Work Text:
Hugo slipped in and out of consciousness.
Sleep eluded him, but so did lucidity. His subconscious meddled with his waking mind, turning his dreams muddled and confused. When his eyes opened—and he couldn't tell if he were awake or still dreaming—the shadows of his room made twisted, dancing nightmares as he lay helpless to fend them off.
The room spun; his vision blurred and the dizziness forced bile up into his throat. He clawed to the edge of the bed and threw his torso over the side.
He expelled the contents of his stomach into the bucket beside his bed. Mainly water and acid at this point, it corroded his throat. Sweating, he barely had the strength to reel back up into the mattress. He collapsed back into the sheets, damp and hot and entangling.
Staring at the ceiling through morphing black spots, he saw flashes of faces—past and present, fiction and real. Some hostile, some jeering. He saw Vivian's tear-streaked face, eyes wide as she beheld his doom. The Proxy's stricken fear. His father's face shifting into his own…
Hugo clumsily tore the blankets from his body. Icy air lanced painfully across his sweaty skin. He gasped, chest heaving. Shivering, he burrowed deeper, wrapped the blankets tighter. His body burned with the strength of a bonfire, and still the chills shuddered through him. Cold, hot, freezing, melting.
Out of the constantly-changing hallucinations, he saw Lycaon. He appeared like the moon suddenly breaking through churning thunderclouds, illuminating the storm-swept landscape below. And for a moment the turmoil ceased, like the world held its breath in its presence.
Lycaon's visage filled the entirety of his tunneled vision. A hand encroached out of his periphery, reaching for his face.
Hugo jerked away on reflex. The hand retreated; Lycaon began to disappear. Regret flared up and he panicked, grabbing for him before he disappeared. He wrapped his hands tight around the wrist, his breath heavy and heart pounding.
"Don't," he rasped. Begging, "Don't go. Don't leave," and repeating his pleas until the words tumbled together in meaningless noise.
As he pulled, Lycaon's image came closer again. Hugo's eyes managed to focus, bringing it into full clarity. Relief poured over him; he closed his eyes and brought Lycaon's arm close. He wrapped his arms around the forearm, and would have climbed out of bed just to get closer if he had the strength to do so. His cheek rubbed against the soft fur. The sensation against his skin comforted him. For a moment, his roiling gut could still and he managed to regain some control of his breathing.
He heard Lycaon's voice as if spoken underwater. An indistinct auditory hallucination, but he didn't care. It set him at ease to hear, and his eyelids already felt so heavy.
So did his head, his shoulders, even his arms were leaden and slipping away. Soon after, even the disturbed images that plagued him all dissolved away into a sea of calm and sleep.
Face pillowed against the softness of an arm, Hugo drifted into his first real rest of the night.
When he arrived at Hugo's apartment building, Lycaon glanced once more at his messages. No notification, his previous message—"Are you ok?"—was left read but unanswered. And before that, Hugo's message was a cryptic tangle of misspellings and nonsense. After waiting at their meeting spot for twenty minutes past their agreed-upon time, receiving such incoherent babble disturbed him. Either something was wrong with Hugo or it was some sort of code to hint, without saying, that he was in need of rescue.
The latter he doubted, of course, but in either case it would be prudent to check in on Hugo to get to the bottom of both the message and the reason for his former partner's absence.
Lycaon let himself into the building with a code obtained from Vivian. She had warned him that Hugo was never there, especially when one wanted to find him, and Lycaon thanked her for the information and said he would try anyway. An extra key, borrowed from just the same, gave him access to the entryway, lights off and curtains drawn so tight that none of the numerous lights of New Eridu could intrude upon its darkness.
"Hugo?" he called, and waited. Nothing came in return, but something about the apartment made it feel occupied, and the contradiction made by that unsettled him.
Even with his sharp vision, Lycaon could barely make out the outlines of obstacles in the room beyond. He fumbled for a light switch on the walls in his immediate vicinity. When his fingers found its irregular protrusion, he flicked it on and squeezed his eye shut against the blinding flash of light.
After a moment, he opened his eye again, and they adjusted gracefully to the illuminated room. He began his slow progress through the living space, mapping out his surroundings just as he searched them for Hugo's presence. As he went, he snapped on more lights, and slowly the oppressive gloom evaporated from the place.
With Victoria Housekeeping, Lycaon frequently visited the residences of the wealthy. Hugo's apartment had a shallow veneer of much the same, the fine art hanging on bare walls, a sort of minimalism in mono-colored furniture far more expensive than their appearance justified. Yet it lacked personality; he did not see any of his old friend's touch in the arrangement of couches, chairs, and fake plants, nor in the knickknacks sitting gleaming on the shelves.
It didn't surprise him that Hugo's current identity was that of a collector. That suited him; he always liked unique items the way a crow favored shiny objects. After seeing the inside of this apartment himself, however, Lycaon understood why Vivian could never find Hugo inside of it. This was a mask, like one of the countless others that Hugo wore.
In the bedroom, Lycaon found Hugo.
He hesitated at the door in surprise. Despite his conviction that someone was in the apartment, he still hadn't expected to find Hugo inside. He stepped beyond the threshold of the room, and the humidity beyond the formerly-closed door suffused his coat and made it difficult to breathe. The bed was a mess, with only the top of Hugo's golden head announced his presence within the shivering mass of blankets.
"Hugo?" Lycaon called again, more softly, and when he heard Hugo's muffled groan, he realized why Hugo had not responded when Lycaon was at the front door.
Lycaon approached the bed. He stepped carefully around the bucket sitting on the floor—he wrinkled his nose at its foul contents, but otherwise kept his professional composure. Bending over the bed, he reached for Hugo's face, intending to brush back the hair clinging to his skin and feel his temperature.
Hugo jerked away, face emerging with such wide-eyed alarm that Lycaon flinched. Misplaced guilt burned in his stomach and he swiftly withdrew his hand.
But Hugo grabbed his wrist in a mad scramble. His hand was clammy; his palm left a damp spot where he grasped Lycaon. He mumbled deliriously, begging him not to go as he tugged insistently at Lycaon's arm. His grip was weak, easily broken, but Lycaon couldn't bear to, acquiescing to once again getting close. Their eyes met. The expression on Hugo's face startled him.
His features, flushed by fever, were contorted by open desperation. Hurt carved deep into his brows, his hazy gaze turned onto him in pained supplication. Lycaon had seen a lot on Hugo's face—anger, joy, playfulness, and grief—but the keen emotional pain was something he kept hidden, though Lycaon always suspected its presence. And as he stared, entirely unsure how to react, Hugo hugged his arm, forcing Lycaon down onto one knee so that the angle did not strain his shoulder.
Hugo's face softened, he nuzzled his cheek against Lycaon's hand, and emotion flooded over him. He had the urge to reach out and take his old friend in his arms to soothe his distress away. It caught in his throat, and he held his breath until it passed. Once it had, he felt embarrassed for it. He thought himself too old for such intense impulses.
As he struggled with himself, Hugo gradually calmed down. The shivering ceased, and his eyes closed. His arms, as his breathing steadied, gradually loosened around Lycaon's arm. He extricated himself carefully, so as not to wake Hugo up.
Then he brushed back the clingy strands of Hugo's hair from his face. He tucked it behind Hugo's ear, which twitched in response to the graze of Lycaon's nails. His lips twitched at the sight. Just a small impulse that he allowed himself to give into. It would make Hugo more comfortable to have his hair out of his face, anyway.
Lycaon cleared away the offensive bucket and left a clean container in its place just in case, and then retreated from the room with his thoughts etched deep into his brow. He decided he would stay the night. Leaving Hugo to suffer through his illness alone wasn't an option. And after seeing Hugo so delirious and vulnerable, he felt it his responsibility to tend to him. That had been a side to him he wasn't meant to see, and though he claimed at good intentions, seeking Hugo out had been selfish as well. A code not willingly given by Hugo, and a key that did not belong to Lycaon.
He was seized with the discomfort of witnessing something that should've stayed secret. Hugo was private about his ills and pains, especially so since they had yet to fully reconcile. If anyone should see him in such a state, it should be Hugo to have made the choice of who he revealed it to.
Door closed behind him, Lycaon looked around the apartment, as immaculate as set dressing with nothing to occupy himself in cleaning. He sighed and fished out a brush, deciding to while the hours until dawn by any means he could.
Hugo groaned as his consciousness surface. His body felt like the Hati had chewed him up and spat him back outside of the Hollow. He raised a hand to the ceiling, half expecting signs of corruption piercing through his skin. Confirming that he was just ill, however, was small consolation. He let his arm fall pathetically across his forehead. At least he no longer burned as badly as he had in the night.
Then, the whiff of something faint reached his nostrils. Food. His stomach grumbled, but his lashes fluttered in alarm. Sluggishly, he attempted to grapple with the fact that someone was in this apartment, and if he strained his ears he could hear the faint clatter of things in the kitchen being moved. His first thought was Vivian, as she had access to this place, but unless she had some prophecy, there was no reason why she would show up here.
And if Vivian had a prophecy involving him, then there were bigger things to worry about than someone coming into this residence and making him breakfast.
There was no use guessing. Though his body protested, Hugo forced himself up, and swung his legs over the edge of his mattress. He flinched as he exposed bare feet to the cold tile of his room—it had been convenient before, when he only had to keep it clean for appearances, but now he dearly wished he had carpet floors. Next to the bed was a bucket, empty and clean where he'd distinctly recalled being sick numerous times. If he thought his senses were lying to him before about someone being here, then that confirmed the truth to him.
That, or he was deep in the throes of madness already. He didn't think so, but he supposed that was the case for all madmen.
He was wearing the clothes he'd managed to put on the previous night to meet with Lycaon, before he became so unsteady on his feet that he had to collapse into bed. The dark-colored button up had been clawed almost entirely undone in the throes of his miserable night, except for two non-consecutive buttons that weren't even aligned correctly. He left them as-is, and pulled socks on over his feet before dragging himself out to find this visitor of his.
He lightened his footfalls as he reached the kitchen, and quietly he rounded into the entryway.
And stopped. As did time. And the very atoms of his body.
Lycaon.
Hugo stepped back, breath catching in his throat. His stomach flipped tricks on him; a ticklish sort of nausea churned in his gut. He'd expected Vivian, a stranger even, but not his old partner. Or no, it wasn't that he couldn't have imagined Lycaon showing up, but that it somehow contradicted Hugo's reality to have him there, in his living space. He couldn't come to terms with it.
Lycaon's back was to him, but Hugo's surprise emitted in a wheeze. One of Lycaon's ears flicked, swiveled slightly in his direction, and he turned before Hugo could make a swift escape from his view.
Frozen, caught by the spotlight of Lycaon's gaze, Hugo had no choice but to act casual. He leaned against the wall, cool against his skin.
"When did you get here?" He carefully kept the accusation out of his tone, even though Lycaon always managed to provoke it in him. His grin maintained a perfect casual curl, as his eyes searched Lycaon's face for any clues about his intentions.
"I arrived last night; I asked Miss Vivian where I might find you." Lycaon's eye wandered briefly, then snapped back up to his face. "You should still be in bed; you look awful."
'Last night'… Hugo couldn't remember a thing. It bothered him that someone could have been there for so long with him none the wiser until just now.
Nausea gnawed at his stomach. Hugo's smile stretched further and he laughed to push out all of the strange tense feelings dragging through him. The sound rattled nastily in his lungs. "Don't say that. I think I'm at least reasonably attractive."
"That's not what I meant," Lycaon answered stiffly. Hugo felt some satisfaction for it.
"You're still so easy to tease. It's adorable."
Lycaon's ears flicked; he cleared his throat.
"Please go back to bed. I've been making some porridge, so once it's done I'll bring a tray in."
Hugo's eyes slid past Lycaon to the pot on the stove. Back to him. "And what if I'm hungry?"
"Even if you don't have an appetite, I suggest taking a few bites at least. You seemed very sick last night, so your body will need it to recover, as well as plenty of fluids."
"If I refuse to eat, will you feed it to me?" Hugo's grin had turned wicked.
At last, Lycaon's composure broke. He rolled his eye and shook his head in utter exasperation. A chortle rolled in Hugo's throat at Lycaon's expense, but that only gave Lycaon pause. He side-eyed Hugo and let a long moment pass before he spoke again.
"If that's what it takes, I will."
Hugo sucked in his breath. He kept a smile, all teeth. The seriousness behind the statement made him nervous. It took impeccable self control to not let it shake him. "I'm joking. There will be no need for that, I'll eat. I'll be waiting."
His limbs felt strange and awkward. He made his retreat back to the bedroom with as much haste as he dared, unwilling to show Lycaon that he made Hugo feel anything other than detached contempt.
Once out of sight, fatigue crashed over him. Such a short trip exhausted him so profoundly, it made him feel pathetic. He collapsed back into the bed, lying on top the mess of blankets. His lids heavy, he let them fall closed, and dozed for maybe minutes, maybe hours. When he came to again, he felt before looking the presence at the door; he turned his head to stare blearily at the figure taking up most of the frame.
"The porridge is ready," Lycaon said. Hugo caught something like pity in his eye.
A hot flash ran through him. He sat up faster than he meant to, and the world spun around him. When he gasped and leaned back against the bed frame, Lycaon was at his side in a flash, hovering over him.
Hugo grimaced, hating both the weakness in his limbs and the concern taunting him from his old friend's expression. He resisted the urge to shove him away. Instead, he shifted further from the edge, further from Lycaon.
Half expecting Lycaon to pursue him with that same look of worry, it surprised Hugo when he only straightened up, offering the tray.
Hugo allowed Lycaon to settle it around him, fold-up legs braced on the mattress to either side of him. He didn't recall purchasing such a thing himself, so it must've been Victoria Housekeeping's. From what he understood, their group had all sorts of surprising things—a tray was mundane compared to what Hugo learned of Lycaon's colleagues pulling out during a commission. Not that it mattered, he really only paid passing attention to them, either way.
On the tray was a bowl of aforementioned porridge, water, and a small measuring cup of syrupy liquid. Hugo's eyes narrowed the barest millimeter at the last.
Lycaon noticed.
"It's just some medicine. Don't tell me you have trouble with taking it." It was that doubtful tint to his voice that made Lycaon sound like he was mocking him.
Hugo clenched his teeth. "I don't have a problem with taking medicine," he snapped.
When Lycaon didn't respond, it only made Hugo feel childish. So he held his breath and shot back the medicine first.
Sickly sweet, his body shuddered involuntarily as it slid down his throat. Hugo's nostrils flared; he struggled to keep his reaction under control when he already felt so bad. Quickly the spike of adrenaline faded, however, and he chased the lingering taste away with a gulp of water. He could feel Lycaon's gaze on him, saw him staring out of the corner of his eye, and Hugo kept his eyes doggedly fixed on the breakfast Lycaon provided him.
His hand trembled as he lifted the spoon, but at least he could blame that on his illness.
When Lycaon's gaze became unbearable, Hugo said, "Honestly, after how much the managers hyped up your cooking, I really expected far more. It leaves much to be desired, compared to my own."
"I think your sense of taste is off due to being sick. It's an intentionally bland dish, anyway."
"You sound defensive," Hugo said, and his rolling chuckled turned into a cough.
He strained back into his pillows as the fit wracked his body, for fear that he'd tip the tray. Lycaon went stiff, alert until the moment passed, and his hacking subsided. Hugo rubbed his sore chest, unable to look in Lycaon's direction.
Before Lycaon could ask about it, Hugo said, "I'm fine. Sounds worse than it is."
In this case, being sick was a convenient cover. He wouldn't have to explain that it was a chronic condition merely made worse by being sick. Lycaon was nannying over him enough; Hugo didn't need him continuing on once he'd recovered. He… worried to an infuriating degree for someone who had betrayed him in the first place.
Hugo set his jaw. He wasn't remotely hungry anymore, but he forced another spoonful into his mouth anyway, then sipped some water.
"…thank you," he said, quiet. For checking in on him, for caring about him, for simply making him breakfast—he didn't elaborate for exactly what his gratitude stemmed from. Lycaon could take it however he wanted, Hugo decided. It didn't matter to him.
In his periphery, he caught a flash of movement; Lycaon's tail wagged. It was only once before he caught himself, but Hugo noticed anyway.
How embarrassing that it should make Hugo feel that little bit warmer to see.
"I'm glad to be of service."
Initially, Hugo waited for Lycaon to take his leave. He figured that the leader of Victoria Housekeeping had better things to do with his day than waste it there. Yet as the morning burned away, that seemed not to be the case, and Hugo grew increasingly more disgruntled as Lycaon insisted on sticking around. He was already getting used to Lycaon's presence—it felt as if the years fell away and brought with it a nostalgic peace, as awful as Hugo felt otherwise. Better to end it soon; it wasn't like Hugo needed Lycaon there, and he already did not feel so bad as he had the night before.
So when he could not stand the sensation of filth on his body any longer, he announced that he was taking a shower. Implicit was that, if Lycaon was waiting for the opportunity to go, then that was the time to do so.
But Lycaon did not go. Even when Hugo lingered far longer than necessary in the shower, letting the hot water roll over him. The steam suffused the air around him, and the temperature grew to dizzying levels. He scrubbed himself pink, and still took his time beyond that, giving Lycaon every excuse to just leave him.
A soft knock at the door announced his persistence through the waiting game. "Are you alright in there?" Lycaon's question, muffled.
Hugo shut off the water and squeezed out his hair. Towel wrapped around his waist, he opened the bathroom door and let the steam spill out over Lycaon's feet. He stared at where the vents of Lycaon's legs blew back against the moisture, drawing brief cyclones around them.
Lycaon offered out his arm, fresh clothes draped over it. Hugo did not reach for them.
"What's your game here? I'm already feeling better; I don't need your help. I didn't ask for it, and I don't want your pity."
"There's no game," Lycaon said. "I came for my own reasons; I mean to see them through. If it makes you feel better, just think of it as my own selfishness."
He insisted, too, on brushing Hugo's hair, now that it'd been washed. The request made him feel jittery, but he accepted as if it meant nothing to him at all. But when he sat in the chair with Lycaon behind him, the ghost of his fingers against the back of Hugo's neck as he gathered up his hair made him shiver. He adjusted his position, and tried to ignore it.
They'd been far closer, physically, on many an occasion in the past. This was utterly mundane in comparison.
But mundane it wasn't. Because he knew Lycaon far too well to pretend that he didn't know how intimate grooming was to him.
"Isn't this a problem for you?" he asked, dropping his head back to rest against Lycaon's arm, so that he could peer up at him. He swallowed, and felt his Adam's apple jump. "I remember the first time I tried stroking your tail—and the last. I was sure you'd tear my throat out. My life flashed before my eyes."
Lycaon's gaze shifted restlessly—he remembered the occasion just as well. Hugo watched the conflict and shame play out across his expression, before Lycaon cleared his throat and said, without meeting his eyes, "I wouldn't have gone that far."
Hugo barked out a laugh. "Only because I was quick on my feet. I bought myself enough time for your to regain control—truly terrifying. But I miss that side of you. You're so limited now."
"You're exaggerating," Lycaon insisted, and pushed Hugo's head back into position. "Hold still."
Hugo acquiesced, neck stiff and face forward. "You didn't answer my question. I know how fussy you are about your fur. You wouldn't even let someone else brush it. I know I haven't got any fur, but surely it feels similar to you furry Thirens when you've got the comb in your hand."
Stillness descended between them. Lycaon held his hair in a loose grip, the teeth of the comb just barely touching Hugo's scalp. Then slowly—so slowly it was nearly silent—Lycaon exhaled.
"It's fine. I don't have a problem with you. With this," he said.
Reasons unspoken charged the air between them. Hugo said nothing in response as Lycaon's words percolated through his body and soaked into his core. An unidentified want swirled inside him, as did that treacherous spark of hope. He closed his eyes and did not know what to do with himself.
Lycaon began to comb out his hair. After a restless night, the tangles had grown unruly. But when Lycaon hit a snag, he teased it loose, then drew the damp hair straight. Occasionally, he would regather Hugo's hair, and the tip of his nail would graze gently across Hugo's skin. As it traced over and around his ear, Hugo's ear twitched and his chest jumped with the urge to laugh at the sensation. He held his breath until it passed, leaving his heart in his throat and the Lycaon's phantom touch upon him.
After one pass of the comb, Lycaon ran a hand through Hugo's hair. He let it slip through his fingers like a lover's touch, reluctant to part, but allowing to do so all the same.
As soon as the notion occurred to him, Hugo flinched. A tender keening choked off in his throat, with a flush of heat that raced straight to the tips of his ears. Then, with a shock, he realized he'd heard its echo from Lycaon, too.
Unbearable. He opened his mouth to tease Lycaon—to cover up his same reaction—but found it too dry to speak. Clamping it shut, he remained deathly still, gathering all of his willpower not to make another sound like that again.
Lycaon went back to brushing his hair. Hugo wondered if he'd heard the noise he made. He had no way of asking without revealing how profoundly he'd been affected.
"There, I've finished." Lycaon's voice jolted him out of his dazed state.
"Finally. Now are you going to return the favor and let me brush you?" The words tumbled out of Hugo's mouth before he registered them. His grin was teasing, but his ears were ringing, the suggestion a reminder at how personal grooming was to Lycaon.
Lycaon looked conflicted. He turned his face from Hugo, visibly seeking an out. Then he glanced back, and—"I should plan out lunch for later. Nothing too heavy on the stomach, of course…"
Hugo's chest twinged. "Lycaon."
His voice, though quiet, demanded attention. Lycaon gave it immediately, and once he had, Hugo wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. Too much had been left unsaid, a million conversations he'd imagined both before and after their reunion. And now something else had sprouted, a painful longing that he recognized faintly from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He didn't know where to even begin to untangle all that hung in the air between them.
In some ways, Hugo was still a coward himself. He lowered his eyes.
"Thank you. For being here," he said, his sincerity settling like curdled milk in his stomach. "If you don't mind, I'd like some tea. Make some for yourself as well; we might as well have it together, if you insist on staying."
Lycaon's back straightened. His shoulders a bit hitched, he covered his mouth with that awkward politeness he always hid behind when he was embarrassed. Whatever he was thinking, Hugo felt somehow reassured in that they both danced around their feelings, always close to touching the other but pulling back at the last second.
"Of course; you're welcome. That sounds nice. I'll get started on that right away."