Work Text:
12:00 PM
"You want me to what ?"
"Just go check on him. Please?”
"I don't— what— absolutely not. Find someone else."
"There isn't anyone else, Al. Trust me, I've exhausted every option. You're the only person available."
"Bullshit. Complete lies. What about Diya? Isobel?"
"Business trip. And Isobel's working a double today."
"Fine, what about Briony? Or Finley?"
"Still in France, remember? And Reid..." Hendry pauses. "Reid's hopeless."
"Fuck."
"It's you or no one, alright? And I'm genuinely worried about him. He's never usually this sick. So will you go? Please?"
Silence stretches between them.
"Alistair?"
"Fine."
12:30 PM
Alistair desperately wants to rewind thirty minutes and conveniently miss his brother's call. Then he wouldn't be trudging across London during a heatwave, cramming himself onto the stifling underground, pressed against sweaty bodies, swatting at flies trying to invade his personal space, feeling perspiration trail down his spine like a particularly unwelcome guest.
The whole ordeal makes him want to strip naked and scream into the void. He misses winter with the desperation of a lovesick teenager. He misses bundling himself in layer upon layer of jumpers, when the bitter air made things like sweat and emotional vulnerability physically impossible. Something about summer heat has melted his typically arctic demeanor enough to send him on this fool's errand, and he's entitled to his resentment.
Navigation proves automatic—he's made this journey countless times before, usually in various stages of inebriation since Gavin's flat sits conveniently close to their usual pub. Drunk-Alistair possesses surprisingly sharp directional instincts, evidenced by his current position on Gavin Grieve's doorstep without consulting a single app, wishing desperately to be literally anywhere else.
Just go check on him, Hendry had said.
Because Gavin is apparently dying. So catastrophically ill that mother-hen Hendry insisted Alistair abandon his climate-controlled sanctuary to ensure his friend hasn't collapsed and expired. Never mind that Alistair feels ready to do exactly that after his torturous journey.
He draws several steadying breaths before raising his fist to rap against the cheerful green door three times, firm and commanding.
Silence.
He knocks again, harder.
Nothing.
Teeth clenched, he abandons all pretense of politeness and pounds his fist against the wood in rapid succession. He did not traverse half of this town to be ignored.
A faint sound drifts from within, and he pauses his assault long enough to catch what might be the most pathetic "Hang on!" he's ever heard in his life.
Then Gavin Grieve opens the door, and Alistair realizes he looks exactly as pathetic as he sounds.
The man is wilting. There's no other word for it. He resembles the human embodiment of a dying flower—arms dangling uselessly, shoulders curved under invisible weight. Even his eyes, normally crinkled with perpetual mirth, droop at the corners, dark circles making them appear sunken into his pale face.
Alistair blinks. Perhaps Hendry wasn't being dramatic. Gavin looks genuinely awful.
To prove this point, Gavin barely reacts to finding him there, as if any random stranger might materialize at his door.
Gavin sniffles, dragging a hand roughly across his nose. "Al?" His voice comes out rough and confused. "What're you doing here?"
The recognition hits Alistair like a physical blow. Gavin does know it's him, which confirms something is seriously wrong. Never once has Gavin spotted Alistair without his face transforming into that ridiculous grin, without some enthusiastic greeting tumbling from his lips, without that particular spark lighting his eyes that Alistair has grown shamefully accustomed to receiving. The absence leaves him feeling like an actor who's forgotten his lines, uncertain how to navigate this interaction without their usual antagonistic rhythm.
"Er," he begins eloquently. "Hello."
Gavin saves him from further embarrassment with a tremendous sneeze that shakes his entire frame. He straightens with another sniff, staring at Alistair as if he's already forgotten his presence.
"Hendry sent me. To check on you. He mentioned you were unwell."
Brilliant conversational skills, Alistair.
Gavin waves dismissively. "He worries too much. I'm perfectly fine."
"Clearly," Alistair replies, sarcasm thick enough to cut. The irony sails completely over Gavin's congested head.
"Exactly. So I'll just—" He gestures vaguely behind himself, moving to close the door. Alistair's palm shoots out, meeting wood with a sharp smack that makes Gavin jump.
"You haven't been answering your phone. He had legitimate cause for concern."
Now he's defending Hendry's decision to exile him from air conditioning. Marvelous.
"I've been asleep most of the day, honestly. I'll text him back. Didn't mean to cause worry." Another violent sneeze interrupts him. "I'll tell him I'm sorry. Or you can tell him, I suppose."
Alistair's irritation deflates like a punctured balloon. Here it is again, the summer sun apparently melting his defenses when it should be hardening his resolve. He's never looked at someone so obviously pitiful with any urge to offer assistance, but helplessness wears a different face on Gavin. It's wreaking havoc on Alistair's usually sensible brain. He's not a caretaker—never has been, which makes Hendry's request even more baffling—but for one terrifying moment, he almost wants to be.
Gavin clears his throat roughly. "So. Thank you for coming by. I appreciate it, but I'm fine."
There it is—Alistair's escape route, perfectly presented and ready for the taking. He should accept Gavin's assurance and return home to strip off these sweat-dampened clothes and collapse in front of his pathetic fan that only succeeds in circulating warm air.
But.
Gavin is clearly trying to dismiss him, uncomfortable with the concept of accepting care right now. The fact that it's Alistair at his door—someone Gavin constantly attempts to impress—only makes the situation more mortifying for him. However, it's equally clear he's doing far worse than he admits. If this constitutes self-care, he's failing spectacularly.
Alistair tilts his head, adopting his most put-upon expression and actually placing his hands on his hips. "Could I at least get some water? I did travel for a while."
Gavin looks uncertain, glancing behind himself. "I haven't had time to tidy or anything—"
Of course he hasn't tidied—Alistair literally appeared unannounced moments ago. He wants to shake some sense into him. Stupid boy. Wonderful, stupid boy.
"As if I care about your housekeeping, Grieve. I'll be quick. Thanks."
Without waiting for permission, he brushes past Gavin, whose weakened state couldn't stop a determined child, let alone Alistair, and steps inside.
1:00 PM
The familiar layout welcomes him—narrow hallway opening to combined kitchen and living space, bathroom to the left, bedroom straight ahead. Not that he's ever seen the bedroom, naturally.
He heads directly to the kitchen, bypassing cupboard exploration since he knows exactly where the glasses live—above the dishwasher, discovered during those unfortunate nights he'd crashed here with the others after pub crawls, waking with splitting headaches that demanded water and aspirin. He needs to be careful about admitting to those sleepovers too freely. They'd all crashed together on the living room floor using towels as inadequate blankets, nothing remotely intimate about it.
Still, those regrettable mornings had provided useful intelligence about Gavin's domestic arrangements, currently proving invaluable. He fills a glass and moves to the refrigerator, stretching on tiptoes to retrieve the legendary medicine basket perched on top—Gavin's famous emergency supply.
Alistair had mocked him for it once, asking why a twenty-four-year-old bachelor needed enough pharmaceuticals to treat the entire British Army. Gavin had looked genuinely offended, explaining it wasn't all for him—he simply liked being prepared. The response had given Alistair pause, making him consider how complicated something as simple as medicine might be for someone like Gavin.
Post-hangover philosophical moments aside, he needs to focus.
Gavin's current selection looks disappointingly sparse. Alistair rifles through packages until he finds what he's seeking, then turns to find Gavin hovering between the kitchen island and sofa, watching through squinted eyes with confused exhaustion.
"How much water have you had today?" Alistair demands. Gavin's mildly sheepish expression provides all the answer necessary.
He extends the glass. "Drink all of this. You're probably dehydrated. When you finish, you're having another. Everyone knows hydration is step one when you're ill, for God's sake. Not to mention we're in the middle of a heatwave. Who catches a cold during a heatwave anyway? That is what this is, isn't it? Congestion, body aches, low fever?"
Unlike his older brother, Alistair doesn't possess natural caregiving instincts. He's too harsh, too blunt for handling delicate, sick people. But right now, he's the best Gavin has.
Gavin doesn't respond, just stares at the glass like it might contain poison.
"Thought you said you'd be quick?"
A final attempt at deflection.
Alistair raises an eyebrow and rattles the glass meaningfully. With a dramatic sigh, Gavin accepts it and takes a tentative sip.
"You're nearly out of cold medicine. Have you been taking any?" Alistair shakes the nearly empty package for emphasis.
Gavin pauses his reluctant drinking. "I've been improvising, mostly."
"Improvising," Alistair repeats flatly.
"Mm."
"And how's that working?"
"Not... particularly well."
"Shocker."
Alistair extracts a tablet and holds it out. Gavin grimaces but accepts it, swallowing with visible difficulty before his face contorts in disgust. Illness makes him surprisingly expressive, another observation for Alistair's growing mental catalog.
"Isn't there anything that tastes slightly less revolting?" Gavin asks, setting the glass on a side table.
"You'll survive."
Then Gavin, apparently reaching his physical limits, takes several steps toward the sofa and simply... drapes himself over the back of it. Alistair watches in horrified fascination as he goes completely limp, sliding over the curved leather like melting ice cream and disappearing from view with a soft thud.
"Was that genuinely easier than walking around like a normal person?" Alistair asks incredulously.
A muffled groan serves as his only response. By the time Alistair rounds the furniture properly, Gavin's eyes have already closed, lips parted to accommodate his blocked nasal passages.
This marks the shortest conversation they've probably ever had. Usually Gavin goes to extraordinary lengths to extend their interactions.
"Stay for one more game, Al, it won't kill you."
"You can't leave yet—you haven't told me your stance on pineapple pizza."
"This is a proper Hunger Games marathon, Alistair, not a one-and-done situation."
Despite his theatrical displays of exasperation, Alistair inevitably settles back down every time. It's their unspoken game, disguised as reluctance but more accurately described as an elaborate dance.
Gavin tugs. Alistair stays.
Neither acknowledges the pattern.
Today they seem to be reversing roles. Gavin lacks the energy to tug, but Alistair is staying anyway. Whatever that means.
He watches Gavin longer than strictly necessary, caught by his dark lashes against pale cheeks, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the soft snoring that accompanies head colds, how exhausted he looks even unconscious.
Alistair blinks himself back to awareness and shakes his head. He grabs a throw blanket from a nearby chair and drapes it over Gavin with studied carelessness, avoiding the scattered tissues covering the floor like crushed white flowers. He positions a tissue box within reach and settles into the now-vacant armchair, turning the television to low volume while pulling out his phone.
thing two: at gavin's place
It takes less than a minute before his phone buzzes.
thing one: and?????? why hasn't he been answering??
thing two: he's been sleeping actually unconscious right now [photo attached]
thing one: he looks dead!!!!! what did you do
i can literally hear his snoring through the photo
was he being weird when you arrived?
he gets all weird around you
Alistair glances involuntarily at the sleeping figure before responding.
thing two: no, really out of it actually
thing two: thinking i might stay today
he's not managing self-care its actually kinda sad
thing one: good luck bc he won't accept help unless you force it down his throat
so get forcing! :D
thing two: ew what????
thing one: you know what i mean
keep me updated yeah?
thing two: will do
2:00 PM
Right around the time Alistair's eyes begin crossing from fighting sleep, Gavin starts shifting on the sofa. His snoring had drowned out the History Channel's low murmur, leaving Alistair to alternate between his phone and silent television until vertigo set in from boredom and exhaustion. Gavin's movement snaps him alert as he tries to determine if this is genuine waking or mere restlessness.
Gavin settles the question with a sudden sneeze that makes Alistair jump, then blinks his eyes open slowly. They stare at each other in mutual assessment.
Then Gavin, apparently achieving full consciousness simultaneously, sits up so violently his head likely spins in protest while releasing a strangled, hoarse yelp.
"What?" Alistair shouts back, equally startled by the outburst
"How long have you been here?" Gavin practically screeches.
"I don't know! Why are you yelling?"
Gavin looks frantically between him and the door, trying to reconstruct reality.
"But—who let you in?"
"You did, obviously!"
"When?"
"Around half past noon! We had an entire conversation. Hendry sent me to check on you, remember?"
Gavin stares into space, visibly struggling. "I... think so? It feels so hazy, like a dream. Christ," he rubs his eyes, slumping back, "I genuinely thought I'd imagined it. Never believed you'd actually show up here."
Alistair's expression flattens. Gavin notices immediately.
"No, no, I didn't mean—" He pauses to cough. "Not like that. I suppose I meant 'why are you still here?' You could have slipped out without me realizing you'd come at all."
It's a fair question. Alistair doesn't entirely understand his own motivations.
He decides to lie. "Hendry insisted I stay for updates since he couldn't come himself."
Gavin rolls his eyes. "That's rubbish, Al. I'm obviously fine—" He gestures to himself as evidence.
"Liar," Alistair counters, embracing his own hypocrisy. "Before I arrived, you were 'improvising' your treatment and looked ready to collapse. You're welcome for the actual medicine, by the way. Feeling better now, aren't you?"
Gavin considers this, sniffling. "Yeah. Actually, yes. Uh, thank you."
Alistair hums acknowledgment. Silence settles between them, punctuated by Gavin's periodic sniffling. Neither seems certain how to proceed.
"You know," Gavin begins tentatively, "you really don't need to stay. Hendry isn't monitoring the situation—he wouldn't know if you left. I'm grateful you came, obviously, but I don't want you feeling obligated. I'm genuinely alright."
Alistair recalls his earlier observation about Gavin rejecting help unless it's forced upon him. Naturally, the guy doesn't want to inconvenience anyone. Too bad—Alistair is determined to be inconvenienced.
"Until you demonstrate proper ‘self-care’ abilities, I'm staying. Hendry would murder me otherwise," he adds, hoping to avoid sounding overly sentimental. Can't have Gavin thinking he actually cares.
"Right. Well," Gavin says after a pause, "what would you like to do?"
"What would I like to do?" Alistair repeats incredulously. "Gavin, I'm not here to hang out."
"Oh. But—"
"You don't need to entertain me," he clarifies quickly, feeling oddly guilty. "Just do whatever you normally would. I'll be here if you need anything."
Gavin nods, looking more like himself. "Going to watch me sleep again?"
"What— no! And I wasn't watching—"
"Your definition of 'watch' must differ from mine—"
"You were shifting around, nearly falling off the sofa—
"Watch: synonym of observe, meaning to regard attentively with one's eyes—"
"It simply caught my attention. Nothing more."
Despite his obvious illness, Gavin's mischievous grin illuminates his entire face.
"I'm glad something finally did."
Alistair rolls his eyes, ignoring the heat flooding his cheeks at the blatantly flirtatious comment. "I should have let you suffer without medicine. You were much quieter while suffering."
Gavin laughs—a congested but genuine sound—and stretches along the sofa, pulling the blanket back up.
"I suspect my typical sick-day activities aren't your style, Al," Gavin says, reaching for the remote. "I'm offering one final escape route. You honestly don't have to stay if you'd prefer not to. I'm sure you have better ways to spend your time."
"Turn on the television, Gavin," Alistair sighs, not missing the delighted grin that spreads across Gavin's face.
Minutes later, an overly enthusiastic American voice fills the flat.
"Welcome to Cutthroat Kitchen! I'm your host, Alton Brown—"
2:15 PM
Alistair quickly discovers his intense dislike for Cutthroat Kitchen.
The concept baffles him entirely. A cooking competition where contestants actively sabotage each other? He watches in horror as someone spends actual money to force their competitor to cook with children's toys instead of proper equipment.
He can't contain his disgust any longer.
"Gavin, what exactly are we watching?"
Gavin smiles, blowing his nose before answering. "Only the most diabolical cooking show ever created."
"They're literally trying to destroy each other! That woman just paid to take away someone's ingredients!"
Gavin's laugh sounds muted and stuffed but still makes Alistair's heart skip unexpectedly.
"Exactly, Al. It's brilliant."
"But it's so... cruel. And wasteful. Look at that perfectly good stove going to waste while he's forced to cook with a hair straightener."
"That's the point," Gavin replies, eyes sparkling with amusement despite his congestion. "It's about adapting under pressure, thinking creatively when everything goes wrong."
Alistair makes a face of pure revulsion, returning his attention to the screen. The host, Alton Brown, delivers commentary with theatrical flair about the chaos unfolding. Despite himself, Alistair finds the man's scientific explanations oddly compelling.
"Look," Gavin begins, "you won't understand immediately. Give it a few episodes and you'll appreciate the strategy, I promise."
"I find that difficult to believe."
"The key isn't just watching the cooking," Gavin explains with surprising seriousness for someone barely conscious, "it's analyzing the psychology. Who's willing to spend big money early? Who saves their cash for the final auction? Pay attention to how they adapt when their plans fall apart—and you'll start rooting for the clever ones who can improvise, not just the ones with the fanciest knife skills."
"You're describing psychological warfare disguised as cookery," Alistair says blankly. "I fail to see the appeal."
Gavin shrugs as much as his horizontal position allows. "Plus Alton Brown is entertaining enough. His commentary alone deserves half a star."
"Of course you'd say that," Alistair sighs, eyeing the contestant who's now attempting to make pasta using what appears to be a toy oven. "This is chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos."
3:00 PM
"Oh, he's absolutely going to bid on that."
"Mm."
"Look at his face—he knows exactly what that sabotage will do to the frontrunner. Brilliant strategy, really."
"He did indeed."
"And she's panicking now! Serves her right for being so smug about her knife skills earlier. Time to see how well she fillets fish with a butter knife."
"Absolutely."
"That's what happens when you get cocky. The whole premise is about leveling the playing field, isn't it? Strip away the advantages and see who can actually think on their feet."
"Al, if you keep going, I might think you're actually enjoying my chaotic cooking show."
"Shut up. I am not."
"..."
"Although I must admit, watching that pompous chef from earlier get his ass handed to him was a little satisfying. Are you going to play the next episode or what?"
4:00 PM
By the time they've watched three full episodes, Alistair must grudgingly admit he enjoyed the experience exactly as Gavin predicted. He doesn't typically enjoy competitive shows—preferring to leave that to his eccentric friend group—but strategic sabotage proves fascinating. Who knew?
One glance at Gavin reveals he's minutes from unconsciousness again. His eyes had begun drooping halfway through the last challenge, sinking progressively lower. Alistair was certain he'd fallen asleep during the final judging, but the sound of vigorous nose-blowing quickly proved otherwise.
Before Gavin can fully pass out, Alistair springs from his seat, heading to the kitchen counter where he'd left the remaining cold medicine. He sighs, finding only one tablet left, extracting it and returning to the sofa.
Gavin's eyes are closed, but he cracks one open when Alistair nudges his leg and presents the pill.
"For me?" he asks, voice hoarse from coughing. "How thoughtful."
"Drink up. You need plenty of fluids, remember?"
Gavin complies, retrieving his earlier glass as Alistair looms over him with crossed arms, attempting sternness. He must succeed because Gavin finishes quickly, wiping his mouth before shivering slightly. Alistair tenses.
"Cold now?" he asks. Gavin nods, pulling the blanket up to his neck. "Wait here," Alistair instructs, then heads toward Gavin's bedroom.
He pauses at the threshold, experiencing a small thrill at finally crossing this particular boundary before immediately scolding himself. No need for childish excitement over literally nothing. He enters and stops short at the chaos that greets him.
Clothes strewn across every surface, bed unmade, desk buried under overlapping papers. Walls decorated with posters, photographs, and sentimental items.
However, Gavin's entire wardrobe apparently displayed across the room makes locating what he needs simple enough. He grabs the hoodie and returns to the living room, presenting it to Gavin, whose eyes immediately brighten.
"That's my favorite," he says through a yawn, stuffing his arms through the sleeves. "How'd you know?"
Alistair shrugs. "Just grabbed the first one I saw."
Complete fucking lie, naturally. He's known it was Gavin's favorite for months. Back in February, Alistair had been drunk and freezing from walking to the flat without a coat, complaining loudly about this fact when Gavin offered it without hesitation. Alistair hadn't thought twice before passing out wearing it, but the next morning, Diya had done a double-take seeing him, the oversized sleeves slipping over his hands as he reached for coffee.
"Where'd you get that?" she'd asked, tugging gently at a dangling string.
He'd shrugged. "Gavin lent it to me."
Diya's eyebrows had shot up. "Did he now? Never lets me borrow it, but show up looking pathetic and the wanker’s happy to share his favorite hoodie. Fucking ridiculous."
"This is his favorite?" Alistair had asked, looking down at himself incredulously. Nothing particularly special about it—soft, worn gray material, clearly well-loved for years, but unremarkable otherwise.
"Never goes anywhere without it," Diya had shrugged, glancing at Alistair again before shaking her head in defeat.
He banishes the memory and any conclusions he might be tempted to draw from it.
Seeing Gavin now—nose rubbed raw from constant attention, looking as content as possible bundled in his beloved hoodie—makes Alistair's heart constrict oddly. It also reminds him that the medicine will wear off in about three hours, and Gavin will need more for peaceful sleep tonight. Which means Alistair has an errand to run.
Gavin's eyes have already closed, and Alistair waits until rhythmic snoring fills the flat before grabbing his bag and slipping out quietly.
5:00 PM
Alistair barely recognizes himself anymore.
Five hours ago, he'd shuddered at merely checking on Gavin. Now look at him—look at what he's gotten himself into.
The plan was simple: run to Tesco, grab more cold medicine, return. That was the complete extent of his errand. Except he got sidetracked when Hendry texted asking if Gavin had eaten anything, sending Alistair into a minor panic spiral. Had he eaten today? Not while Alistair was present, and he'd been there for hours. Why hadn't he considered this earlier? Humans require food for survival. Being human himself, you'd think he'd remember such basic requirements.
Under this new pressure, Alistair had panicked in Tesco. What do sick people eat? He tried recalling what his grandmother had provided during childhood illnesses, then nearly laughed aloud—that woman had never once cared for him during illness. So he attempted remembering what his mother or Hendry had given him, accidentally unearthing a disturbing memory. Once, around age six, Alistair had contracted something awful. His brother, being under eight himself, had presented him with two raw eggs sagging sadly in a bowl. Trusting Hendry implicitly, Alistair had naturally devoured them, making him significantly sicker and likely contributing to his current trust issues. Looking back, it was sweet that Hendry had tried caring for him—a responsibility that should never have fallen to such small shoulders. But honestly, what an idiot. No wonder Alistair hates eggs.
Moving past traumatic egg memories, Alistair had settled on soup. Soup seemed like standard sick-person fare—comforting, easy to swallow, the safest option. But instead of purchasing pre-made soup like any sensible person with zero cooking experience, he'd decided this was the perfect time to buy ingredients and make it himself.
Which explains his current situation: standing in Gavin's flat looking like he'd survived a vegetable explosion, produce scattered across marble countertops like shrapnel. He's uncertain how Gavin slept through the entire process—the pot-banging, the frequent cursing. He studies his finished product with combined pride and skepticism. It looks... he consults the recipe on his phone. Similar? Maybe the lighting makes his appear so brown and gelatinous.
He ladles some into a bowl, grabs a spoon, and approaches the still-sleeping Gavin. Without room to perch beside the sofa, Alistair settles on his knees directly in front of him, reaching out to nudge gently.
"Hm," Gavin mumbles, eyebrows scrunching.
"Wake up. I have something for you."
Gavin blinks awake, his face unconsciously brightening. "You're still here," he slurs slightly, and Alistair's traitorous heart races.
"I made something for you," he repeats, lifting the bowl to Gavin's eye level.
Gavin nearly crosses his eyes trying to focus before sitting up and rubbing his face. "What—" He examines the bowl in Alistair's hands, then meets his gaze. "You made this? For me?"
Alistair shifts uncomfortably. "I went to the store while you slept, and I realized you hadn't eaten, so..."
"So you made..." He looks down with a small frown. "What exactly is this?"
"Vegetable soup," Alistair supplies. "The recipe claimed it was good for colds."
Gavin's smile isn't as brilliant as when he's healthy, but it still affects Alistair powerfully for being directed entirely at him. It's almost too bright to bear, forcing his gaze away or risk blindness.
"Alistair," Gavin says, his voice overflowing with affection. Alistair can hardly stomach the expression on his face—like cartoon hearts have replaced his eyes. "You didn't have to—"
"Shut up, Gavin. I know I didn't have to." A furious blush creeps up his neck. "Just eat it and be quiet, please."
Gavin's lips twitch as he tries suppressing his smile, bringing the spoon to his lips. Alistair would be lying if he said he wasn't desperately awaiting Gavin's reaction, holding his breath in anticipation. Despite watching intently, he can't catch the rapid succession of expressions crossing Gavin's features, eventually settling on one suggesting he's fighting back tears.
"What do you think?" Alistair asks, cautiously hopeful.
Gavin makes an exaggerated humming sound. "So... good," he manages, speaking around the soup still in his mouth.
Alistair's face falls. "You hate it."
"No—"
"You won't even swallow it."
"I just… want to savor the flavor longer."
He closes his eyes and swallows with visible effort, wincing. Alistair feels ready to throttle him for not just being honest.
Gavin, apparently incapable of knowing when to quit, continues his charade. "Mm," he says through literal tears, "delicious."
"Right, it can't possibly be that terrible," Alistair yanks the spoon away and takes a mouthful himself, only to immediately open his mouth and let the mixture pour back into the bowl like the world's most disgusting waterfall.
"Oh my God," he groans, pressing his forehead against the sofa in defeat. "That is absolutely revolting."
Alistair is prepared for a proper tantrum now. It shouldn't be allowed—shouldn't be possible for someone to spend money on ingredients, invest time making a meal, only for it to turn out inedible. Not just bad, but genuinely toxic. It feels cosmically cruel. He decides at this moment never to cook again.
"Thank you for trying," Gavin tells him. "It's really the thought—"
"If you say something ridiculous like 'it's the thought that counts,' I'm actually going to murder you."
"Honestly, Al, if that soup didn't kill me, I doubt you could."
Sick or not, Alistair feels prepared to strangle him. "You know what—" He lifts his head, ready to properly unleash, only to find Gavin snorting at his own joke, looking far too smug for Alistair's preference. This unfortunately deflates his anger entirely.
"Oh, piss off," he says with an eye roll, rising with the bowl to dispose of it in whatever way ensures he never sees it again—trash, garbage disposal, the deepest pits of hell.
"Alistair," Gavin calls.
"What?"
"There's frozen pizza in the freezer. You just heat it up."
"Oh, do I now?"
"Actually, I can handle it—"
"Sit back down, Gavin Grieve, or you're not getting any of this goddamn pizza."
6:00 PM
After the soup disaster, the pizza tastes divine—absolutely heavenly. Alistair doesn't care about his lactose intolerance right now; nothing could prevent this pizza from entering his mouth. Gavin manages two slices, and only because Alistair uses mild threats to ensure he finishes the second, watching expectantly.
"Well," Gavin says, setting his plate on the coffee table. He becomes defensive when Alistair gives him a look. "I'm genuinely not hungry! I think it's the medication."
"Perhaps." Alistair collects their dishes, hearing the television click on behind him. He wonders what Gavin will subject him to next.
"Oh, you must be joking."
"Listen—" Gavin pleads with clasped hands.
"You've already forced me to watch this once. Aren't you tired of this film? You must be exhausted by it. What's the point of watching a movie you can literally quote line by line? Where's the fun in that? You know everything that happens."
"Alistair, this movie is statistically proven to make people feel better when they're sick—"
"I, for one, would love to see those statistics—"
"—and also it's amazing. Can we watch it—"
Alistair releases a massive sigh. "Have some dignity, Gavin, please. We can watch your stupid movie."
Gavin pumps a fist into the air and presses play, then pauses to sneeze into his elbow. Alistair picks up the tissue box and holds it out, earning a grateful smile, but buzzing on the counter diverts his attention. He pads over to check his phone.
"Who is it?" Gavin asks over the sound of the opening monologue.
Alistair looks at the name, then glances up distractedly. "Er, it's Carbry? For some reason?" He doesn't wait for Gavin's response before answering.
"Hello?"
"Helloooo, wussy!" says a voice that definitely doesn't belong to his dear acquaintance Carbry.
He sighs. "Did you lose your phone again, Eli?"
At the sound of Elionor's name, Gavin's head pops up over the couch like a meerkat.
"I think the couch cushions have swallowed it, Alistair. It's fine, I'll just buy a new one."
"Are you drunk already?" Alistair checks the time incredulously.
"Mayhaps. That's a mixture of 'maybe' and 'perhaps' in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't."
"Alistair, listen, I'm calling to cordially invite you to a night on the town with your dearest friends. I'll be there, obviously, and that weirdo Carbry is joining us. You know, the quiet one who's taken over your spare room and lets drunk girls use his phone?"
"Right, my flatmate."
"Perfect, so you know him. What time are you getting to my place—"
"I can't," Alistair cuts her off, lowering his voice. The TV's been paused, he notices, dousing the room in expectant silence.
Elionor pauses, clearly trying to process Alistair's refusal.
"What d'ya mean you can't? Can't what?"
"I can't come out. I'm—" He glances into the living room and catches Gavin's eyes, who is shamelessly eavesdropping. "I'm busy."
"How are you busy?" Elionor asks as if the concept is foreign.
"Look, it's complicated. I'm with Gavin right now—"
"Gavin who?" A pause. "Wait, Gavin Grieve?"
Alistair winces at Elionor's volume, knowing with absolute certainty Gavin heard every word.
"Yes. He's sick."
"Okay... that still doesn't explain what you're doing there. Unless you've finally decided to stop pining and do something about—"
"Eli, I can't come," he interrupts quickly. "I'm not coming. Don't expect me. I'll make it up to you another time."
"Al—"
He hangs up and sets the phone down with more force than necessary. God, how much of that did Gavin hear? Hopefully not that last bit, because he really doesn't want to explain it. Elionor normally knows better than to go blabbing about the personal things Alistair confides in her, but she sounded well past tipsy already.
"Was that Elionor?" Gavin asks with studied innocence.
"Yeah." Alistair walks back around, prepared to reclaim his armchair. "You better stay awake for this because the second you fall asleep, I'm turning it off."
"Alistair." Gavin says his name once. Softly. Urgently. He glances over and finds his gaze caught, unable to look away. "Go out with your friends."
"Look, you don't understand. Elionor's probably already forgotten she called me, she was so far gone. Trust me, I won't be missed."
Gavin remains calm. "I do understand. Your friends want to spend the evening with you and you're stuck on babysitting duty because you felt obligated to stay. What I'm telling you is that you're free to go. I'm releasing you. Go have fun—it would make me feel better knowing at least one of us is having a good time."
The sad part is that Gavin thinks he's doing Alistair a favor. Probably thinks he's just uttered the magic words that will release Alistair from whatever spell has kept him here against his will. He has no way of knowing how Alistair really feels. No way of knowing there's nowhere else he'd rather be than right here with Gavin, even if they're just watching teenagers kill each other on screen while eating freezer-burned pizza. He could relive this strange day over and over and never grow tired of it—not because he's suddenly good at taking care of people, but because it's Gavin he's caring for. He can't help looking at Gavin and desperately wishing to be the person who gets to take care of him. Always. And he doesn't know how to say that without sounding completely mad.
"Don't be stupid, Gavin," he mutters, looking down.
"I'm not being stupid," Gavin says, coughing before continuing. "You've done more than enough for me today, more than I could have asked for. If you stay, I'll just feel guilty for keeping you here and I'll probably get sicker from the stress. So you should go. I mean it." He laughs, but it sounds hollow.
Alistair can't stop himself from stepping forward and sitting on the couch next to a suddenly wary-looking Gavin. Every self-preserving instinct screams at him to maintain his walls, but he lets them crumble anyway. He thinks Gavin can tell the exact moment his defenses fall because his eyes widen in something like alarm.
"Gavin, you idiot," he says quietly, letting himself linger on the name, savoring it, "when has anyone ever made me do something I didn't want to do?"
Gavin gapes. "But earlier you said—"
"I lied. I stayed because I wanted to stay. That's the real and only reason."
If Alistair had to describe the way it feels to look at Gavin while he smiles like that, he'd say it's like a jar full of fireflies that, when shaken, explode into brilliant fireworks—lights and sparks cascading in his chest, warming him from the inside out. God, he's going soft. It’s disgusting.
"So you're not going out?" Gavin asks after a moment, hopeful.
"Obviously not. I have a movie to finish, remember?"
Alistair savors the sound of Gavin's croaky laugh and makes a move toward his armchair when warm fingers circle his wrist.
"Stay here. You'll get a crick in your neck trying to see the screen from there."
Alistair considers this. The couch is comfortable, and proximity to Gavin is hardly something to complain about. So he nods, settling back, maybe even leaning toward the warm body beside him, trying not to think about how their arms brush or the sparks that seem to fly at every point of contact.
8:00 PM
Alistair is going to need Gavin to stop being right about everything because it's seriously wounding his ego. Damn it if the movie isn't actually good—"campy," to use Gavin's word, whatever that means. He hadn't liked it the first time. Or the second. But the third time seems to be the charm.
Although that probably has more to do with being curled up next to Gavin than any riveting performances on screen. They're not exactly cuddling, but they're sharing a blanket, which feels... significant somehow.
The energy between them is strange and electric. Alistair tenses whenever Gavin moves, wondering if he'll settle closer, drop a hand on his thigh, nudge his ankle with a foot. It seems like he might several times, but then he doesn't, and Alistair worries he's losing his mind, seeing signs that aren't there. Still, Gavin has no trouble keeping up his constant commentary, some of which Alistair has a very hard time pretending isn't genuinely amusing.
When the screen shows one character sneaking into another's room to watch them sleep, Gavin nudges him, cooing, "Look, that's you being creepy!"
Alistair scoffs and pretends to pull away. Gavin tugs him back. He always does.
Now they sit in comfortable silence, watching. Gavin knows every word, though he mouths them quietly rather than disrupting the scene. Alistair finds himself mesmerized by this intimate moment—the quiet murmuring above faint music and fierce declarations of the unalterable heartbreak that no one actually feels at seventeen. He's inclined to mention this observation, but it doesn't feel like the right time.
"I'd let you do that, you know," Gavin says suddenly, and Alistair turns to him, intrigued.
"Do what?"
"Stand on my feet to dance. You're small enough it wouldn't even hurt."
Alistair smacks his arm. "You act like I'm tiny. I'm literally 5'7"."
Gavin holds up his thumb and forefinger, pinching them together to emphasize his point.
"Whatever. Also, what makes you think I can't dance? Grandmother made us take ballroom lessons. In the 21st century."
Gavin shakes his head. "I forget sometimes how weird your childhood was."
"Lucky you," Alistair replies dryly.
His phone buzzes and he glances at it. "My brother again. Checking if I'm still alive."
"What do you think he'd say if he knew how our day went?" Gavin asks with a smile.
Alistair snorts. "Probably 'about bloody time,' the twat."
A few minutes later, when the credits roll and Gavin's eyes are fighting to stay open, Alistair reaches for the remote. Gavin blinks owlishly at the black screen and then at him.
"Right, off to bed with you," Alistair says, tugging gently on Gavin's arm until he rises with a grunt of protest.
Alistair follows him in a slow shuffle to the bedroom, flicking on the bedside lamp as Gavin pushes tissues off his duvet and onto the floor. Within seconds, he's under the covers, eyes already drifting shut.
"Thank you," Gavin murmurs, already half-asleep. "For staying. For... everything."
Alistair lingers in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of Gavin's breathing. "Get some sleep. I'll be here in the morning."
"You swear?"
The word is so soft Alistair almost misses it. But he doesn't.
"Promise."
11:00 PM
Alistair should go to his own room. Should let Gavin sleep and get some rest himself. Instead, he finds himself settling into the armchair Gavin keeps by his bedroom window, pulling a spare blanket around his shoulders.
He tells himself it's just in case Gavin needs something in the night—water, more tissues, another blanket. That's all. It has nothing to do with the way his chest tightened when Gavin asked him to promise to stay, or how right this whole day felt despite starting as an obligation.
Through the dim light filtering in from the hallway, he watches Gavin sleep—peaceful now, the feverish flush finally fading from his cheeks. His breathing is steady and deep, no longer interrupted by coughing fits.
Alistair pulls out his phone and types a quick message to his brother: He's fine. Fever's broken. Thanks for asking me to check on him.
After a moment's hesitation, he adds: You were right. About a lot of things.
The response comes surprisingly quickly: I usually am. Get some sleep, Al. Both of you.
Alistair smiles, setting his phone aside. He settles deeper into the chair, watching over the person who's somehow become the most important part of his day—and maybe, if he's lucky, many more days to come.
Outside, rain begins to patter against the window, a gentle lullaby that gradually pulls him toward sleep. His last conscious thought is that he's exactly where he wants to be, and for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.