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He’s done everything.
And you mean everything.
From the very first sniffle, Pierrot’s been by your side with pleas not to overexert yourself … that soon devolve into ecstatic, breathless, intensely-rationalized musings on why you need to be silk-tied up.
He’s brought all kinds of tonics prescribed by The Doctor that you’re not entirely sure are made for human consumption and has spent the better part of the week adoring you in the only way he knows how: with hot compresses, spoon-feeding you bowls of homemade soup, and mother-henning you in a way you just can’t seem to get sick of.
You’ve had a thermometer gingerly forced into your mouth every two hours, but your fever just won’t seem to go down. It’s stubborn.
Which baffles you, because almost all things considered, you feel fine. Sure, your voice comes out in a soft whuffle that leaves Pierrot at a loss because it’s so cute but you shouldn’t sound like that, and you’re pretty sure you’ve coughed up a lung, but … man, lying in bed, even with an adorable circus freak half-kneeled at the edge, is boring. Whatever The Doctor advised gives your dreams a psychedelic edge, and it’s hard to sleep, anyway, what with the way your head pounds.
You’ve memorized the ceiling in a way that borders on intimate. You briefly wonder if it’s equivalent to the way you and Pierrot know each other’s bodies … but that might be the drugs talking.
Pierrot can sense your boredom—you haven’t been entirely subtle about it, after all. You may close your eyes in innocent pleasure as he strokes your hair and smile when he offers to refill your mug of tea, but you know he sees the way you’ve officially gone stir-crazy. He’s done his best, and, when he’s there, you do feel your restlessness ebb away, but, ahhhh. You’ve been stuck in bed for so long! That’s exactly where you should be, in your state, but you’d kill for some kind of stimulation.
You want to go to the Circus.
Pierrot refuses, spitting out “Harlequin,” followed by a seething disavowal of his own senses if someone else were to see you in such a sweet, vulnerable state.
“My dear, I, I,” he trembles, his yellow eyes twitching fiercely. His voice is darker than his sclera, and it barely hides his manic devotion, even through a face stained red from blushing. “I’m not sure I could control myself around the way everyone would look at you. You’re so exposed—and the sounds you make so pliant, the feverish flush on your cheeks so ravishing that …” There’s a knife in his hands, and his breath catches. “No, it would be best to avoid the Circus right now.” Dropping the knife back in his pocket, he smiles sheepishly and amends, “But o—once you’re recovered, you know I would never deny you anything! We can go afterward.”
Then, he pulls something else out of his pocket. Not a knife this time, but a short, squat bottle. You half-wonder if it’s something else The Doctor ordered, but you recognize the black, tapered stopper.
“Nail polish?” you muse. You’re not sure why you asked. It’s painfully obvious, especially when the bottle’s contents slosh in your favorite color.
Pierrot nods enthusiastically. “Please permit me to distract you from your illness and from … that, that place by painting your nails.”
Ha. Smart. He must’ve known you’d actually be okay with that. And you can’t even hide your excitement as you outstretch an arm. “Sounds perfect.”
You’ve never seen him light up so fast—okay, well, no, that’s not true. He’s usually a spring of zeal whenever you’re involved. But in any case, his grin is instantaneous and effusive in that way that makes it seem just a fraction too wide for his face.
“I’m new to this, my dear,” he warns, as he cradles your hand in his gloved ones. The clawed tips lightly graze your fist, but they’re not sharp. They could be, but they’re not. He lifts your hand up reverently as his thumbs trace slow, exploratory paths along your skin. His long fingers slip between yours and sweep through the delicate spaces there.
You inhale slightly at his touch. In sickness and health, you’ll always be unmoored by it—by tentative brushes that shake with want and caresses that promise boldness if you only ask. He’s so focused on examining your hand that he barely notices. Not that he would’ve done much, in any case. You’re sick and need your strength, so the most damage he’d do is sweetly coax you into cumming into his hand and turn your neck black and blue with bite marks.
But still, you can feel your resolve buckle. He’s still studying, and a finger grazes the inside of your wrist. “Pierrot, are you going to …?”
He doesn’t snap out of it—not really. Pierrot just shakes his head slowly and drifts his gaze back to yours. “I—I apologize.” He begins prepping your nails. “Let us begin.” After filing them to a shape that both of you agree on (you more than him, since he’d indulge you even if you’d decided to go for something ridiculous), he extends a single one of your fingers and drags the nail polish brush down it. In its wake is a smooth streak. He hums, pleased with himself, and makes another. With three swipes, your index finger is done, and he manages not to get even a drop on your skin!
You’re impressed. You consider his work appraisingly. “Nice job!” You mean it, and he positively glows at your praise.
“H—have I pleased you, my dear?” He’s looking up at you, a red blush erupting on his cheeks, eyes wide. His irises almost look like spirals, and you can’t help but smile at his earnestness.
You sniffle and lean close enough to warm his face. A dainty kiss on the nose has him almost dropping your hand in elation. So cute. “You always do.”
Whatever he says next is lost in a whimper that’s equal parts glee and unraveling, but you’re sure he’s muttering something along the lines of “Hearing you say those words … you don’t know—you can’t possibly know—what that does to me.”
Which is funny, because you do. It’s a daily occurrence—when you’re not sick, that is. You smile wider. And it still never gets old.
He moves down your fingers carefully, taking his time to paint each nail. It’s hard to hold yourself together with how deliberate he’s being, but you try. For your manicure’s sake. And for your immune system’s. You can tell he’s having more trouble than usual, too. Even with no ulterior motive, when, this close to your hand, he would’ve tattooed a kiss to each one of your knuckles by now.
When he’s done, he twists the stopper back on the bottle and presses you to inspect your nails. You hold both hands out this time. They’re perfect. “Y’know, if this Circus thing doesn’t work out for you,” you joke, careful not to let the still-drying polish touch anything, “you definitely have a promising career as a nail tech.”
Pierrot cocks his head. “I’m, ah, not entirely sure what you mean, my dear, but—” In one smooth motion, he’s braced his arms onto your mattress, and he towers over you. His shadow looms across your prone body, and you’ve tucked your hands in to avoid disturbing your nails. A smile, stretching from ear to ear, adorns his flushed face. He looks almost as feverish as you do. “Do you like them?”
You want to brush back one of his bangs and run your hand down his jaw and feel his moans vibrate against your palm, like you always do when he’s this near. It’s a compulsion. One that’s stymied by your wet nails. Dammit.
“I—yeah,” you breathe. Barely. It’s hard to, when your heart feels like it’s hammering in your chest.
His grin stretches, because he knows. He’s oblivious, but not that oblivious. He leans even closer and fully shifts his body so that both legs creak on the mattress. His irises bore into yours with an intensity that turns whatever flame that’s lit inside you into a full-blown inferno. “My dear, I know you’re sick, but, but … may I …” He darts his gaze away shyly, and his cheeks redden even further like he hasn’t done this a hundred times. “May I kiss you right now?”
You stifle a cough. A part of you knows it’s slightly irresponsible, but the other part insists that he doesn’t get sick the same way you do. “Fuck it,” you mumble to yourself. To him, you nod. He crashes down, but before he can meet your lips … So, so tenderly, you press two fingers to stop him. You glance meaningfully at your nails. They’re still not dry. “I don’t want to ruin all your hard work.” With the sheer hunger stalking his yellow irises, you know it’ll be ruined. A hundred times over, even.
Pierrot’s eyes narrow into knowing, dangerous slits, and, although it shouldn’t be possible, his grin widens with intent. “My dear, you’re so kind to care for me that way. Thankfully …” he pulls back—only slightly—and rummages through his pocket. Like a clown’s endless scarf trick, he pulls out several silk ties knotted together. He undoes one knot easily and brandishes the scrap of fabric. “I would never allow myself to be unprepared in your presence.”
When you don’t protest, he wrenches your arms—taking great care with your nails, and, well, with you, in general—upward and binds your wrists together. Your hands are positioned so they won’t knock into each other and disturb your manicure.
A euphoric sort of helplessness floods you from crown to toetip as you test your new restraints. But Pierrot doesn’t give you much time before he’s hot against you again.
He skims his thumb carefully across your features. “You were right to worry. After all, they are such a lovely color,” he murmurs softly, even though he’s not looking at your nails. “And I’m glad my artistry was able to stave off your boredom while you remain ill. Even unwell, you are devastating to me, so please …” His stare turns molten. Your toes curl in anticipation. “Allow me, your nurse, your physician, your everything, to take very, very good care of you.”