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Swirling, like the ingredients whirling in the pot on the stove, Jiaoqiu's sense of balance was about to fail. Feeling a bit like he was aboard a novice pilot's starskiff, ground moving beneath his feet, head pounding something fierce, the healer had only a moment to think to himself (just his luck) before it seemingly gave way one floorboard at a time.
What utensil he had been using to stir their bubbling dinner clattered to the floor as a pair of arms caught him just in time, easing him to sit down. They were murmuring something, voice low and laced with concern, but his sensitive ears could hardly hear them over the sound of his own heartbeat, blood rushing through his veins. Everything was far too loud and not loud enough; the world kept swaying, his head kept pounding.
Peeking around the corner, peering into the kitchen area, they had expected to follow the spicy aroma straight to their lover. Finding him swaying on his feet and about to collapse was not in their original plans, but (and they know this quite thoroughly if for no other reason than the company he keeps) plans change.
"Jiaoqiu?"
He only hums shortly in response to any inquiries and eventually they give up on verbal answers. Opting for action instead, they slowly pick up the lost utensil from the floor, placing it gently on the table nearby. Removing the pot from the stove comes next but the shuffling sounds make Jiaoqiu's ears twitch, a frown marring his face each time, and so they do their best to remain silent and careful. Manuevering him to stand, barely, so that he is leaning on them with the full weight of a migraine-onset Foxian (prone to letting himself go limp, deadweight, when he knows he is well and truly taken care of: a novelty that makes him grin through sharp teeth and them shake their head in exasperstion most days), they make their way towards their shared bed.
Coaxing him into slipping into someting more comfortable, sleepwear that is lightweight and loose and made of easy texture, they busy themselves with making certain that the curtains are clipped closed. Dimming the room into a pleasant darkness (they suppose this is what he must see in his day-to-day, now, this nothingness, but the light may still be an irritant and so they continue to pull the shades), they only return to the shadowed bedside when their task is done.
Fluffed pillows and tangled blankets lay atop the bed itself, nested carefully around a very snug, albeit still restless, Foxian. He stretches this way and that while trying to get comfortable, sounds of discomfort unconsciously escaping him at each failed attempt. Craning his neck yields no better results (and looks quite painful from where they stand), a soft whimper leaving him as he gives up on stretching out and curls into himself, blankets even more tangled than when he started.
They take pity on him and carefully lower themselves onto the bed, next to him. Nuzzling into their lap, Jiaoqiu breathes easier as he makes himself comfortable in their grounding presence. When their hand graces his forehead in a gentle brush, they startle to find it near feverish. Attempting to untangle themselves from him, in order to fetch a damp cool cloth, is only successful after an entirely appropriate amount of clinging and whining for a successful professional healer to display (they don't mind really, pleased he is so open with them).
When they return again, settling back into the cozy comfort of before, they lay a little lower so that Jiaoqiu can curl up closer; his migraine still rages, but he thinks it dulls when they ground him with the love and care that seeps from their soul to his. The cool cloth on his forehead, soft and only slightly damp, helps minutely; it helps enough to send him in to a light doze, discomfort easy if only for a moment.
Fondly, they run their fingertips ever-so-lightly over his scalp, careful of the tender points that plague him in the midst of his head pain. He subconsciously cranes into their touch, seeking out their comfort even in his fitful slumber. Ears twitching again catch their gaze and their fingers stall, contemplating.
Slowly, inch by inch, their fingers make their way closer and closer to the bases of Jiaoqiu's soft ears. He tenses when they brush over the muscle that lays there, a whimper at the back of his throat, but soon all but purrs as they tenderly rub soothing circles into the tense tissue. Making as if to pinch their fingers together, they massage over either side of his ears, front and back, in a calming manner; it seems to work. His face relaxes in his sleep, ears no longer twitching in stiff movements, and he sighs deeply; they chuckle to themselves at the look he gives them from his slumber, all too pleased to have been able to help the one they love the most.
Jiaoqiu wakes much later, unaware of the time (the curtains must be closed tightly and he cannot decipher the height of the sun or moon, the brightness behind his eyelids typical of the day is not here now; he suspects his lover had something to do with it). His lover makes for a perfect place to rest his head, now no longer in pain, and he nuzzles his nose into their neck in gratitude. The easy grin he gives their sleeping form tells them he loves them, thanks them for looking out for him. The upward curl of their lips as they doze repeats it all back.
Maybe the sun rises, or sets, he cannot tell and is not trying to. Their warmth, warmer than a fever and much sweeter, beckons him closer than the sun ever could. He curls back in next to them, entwined as they should be, and finds himself drifting back off to the sleep they yet cling to. His migraine does not come back.