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It was half nine in the morning, and Asa Crowley-Fell was still in bed. A rare event, surely— the man was usually awake and near annoyingly chipper by six o’clock sharp while Anthony lounged blearily beside him until the need for the bathroom or coffee became strong enough to pull him from the warmth of his bed.
This lie-in was not, however, thanks to Anthony’s constant reminders that Asa deserved to rest a bit longer after a busier day at the bakery or a stressful book repair, but thanks to the burning of a fever. Anthony certainly wasn’t grateful that his husband was ill— even a simple flu could be frightening at their age, and he really didn’t envy the muscle aches or brain fog— but if this is what it took to get his husband to actually get some rest and accept some good old-fashioned doting, well. That’s just what it took.
He brought breakfast to him, a pretty little tray with simple foods and a single hyacinth from the garden, just because. Asa was shivering despite the mountain of blankets around him, so Anthony climbed into bed and curled around him. Asa sighed with relief when the back of Anthony’s hand rested on his forehead to check his temperature. “Oooh, that’s the ticket— thank you, my love.” It looked to be a nasty fever, but nothing a few days of good rest and cuddles with his husband couldn’t fix.
“D’you need anything, Angel?”
“I’d love a kiss, my dear, but I couldn’t bear to get you sick, too!”
“Asa, if you think that’s not a risk I’m willing to take—”
The next day found them both in bed with matching fevers, but Anthony still grinned. They’d get a few more days of uninterrupted snuggles and Bob Ross reruns.