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The sound started as a low, wet cough, the kind that vibrated through the entire chest cavity. Charlie tried to muffle it into his pillow, but the effort only seemed to make his lungs stage a louder protest.
"You're awake," Rye mumbled, not moving from his position spooned tightly against Charlie’s impressive frame. Rye’s long, muscular leg was hooked over Charlie’s hip, and his breath warmed the skin just below Charlie's ear.
Charlie cleared his throat—a painful, rasping noise. "Barely. Don't worry about it, baby. Go back to sleep."
Rye shifted, propping his head up on his hand. His long black hair, usually tamed into a braid during the day, fanned out across Charlie's pillowcase like an inky spill. Even in the dim pre-dawn light filtering through the bedroom curtains, Rye’s hazel eyes were sharp and focused.
"Charlie, your cough sounds like a rusty tractor trying to start in a blizzard. You are definitely not 'barely' awake, and you are absolutely not going to work."
Charlie, all six feet five inches of him, with his broad lumberjack shoulders and reddish-brown beard, managed to sit up, instantly towering over his husband. He felt heavy, every muscle aching, and the headache behind his eyes throbbed in time with his pulse. "Don't be ridiculous. It's just a little cold. Besides, who's going to open the hardware store?"
Rye slid out from under the covers with the fluid grace of someone who spent his off-hours training in Krav Maga. He was 5'11", lean but undeniably strong, and in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, he looked like a beautiful, irritable statue.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe the guy whose name is also on the deed? Or the very capable employees you pay good money? Or—hear me out—maybe the world just keeps spinning for one day without the direct oversight of a stubborn, feverish giant," Rye countered, already walking toward the door. "Temperature, now."
"I'm fine, Rye. Really. I'll just take some extra-strength cold medicine and—"
Rye reappeared, holding the digital thermometer from the bathroom. He didn't offer it; he simply leaned in, lifted Charlie's arm, and slid the device into his armpit with clinical efficiency. His long hair brushed against Charlie's cheek, smelling faintly of the expensive cedar and sandalwood body wash Charlie had bought him last week.
"You smell like illness, sunshine. Now, hold still and stop arguing. You’re going to run out of breath and start coughing again, and I swear I will duct-tape you to this bed."
Charlie sighed, a sound of pure defeat, mostly because he knew Rye was capable of procuring the duct tape in less than thirty seconds. He felt a wave of nausea, and the room seemed to tilt just slightly. He focused on Rye’s concerned, slightly annoyed face.
The thermometer beeped. Rye pulled it out. His lips flattened into a thin line.
"101.5," Rye stated, his voice dropping an octave, the snark replaced by genuine concern. "That's it, Charlie. You're grounded. I'm calling Adam to tell him to open up, and I'll text Mrs. Peterson that we won't be dropping off her porch swing repair until tomorrow."
Charlie pushed the covers away. "No, Rye, seriously. I need to go. It's Friday, we always get a rush of weekend DIYers. Adam has something going on at Gus's school and he can't run the whole floor, plus receiving, plus the register—"
"He can and he will. He's a competent employee," Rye cut in sharply. He didn't raise his voice, which only made his words more final. "You know, for a man who spends his life making sure everyone else is taken care of, you are profoundly bad at accepting that same care. You've been carrying everything since you were seventeen, but. It's not all your responsibility, and today you aren’t going to do a single thing, you’ll let me.”
The directness hit Charlie where it hurt. Since their parents died unexpectedly, Charlie had stepped up, taking on the store, his younger brother Jack, and the mantle of the reliable, unshakable foundation for his family and to some extent, the community. It was ingrained; He wasn't taken care of; he did the caretaking.
"It’s just... I don't need to be waited on," Charlie muttered, trying to stand up straight. The moment he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the room gave a violent lurch.
Rye saw it. The slight wobble, the sudden paleness under Charlie's already flushed skin.
"Nope. You're not winning this one, big man," Rye ordered, gently but firmly pushing Charlie back down onto the mattress. "Go take a lukewarm shower. That might help the headache. And I mean lukewarm, Charlie. Don't go scalding yourself into unconsciousness. I'll be there in a few minutes, I’m just going to neaten up in here and make sure it’s as comfortable for you as possible.”
Reluctantly, Charlie shuffled toward the bathroom, gripping the doorframe. The shower felt simultaneously too hot and too cold. He leaned his enormous head against the cool tile, letting the water run over him. It didn’t help. The nausea intensified, and a thick, buzzing sound filled his ears.
He closed his eyes for a second, maybe less, hoping it would magically fix everything, but unsurprisingly it didn’t, and when he opened them, the world was a swirling mix of beige tile and white porcelain as his usually strong knees buckled and his thoughts raced, I'm going to pass out, this is gonna suck.
Unable to do anything to stop it, his brain seemingly offline, Charlie felt himself begin to slide along the back wall of the shower, the inevitable crash looming ever closer.
But just before he hit the shower floor, a pair of strong, lean arms wrapped around his middle, catching his substantial weight with an astonishing amount of stability.
"Not today, baby," Rye grunted, already hauling Charlie out from under the spray. He was all but dragging Charlie's massive body as he helped him out of the massive shower. "I told you it should be lukewarm. You are literally steaming."
“Sorry…” Charlie whispered, as he felt the familiar comfort of their plush bathmat under his feet, as violent shivers plagued him, despite the heat.
“ Shhh…. It’s okay.” Rye soothed, pressing a gentle kiss to his overheated temple as he lowered him carefully onto the closed toilet lid.
"God, Rye," Charlie gasped, leaning heavily on his husband both for support and comfort as the last shred of his stubborn façade crumbled. "I feel like shit."
Rye brushed Charlie's reddish-brown hair off his forehead with gentle fingertips. He was soaking wet too, his black hair dripping onto the bathmat, but he didn't seem to care as he grabbed the biggest, softest towel they owned and began rubbing Charlie's hair dry with quick, efficient motions, then wrapping it around his shoulders.
"Yeah. I know, sweetheart," Rye said, his voice softer now, tinged with that deep, boundless affection he usually reserved for very specific, very private moments.
"Look at you. You’re shaking. Now, listen to me. I’ve already handled the store. Jack and Simon are coming in to help Adam today. The world will survive. All you have to do today is exist. I will figure out food, medicine, blankets, and whatever else you need. You are officially relieved of all responsibilities. Do you understand me?"
Charlie nodded weakly, too exhausted to protest. "But… What if you need something? What about your work at the shelter? You are supposed to take in that litter of strays that were dumped just outside of town, remember?"
Rye paused, holding Charlie's face gently between his hands. "Charlie. I love the cats and the shelter, but you are indispensable, you are and always will be my priority.”
“I'll call River in a few minutes and just let them know I won’t be in today, something came up, Which isn’t even a lie. I did. That ‘something’ just happens to be my six-foot-five redheaded husband who is terrible at being a patient."
With that, he kissed Charlie's feverish forehead, causing a slow, soft smile to spread across his exhausted features. "Let someone else figure everything out for a change. It's okay to let go, Charlie. I've got you."
“Okay…” Charlie finally relented with a defeated but immensely grateful sigh, “I love you.”
“Love you more, sweetheart.” Rye murmured as he helped Charlie into a huge, soft t-shirt and a well-loved pair of sweats before helping him to his feet and guiding him to their living room with a strong hand and the small of his back, the other one enveloped in one of Charlie’s own.
Upon completing the unusually draining trip across the large house to the living room, Charlie was mesmerized to find that Rye had already transformed the entire room into a masterpiece of comfort.
There were five pillows, the thickest quilt, and a perfectly positioned laptop waiting for him on the couch, the ceiling light was mercifully off, leaving just the perfectly dim light of several small lamps.
Best of all, the woodstove was already producing a good amount of heat and creating a soothing background noise of quiet pops and crackles that was too enticing for Charlie to resist.
It wasn’t long before he allowed himself to collapse onto the soft couch cushions with a deep sigh as some of the relentless aches throughout his massive frame and a bit of the intense throbbing in his head eased slightly.
Not thirty seconds later, Rye had already placed a box of tissues, a bottle of water, and the TV remote within easy reach.
Before Charlie could even thank him, he was out of the room, the sound of his footsteps echoed as he continued toward the kitchen.
In his absence, and somehow missing him already, Charlie turned on their comfort show, "Secaucus Psychic” but kept the volume low. They watched the program so often, if his brain wasn’t currently overrun by pure misery, he was fairly confident he could’ve recited nearly every episode from memory.
Just as the show was coming back on from commercial break, Rye returned to Charlie’s side with a mug of something steamy and a handful of pills.
"Fluids, Tylenol, and Vitamin C," he informed, "drink this. It's lemon, ginger, and honey tea. My grandmother's recipe. It can cure anything."
Although he had his doubts, Charlie took a small sip from the mug that felt pleasantly warm in his icy hands.
Upon his first taste, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the concoction was potent, sweet, and even a bit soothing against his raw throat.
“It’s good.” He rasped, “Thank you, love.”
“You don’t need to thank me, baby, but I’m glad you like it.” Rye replied with a small, if a little sad, smile.
Then he sat down on the coffee table, facing Charlie, his expression morphing into one of resigned determination and deep concern, "Now, be honest with me. When did you first start feeling sick?"
Charlie took another long, slow drink of the tea before he had the courage to look at Rye—his beautiful, snarky, fiercely protective husband—and felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with his fever.
"Since maybe Tuesday," Charlie admitted quietly. "I thought if I just kept pushing through it, it would go away."
Rye shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You know, for such a smart man, who can build, fix, or support nearly anything or anyone, you are astonishingly terrible when it comes to taking care of your own health."
“Now, there is nothing you need to worry about. Just focus on feeling better. Okay?” He reached out and stroked the damp hair on Charlie's temple before pressing a kiss to it and running his fingers along his face to lightly stroke his cheek.
Knowing Rye was right, and unable to resist the sharp pull of sleep as he relaxed under his husband’s soothing touch, Charlie finally closed his eyes.
He heard a very muffled version of Rye’s voice saying something to the effect of, "That’s it, Just get some sleep, sweetheart. I'll be right here and I'll only wake you up every few hours to force-feed you soup."
Over the next few hours, Rye, true to his word, remained by Charlie’s side, eventually dragging the large ottoman over so he could lay alongside his husband and run on hand lightly along the curve of his spine as his loud snores echoed in the cozy room
The sun was just beginning to wane in the sky when Charlie stirred several hours later and was instantly greeted to the mouth-watering scent of homemade chicken noodle soup coming from their kitchen down the hall.
As he slowly re-oriented himself with the waking world, slowly blinking his eyes as they regained their usual focus, Charlie was taken by how handsome Rye looked as he sat upright on the wide ottoman that he had apparently moved against the side of the couch, with a book resting open in his lap, and his long hair now in a tight braid.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, love." Rye murmured, gently closing his book and catching Charlie’s slightly glassy eyes. "How are you feeling?”
“A little better, I think.” Charlie managed, only getting interrupted by spurts of intense coughing twice.
“Mhhmm sure you are.” Rye hummed, his expression a tad irritated but mostly just fondly overprotective and adoring.
“Well, the soup's ready.” Rye continued, gesturing towards the source of the delicious aroma, and before Charlie could open his mouth to interject that he wasn’t very hungry, Rye instructed, “ and you're eating every last spoonful in your bowl."
His tone was firm, but the level of unwavering love and devotion that was so conspicuously displayed on every one of his features told Charlie what he already knew to be true, Rye was worried about him.
So instead of arguing, like he normally would at least attempt, Charlie put all his just replenished energy towards managing a weak, but genuine smile and said, his voice thick with congestion, "The soup smells wonderful, and I’ll gladly eat it all, and don’t worry, I’ll be healthy as a horse in a day or two, nothing keeps a Matheson down for long.”
With that much needed reassurance, Rye put his book down, his gaze considerably more calm as he looked at his enormous husband, who despite being more sick than he had ever seen him, was still a pillar of both emotional and mental strength.
"I know, baby. Now open up, It’s time for another dose of meds and tea with your late lunch." Rye said as he blinked at him slowly, lovingly, and went to the kitchen before quickly reappearing with a fairly large bowl of still steaming soup that smelled of chicken, freshly cooked vegetables, fragrant broth, and above all complete and total love and adoration.
It wasn’t long before they were both laughing as Rye made ridiculous train noises as he tried to insist on spoon-feeding his husband, who despite his blinding ardor for his other half was unsustainably resistant.
After more than a few spilled spoonfuls of soup, and a whole lot of fond eye-rolling, playful sighing, and downright childish fanfare, Charlie, once again exhausted from both their antics and his illness, surrendered as his laughter morphed into a rough and lengthy cough.
“Might need another day or two…” Charlie admitted sheepishly, even as his tone betrayed how much he loved having a partner who he could not only rely on, but made the weight of the world feel like lifting a feather.