Work Text:
Nathaniel was woken up by light kisses pressed against his cheeks, like every other morning. Smiling, he opened his eyes, seeing the figure who was giving him such kind affection.
“Good morning, Nathaniel Anciel-Kurtzberg.” Nath’s stomach flutters when he hears the addition in his last name. It took so long for them to finally tie the knot with each other. And now, he’s chained to the love of his life forever.
“Morning, Marc Anciel-Kurtzberg.” The ginger returns the noiret’s warmth by kissing him fondly on the lips. As time progressed, their kissing got deeper and more passionate. They sweetly locked lips with each other, like a pair of mating bunnies.
They’ve been acting like this for weeks. People around the lovebirds would say they’re in their “honeymoon phase”. But frankly, Marc and Nathaniel are just grateful that the other is alive to share these moments.
The kiss breaks apart with the two men panting heavily. As they catch their breath, the noiret gives an extra peck on Nath’s forehead. They snuggle up to each other in comfortable silence until the writer turns to his mate.
“What would you like for breakfast, honey?” Nathaniel anticipates, not because he doesn’t know what to eat, but his secret nausea has caused him to have a loss of appetite.
“I’m not that hungry, babe. Just some toast will be fine.”
“Okay,” Marc doesn’t question Nath’s downward tone.
Marc springs out of their bed, excessively energetic for the day. It was uplifting to see his husband so cheerful despite the terror they’ve went through.
“Uhhhh, Marc?”
“Hm?”
“Please don’t drop anything…like last time.”
“It was one time, Nath! And besides, I’ve learned to control my hand better, see?” He then demonstrates by opening and closing his bionic hand in a swift motion.
Marc still sees the redhead’s face painted with restlessness. He sits next down to him and cups his freckled face. “All you need to worry about is cleaning yourself up while I make us a meal, okay?”
The illustrator chuckles. Why was he worrying so much anyways? Everything is perfect (perfect as it can be anyhow). Marc gives him a reassuring kiss on the nose before going downstairs. When Nath could hear his lover’s footsteps fade away, he started to get up and walk towards the bathroom.
*cough* *cough*
Varying droplets of blood fell into the sink as he coughed violently. His eyes stung and black spots blurred his vision. Why was this happening to him?
Suddenly, a knock on the bathroom door startled Nath, making him panickily rinse the blood off the sink and his mouth.
“Hey, Nath! You okay in there? It’s has been a while.”
“Um yeah…!” The artist anxiously tosses the bloody tissues in the bin before unlocking the door, trying to look presentable. “Just needed some extra time.”
The noiret gives him a somber look. He then holds the ginger’s hands in his own. “Nath…I know what happened still scares you. And me too. We can’t fix the past or repair anything.” He focuses closer on his robotic limb. “But if there’s anything you want to tell me, I’m right here.”
Nathaniel looks miserably at his husband. He wants to tell him, truly. But he doesn’t want to destroy a good thing they have already. Saying anything would disturb the peace they have worked so hard to achieve.
“There’s nothing wrong, baby.” A tight smile masks his face. “Just give me a few minutes, alright?”
Marc silently nodded. He has a feeling Nath isn’t telling him the full truth, but asking questions so early in the morning isn’t ideal. Maybe he can make him talk after breakfast. Marc then kisses his hand, in a princely manner, walks away, and closes the door.
Before Nath could even process, a black and white figure emitted out of his pocket.
"Why don’t you just tell him?" Ziggy asked.
"I just can't, okay? And you won't tell him anything either." Nathaniel ordered.
The artist saw the kwami's disappointment as clear as day. It's alright if Ziggy doesn't agree with him. But he'll be damned if she infers to her sweet Marc that his newlywed husband is concealing an illness.
Ziggy descended back into Nath's pocket as he opened the bathroom door, ready to lie to Marc for the millionth time.
The smell of hot pancakes wafted through the kitchen, reaching the staircase where Nathaniel was making his way meekly.
Marc was humming cheerfully as he flipped a pancake, revealing the gold-brown sautéed into the other side. He was half-dancing frivolously while slipping the last pancake onto an ivory plate.
The noiret heard recognizable footsteps a few feet behind him. He turned around with glee, greeting his beloved.
“Hey, Nath. You feelin’ better?”
“Yeah, I’m…” Nathaniel paused in his tracks when he saw the ridiculous apron he was wearing. It was one of those photoshopped toned six pack abs poorly printed on black fabric. The apron also consisted of a wacky pair of red sparkly speedos.
Nathaniel choked down a laugh.
“What?” Marc asked. “You don’t like the apron?”
“No, no it’s great!” The artist wasn’t fooling anybody. His face was stirring into a deep burgundy and a couple of snorts escaped his mouth.
Nathaniel can’t help but find irony in this situation. One: Marc has abs. Taking off his shirt would’ve done the same job. Probably less laughter and more arousal, but his point still stands.
And two: The hypocrisy. Marc absolutely lost it when Nathaniel wore his famous “Kiss The Cook” apron. He could never take the ginger seriously when he was wearing it. Marc would always say “I’d actually kiss the cook if he could cook.”
Unfortunately, Nathaniel had been caught red-handed (or should he say burnt-handed) having his poor attempts of his cuisine leading to the men ordering takeout every time (and spending ten minutes fanning smoke away from the smoke detector with worn cloth rags).
The illustrator can reluctantly say the kitchen is an anti-Nathaniel Anciel-Kurtzberg zone.
At this point, tears were sprouting from his eyes, even when he successfully sat on the kitchen stool without falling over. Nathaniel laughed loudly until he felt lightheaded, which didn’t take much effort these days.
“C-could you turn around please? That apron is just...” Nath felt another laughing fit bubbling inside him.
“Oh, alright.” Marc did his best to pretend he was offended. But deep down, the noiret accomplished something: Making Nathaniel laugh. At last.
Reasonably, neither men had anything to laugh about these days. Back then, it was a dull routine of keeping each other alive while not losing themselves in the process. Not a single chuckle or giggle was shared between them. At one point, not even a smile.
They’re both glad their period of doom is over.
The younger man took off his apron and set the two white plates on the counter. Both were stacked with crispy pancakes with strawberries and blueberries on the side.
“I know you said you wanted toast, but I haven’t seen you eat at all lately.” Marc stared a little too long at the illustrator’s bony arms. He lightly shook his head before continuing. “And besides, I know how much you love pancakes with fruit.”
“Thanks, Marc.”
Nathaniel looked down towards his food. He hid an expression of dissatisfaction on his pale face. It wasn’t the food, he just didn’t feel like eating. The sweet smell of syrup seeping into the warm bread caused his nose to wrinkle in rejection.
He could feel his stomach threatening to shoot up projectiles of vomit. Worse of all, Marc was right: He does love pancakes with fruit. His persistent nausea is deterring him from his favourite foods.
How long will this last?
Marc can detect how down his husband is being. It makes his heart break cleanly in two. The writer makes his way to the stool next to Nathaniel and pulled him into a comforting hug. Nathaniel closed his eyes and reciprocated.
As they embraced each other, two tiny animal figures soared into the air and landed on the illustrator’s plate, devouring his plate in seconds.
“Oi! Those aren’t for you!” Marc waved his spatula seconds too late. The two creatures held even stacks of pancakes between their miniature arms.
“But we’re soooo hungry!” Orikko voiced.
Ziggy only snickered mischievously before zooming away with Nathaniel’s breakfast.
What a bunch of rascals.
“Just let it go, it’s fine. I wasn’t hungry anyways.” The freckled man reassured the noiret by rubbing his arm.
There was still a melancholic atmosphere weighing heavy between them despite the kwamis’ circus act. Marc bent down slightly to kiss the top of Nath’s head, hoping to discard his sorrows with a charming kiss. The illustrator, who was captivated by Marc’s love, lifted his head up to connect their lips together.
Neither Marc nor Nathaniel have anything to do for the day, thank the heavens. They could go out to the movies like they’re teenagers again, before the war. Or even just stay at home and create a comic they don’t have plans to publish. The possibilities are endless.
Completely ignoring the other plate of pancakes – which are now cold – the bluenette proposes going for a walk. Not to anywhere in particular, just a nice outing since the pollution from debris has lifted enough for civilians to be safely outside.
‘Why not?’ Nathaniel thinks in his head. With enough rest, his dizzy spells started to cease.
Or so he thought.
The tanned man gave him an extra peck on the nose before running up the stairs, looking for his and Nathaniel’s jacket. Nathaniel on the other hand, decided to look for cling film in one of the kitchen drawers. His idea was to wrap the other plate of pancakes just in case. He still had zero plans on eating it, but maybe Ziggy or Orikko would want some (without stealing, this time).
As he shoved the plate in the fridge, a weird feeling stuck him, as if he was punched in the face. The redhead stumbled a little, catching himself on the grey kitchen counter. Sound became scarce, like he suddenly fell into a deep pool.
What was happening?
Muffled sounds from upstairs broke through his barrier of unhearing. Something along the lines of “jacket” and “wear”, but he couldn’t piece a proper sentence together. Nathaniel closed his eyes for a second, wishing this disorientating experience would stop.
And then it did.
But Nathaniel couldn’t open his eyes again.
“Nath! Nath!!” Marc shouted from upstairs. He marched down, wondering why his partner wasn’t responding. “I was asking you which jacket you wanted to wear-”
Then he saw it.
The illustrator’s legs were peeking from the kitchen counter, unresponsive. It sent waves of terror crashing through the noiret.
“Nath...?” Marc cautiously whispered, hoping he was just crawling on the floor for something he dropped, or took a minor fall and will get up instantly.
But he didn’t. He was still.
Alarmed, Marc dropped the coats and slid on to the floor where an unconscious Nathaniel resided. He was pale. Even worse, he was cold.
“NATH! PLEASE WAKE UP!” His screams echoed throughout the house, causing Ziggy and Orikko to be at his side straight away.
Both kwamis were speechless. They didn’t know what to say. Ziggy flew towards Nathaniel, experimentally tapping his freckled face.
But nothing. Why wasn’t her owner waking up?
Tears flooded the monochrome creature’s eyes while Orikko tried to offer comfort by patting her back. She cried loudly, hugging the illustrator’s face.
Marc had already reached into his pocket, quickly dialling 112 on his phone. His bionic hand didn’t respond to electronic devices so he had to use his left hand instead.
He just hopes he isn’t too late.
Marc can’t lose Nathaniel again.
Not now, not ever.