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“You look terrible," Steve said pleasantly, pushing past Reece with a pizza box in his arms.
“So do you," Reece shot back waspishly, closing the door and turning round. He frowned. “I told you, plans are cancelled.”
Steve put the pizza box on the worktop with no particular care for the haphazard stack of Reece’s belongings already calling it home. His bag waited eagerly next to them, ready to be packed — poor thing, he’ll have to break the news that the party’s off.
“Are you going deaf in your old age?” Reece said pointedly. “I said—”
“Yes, yes, plans are off,” Steve echoed patiently as he started rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. He’d helped Reece with chores around the house countless times over the years, knew the rightful place of every mug and spoon, every chip and dent in the worktops, how to coax the recalcitrant oven into working properly with his oven-whispering skills.
Hmm. He’d never seen the similarities between Reece and a kitchen appliance before.
He was sorting their plates — Reece always insisted — when he heard a panicked “Steve” so he turned around.
Reece was swaying, arms outstretched as he stumbled towards the worktop, but Steve had heard every possible variation of how Reece said his name and it sounded like alarm bells so he dropped the plate and bolted and he was there just as Reece collapsed.
“Fuck! Okay, you’re okay,” Steve got out, grunting as he took Reece’s full weight and went staggering backwards and slumped against the kitchen island, Reece haphazardly pulled against his chest as he slid down until he was sat on the floor.
Reece was breathing shallowly but he was breathing so Steve exited panic mode and entered moderately concerned mode. Reece had had some of his illnesses for decades but in his old age — as he constantly bemoaned — new things had been happening, new symptoms appearing, that neither of them were equipped yet to handle.
It's the not knowing the diagnosis that drove Reece mad, not having a name to put to the symptoms to make it real, quantifiable.
Steve mentally added dizziness to the growing list in his head and then waited, rubbing up and down Reece’s back.
It only took a couple of minutes for Reece to come back, blearily looking up at Steve and blinking heavily.
“I feel sick,” he said quietly, sounding so tired and miserable that it made Steve’s heart ache.
“I’m sorry, love,” Steve said, brows drawn tightly together in frustration at how useless he felt. “Let’s— let’s get you onto the sofa, yeah?”
Reece made a plaintive noise. “Why not bed?”
“Because you don’t like eating in bed, and we need to get something in you. Bet you’ve not eaten much today, have you?”
A pause. “I just… forgot, once the pain started.”
Steve tutted. “Exactly. Now, come on, let’s get up before we both get stuck on the floor.”
Together, they struggled to their feet, Steve carefully holding Reece in case he went again. They made their way to the sofa without incident.
“Hang on," he said, leaning Reece against the arm of the sofa, then set about meticulously repurposing all the cushions and the blanket into a sort of nest shape. Gently but firmly, he pushed Reece down into it, so he was propped up and surrounded by cushions, then wrapped up in the blanket.
“Is this really necessary?" Reece asked, sounding fondly exasperated as Steve tucked him in.
Steve retreated to the kitchen, then returned with their plates of pizza, two steaming cups of tea and a hot water bottle.
“I take it back," Reece said, groaning in relief as Steve slotted it between his back and the sofa. "Very necessary.”
“Extremely necessary," Steve murmured, flopping down onto the sofa and pressing a kiss to the side of Reece's forehead. “What do you want to watch, love?’
Reece considered it, closing his eyes. “Did we finish the one where they’re all miserable in the Arctic with the magic polar bear?”
“Magic— d’you mean the spirit guardian that eats them all?"
Reece made a humming noise that meant he was too tired to talk. Steve picked up the remotes — why are there two? — put on the programme, and leaned over to give Reece his pizza. He awkwardly struggled to get an arm out of his cocoon to hold it.
Steve squeezed some ibuprofen gel from its very creased tube onto his fingers, then reached over and put his hand on the back of Reece's neck and pinched hard on either side of his spine. Reece gasped, which turned into a moan of relief as Steve started working at the sore muscles there.
The television weaved its tale and they were quiet for a bit. Reece wasn't really concentrating — his head felt full of cotton wool and golden syrup, thick and saturated, and the programme was too complicated for him at the best of times, with every character looking the same and being called John or James. He was just thanking his lucky stars for Steve's massage skills.
Then, between bites, Reece mumbled, "I'm sorry, by the way. About… you know. Not being able to go out."
“Don't be daft," Steve replied, watching the blue glow of the telly lighting up the planes of Reece's face. “I didn't want to go out anyway. I'm grateful for the excuse!"
Reece knew he was lying, but he definitely wasn't upset or angry either. That was another thing about Steve — he never pretended everything was fine. He was always honest, complaining sometimes about doing Reece's shopping, getting frustrated about him not being able to go to this or that, but in a way that made it better, humanised it, normalised it. It made his disabilities into just another aspect of him rather than a Big Unspeakable Delicate Thing, having Steve complain and laugh and joke.
He didn't want a caretaker who tiptoed around him on eggshells, he wanted a partner, someone frustrated and patient and kind and real, and Steve played his part perfectly.
Steve moved his hand down, under Reece's shirt, kneaded at the muscles of his upper back with his fingertips and his knuckles, hard enough to sting but it felt so good that Reece wanted to cry.
He fucking hated being— this, a laughable facsimile of what a functioning human looked like. He hated his stupid brain and how it interpreted everything as pain, hated the inflammation of his joints, hated how he hadn't felt truly well-rested in decades.
It was exhausting. It was so fucking exhausting, just existing. If he hadn't had Steve by his side, advocating for him, arguing with the doctors, keeping track of symptoms and test results and medications, he'd… well. He genuinely didn't think he'd still be here.
And it was terrifying to be loved so deeply, even at his sickest, unwashed and curled up in bed and crying in pain and embarrassment, for Steve to have poked fun at him and cried with him, to have run him a bath and done the washing up while he was in it and then cradled him to sleep.
It took his breath away, how much Steve loved him.
“I— appreciate it,” Reece said, quietly. "Everything you do for me, when I'm… like this."
“What, succumbing to the cursed amulet?” Steve replied easily, smiling at Reece. “It's no problem, love. I'm just happy to be with you, you know that."
Reece nodded minutely. "Yeah,” he said, then tilted his head to kiss the back of Steve's hand. "I know.”