pancakes too round and therefore an offence to dark forces. Arthur smiled and nodded and kept moving.
He should have stopped when his vision blurred. Or when his hands shook pouring the tea. But the rhythm of caretaking was familiar. The weight of always being needed anchored him, kept his feet on the ground even when the room began to tilt.
He tried to hide it. Took slower steps. Lowered his voice to conserve energy. He told himself he was just tired. That if he drank more water, if he just pushed through breakfast, the headache would lift. But everything felt far away, like he was floating above his body.
When Phee asked why he was blinking so much, Arthur forced a smile and waved her off. "Bright morning," he said. "My eyes are adjusting."
Still, it got harder. The clanging of dishes rattled through his skull. Lucy's jokes, normally a joy, felt like static in his ears. By the time the children were settled with their lessons, Arthur had to lean on the counter to keep from swaying. He tried to sneak away for a minute of quiet, but his legs felt like wet sand beneath him.
That’s when Linus caught him.
It happened mid-morning, just after Theodore had tried to incubate a pebble on the couch and Lucy had attempted to hex the toaster for disrespecting his bagel. Arthur had just sat down, which was already unusual enough to raise eyebrows. Linus knelt in front of him with a quiet calm that made Arthur’s chest tighten.
"You’re ill," Linus said gently. "Why didn’t you tell me?"
Arthur shook his head. "It’s not important. It’s just a headache."
Linus took his hand. Arthur didn’t pull away, but he didn’t squeeze back either. He didn’t know how.
"You're sweating. And you haven’t touched your tea. You always finish your tea."
Arthur blinked. "I couldn’t taste it."
Linus stood without another word and gently ushered him upstairs. Arthur wanted to argue. He should have argued. But his body slumped willingly into Linus’ arms like it was finally safe enough to collapse.
In their bedroom, Linus pulled back the blankets and guided him in with such quiet care that Arthur thought he might cry.
"I'm supposed to take care of them," Arthur whispered. "Of you."
"And we’re supposed to take care of you," Linus replied. He pressed a kiss to Arthur’s forehead, the softest thing he’d felt all day.
Arthur closed his eyes. He let the darkness come.
Linus didn't leave his side. Not really. He only went downstairs when the children needed something. He brought Arthur water, cool cloths, tea with mint Phee had picked from the garden. When Arthur was too hot, Linus opened the windows. When he shivered, Linus wrapped him in another blanket.
All the while, the house moved around them. Talia declared herself acting head of household and made a rule that everyone had to speak in whispers. Chauncey tried to create a bellhop sickroom service and accidentally spilled juice on the stairs. Sal read poetry outside Arthur’s door and left notes under the crack like quiet prayers. Lucy tried to make the light gentler and plunged the hallway into unnatural shadow until Theodore got spooked and flapped into a bookshelf.
Linus handled it all.
He soothed. He explained. He bent down and cleaned the spilled juice. He helped Chauncey fold napkins for “Arthur’s meal tray.” He coaxed Phee out of the bathtub, where she’d been crying because Arthur missed their cloud show. He whispered to Lucy that being quiet could still be powerful. He told Talia her leadership was strong, and that the garden could wait.
And then, after all that, he came back upstairs and ran his fingers through Arthur’s damp curls, brushing hair off his brow.
“You’re allowed to rest,” Linus said softly. “No one is keeping score here. You’ve already done enough.”
Arthur didn’t answer. But the next time Linus brought tea, Arthur took it. And drank. And whispered, “Thank you.”