Work Text:
. . . . . . .
Ah, yes. Another day spent bedridden with some virus or another, curse his body and it’s pathetic inability to resist even the slightest cold and whatever sickness it brought with it. One way or another, it always ended with poor Arthur being stuck sitting in his room for several days with nobody to keep him company but his phone.
And of course, his dear husband Paul. How could he forget? The blonde man was, after all, his best friend and self proclaimed caretaker. Such loyalty surely deserved to be rewarded, yet all the poor black haired man could do was thank him profusely, and even then his vocalization of the desire to repay Verlaine for his kindness, the brown eyed man always insisted it was purely an act of love and had no such need to be thanked for basic decency.
But Rimbaud, being the courteous man he was, would press on and insist that there had to be something he desired, which was always met with a firm “No.”, which, infuriating as it was due to his nature, was for the better of both his mental and physical health.
The first time he had fallen ill, back when the two only ever interacted for missions and the like, Paul had come to his apartment to check on him due to a several day absence. After coming to the conclusion that he had a rather nasty cold, the other man had stuck around for several days to make sure he didn’t over exert himself.
Unfortunately, in a moment of sheer anxiety and anger at such gentle treatment, Rimbaud had snapped and asked him why he cared so much he when wasn’t even human. Even if he didn’t leave the black haired man to his own devices after such a comment, needless to say (Get it? No I will not stop randomly interrupting) Paul hadn’t spoken to him for the next three days before he left once he deemed his colleague was healthy again.
And now, here he was again, quietly sipping from a mug of his favorite ginger tea with a blanket draped around his shoulders while trying not to let his all too-insistent headache get the better of him. Good god, how long did it take to make an omelette or two? Verlaine had left the room about 25 minutes ago to make the two of them a nice, simple dinner for the two of them. Thanks to his stuffed nose, he couldn’t smell anything at all, so Rimbaud had no clue as to if he was even actually cooking or if he had gotten distracted with something along the lines of reorganizing a bookshelf.
‘Paul, mon amour ! Es-tu toujours là?’
(Paul, love! Are you still there?)
‘Oui, ma chère. Le poêle a décidé qu'aujourd'hui était le jour idéal pour s'obstiner, je viens de le remettre en marche.’
(Yes, My dear. The stove has decided today is the perfect day to be stubborn, I just got it working again.)
Ah. They’d have to get it fixed sometime this week, thankfully for their status it would hardly make a dent in either of their bank accounts. A moment later, a smiling man poked his head into the room, shuffling over and setting down a delicious looking plate of eggs, cantaloupe, blackberries, and bacon.
Even if the eggs were slightly burnt and the bacon was a bit too crispy, the silly ridiculously proud look on Paul’s face was enough to make such a simple meal feel like a luxury item. How could he end up so lucky as to not only have an amazing work partner but also the best love he could have ever begun to ask for?
‘Merci Paul, ça a l'air délicieux. J'ai quand même une question : qu'ai-je bien pu faire pour mériter un mari aussi adorable?’
(Thank you Paul, this looks delicious. I do have one question, though. What did i ever do to warrant such a lovely husband?)
‘Eh bien, je ne suis pas tout à fait sûre de ce que tu veux dire, ma chérie. Mais je suis certaine que ça doit avoir un rapport avec le fait que tu sois un ange sur terre, mon amour.’
(W-well, I'm not entirely sure what you mean, dearest. But I am quite certain it must have something to do with you being an angel on earth, love.)
Oh god. If the little stutter at the beginning of his sentence didn’t do anything, the absolutely delicious blush spread across the blonde’s cheeks made nearly caused poor Arthur to combust on the spot. Such a shame he was sick, hems have to wait a while until he could ruin his partner.
Lucky for him, though, unfortunate as it was, his sickness made it so he got to spend a substantial amount of time with Verlaine, at least compared to the few fleeting hours they usually had to relax and unwind together.
‘Chuuya stopped by to drop off your scarf and say he hopes you get better. I nearly fainted, did you know he’s going around dressed in crop tops and ripped jeans?’
‘There there, I’m he’s— achoo— aware of himself, you know that child is stronger than he seems.’
‘We’ll yes, but he’s 15! You know what? I’m going to go talk to him about that—‘
A shaky hand on his wrist snapped Verlaine out of his rambling, his chocolate brown eyes meeting hazy gold, clouded from sleep and sickness. His hand was shaky, no doubt from the energy he had been putting in to moving around all day, much to the blonde’s annoyance. But as always, his insistence went unnoticed in lieu of the taller man’s stubbornness.
Even if the adorable blush had disappeared from his pale, freckled face, Paul looked unbelievably pretty in light filtering through the gauzy curtains beside the bed. If Arthur was an Angel, Verlaine must have surely been a good, because even if it contradicted his desire to fit in as “real”, there was something so ethereally gorgeous about him it seemed inhuman.
Rimbaud’s voice was soft and raspy when he finally spoke, even if it hurt to speak because of how dry his throat was, there was absolutely no way he was letting his husband leave him alone after he was gone all day and only got home around 2 hours ago. Even if he admired and even considered Mori a friend, all that went out the window if Paul was away too long.
‘You’re always at work or with Chuuya, dear. Stay a little longer?’
‘Oh. Of course, mon cherie. I’m sorry I was gone so long today, Ougai had me working my ass off over some little criminal group that planting bombs in our supply vaults.’
The black haired man let out a little chuckle at that, though he had no doubt the organization was scared out of their minds within minutes. There was a reason his love was known as “The King of Assassins”, nobody ever made it out alive once he set his sights on them. With all that skill, he rarely ever had need to use his ability, but when he did… it was terrifying.
Verlaine in the ground was scary enough, his were always silent and you could never tell where he was with how he projected his voice. But on the ceiling? If he was anywhere above you, it was time to say your final words, repent your sins, and pray heaven let you in, because you might as well have already been dead.
The one time he had ever seen it in action was nearly 3 years ago, and it was needless to say we was still terrified of seeing the other man under any red lighting. Then again, it only happened once. Thank god for that, he might have passed away from pure shock if it happened more frequently.
‘Well, they were lucky you were the last thing they ever saw, with a pretty face like yours.’
‘You flatter me, amore.’
‘You deserve it.’