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When Owlan woke early from his sleep on what should very well have been a fine day off, it was to the sound of pattering rain outside his bedroom window and a sharp, piercing ache behind his eyes.
He sat upright, pinching his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his palms against them in a vain attempt to quell the feeling of a thousand needles assailing his vision. This did not help. If anything, it made it worse as a sudden wave of nausea followed swiftly along with the pain. Goddess help him, he had only just woken up for the day, and now he was already going to die here in his bed from a cursed migraine.
Owlan drew in a long breath through his nose, then let it out slowly, repeating until the room had somewhat ceased spinning and he felt he might be able to make it to the kitchen to make himself some of that tea he always made for Horwell when his headaches from being in lectures all day were particularly bad. He let his head fall back against the headboard of the bed, eyes closed as he steeled himself to stand.
A sudden electric shock of pain as he promptly knocked the back of his skull against the back of the headboard had him crying out loudly. He lurched forward again and cursed loudly -louder than he had intended- as he felt gingerly over the back of his head. He was fine, however it certainly had done nothing to ease his headache.
With nausea returning anew and spots blurring on the edge of his vision on top of that. An involuntary shudder wracked Owlan’s body as he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled to the adjoining bathroom. He hoped a bit of cool water on his face and a few moments sat in the darkness on the floor might ease both the stabbing pain between his temples and the sickness in his stomach he was violently trying to fend off. He did not know how Horwell had not heard his shout after thwacking his head against their headboard through the thin walls of their adjoining rooms, but he knew very well that his husband had far more important things to attend to today than a headache he could easily handle on his own with some tea and a potion or two.
Horwell had been going on all week about the chicklet Loftwings that were due to hatch any time. Gaepora and his family were the ones who were formally in charge of watching over the clutch of eggs, but they had not been the ones taking heating blankets into the incubation room on the first floor of the school to keep the eggs warm on cold days, nor had they been the ones who had almost caught a lung infection from prolonged exposure to the extreme humid climate that the unhatched Loftwings needed. All of that had been his dutifully stubborn, fool husband.
They had recieved word that the eggs had hatched the evening before, but with their teaching schedules, neither of them had been able to so visit. As a compromise, Horwell had promised to be over as soon as he could in the morning. Due to his sudden onset affliction, Owlan had woken earlier than usual, however he wasn’t sure it was early enough to call for Horwell without putting a severe wrench in his schedule.
Instead, Owlan pulled himself against the wash basin and pooled water in shaking hands to splash over his face. The cold water soothed the deep ache for a moment, but not nearly long enough. He found himself leaning back against the far wall before sliding down to the floor, resting his forehead against his arms over his knees and letting the darkness soothe the persistent throbbing in his head. For a long while, he sat there, taking in measured breaths and weighing the possibility of grabbing a bit of fabric from his dresser to use as a blindfold or something else to keep out the light.
It took him a long time -longer than it should have- for Owlan to process the hand against his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Someone was saying his name. No, not just someone. Horwell. Goddess curse it all, he had heard the noise after all, and like the blessed, kind-hearted fool he was, he had come to check on Owlan when he should have been nearly ready to go check on the Loftwing chicks.
“I’m alright,” he tried to say, heedless of whether or not Horwell had asked in the first place. He tried to wave his husband off, pulling himself up from the ledge of the bathroom vanity. His head screamed its protest at the movement as blood suddenly rushed back down to the rest of his body and he felt himself sway precariously, but managed to catch himself before Horwell saw.
“Owlan,” Horwell sighed, reaching up to rest a warm hand against his cheek.
Owlan met his eyes but his vision was tinted with the barest hint of a blur that he was sure made him look unfocused and was not doing anything to help him convince Horwell that he was fine.
“You’re ill,” Horwell said. It was not a question. “You beautiful, stubborn man, why didn’t you call for me? I heard you bang your head. No point in trying to tough this out when you look like you’ve been dead ten times over already.”
His hand around Owlan’s waist was infinitely gentle as he led him back to his bed and nudged him to sit down. Somehow, Owlan let himself be fussed over, helpless as always to his husband’s tender affection - though perhaps it was just the haze of pain and nausea threatening to overtake him.
“Horwell-” he tried, watching his husband rifle through one of their drawers for something inside.
“Shh, I’m taking care of you. Hylia knows you won’t do it yourself if I leave you to your own devices.” He returned quickly with a strip of black fabric in one hand and began to reach around Owlan’s head to fasten it over his eyes.
Owlan tried once again to protest, “But the Loftwings-”
“Can wait,” was Horwell’s firm but gentle reply. “I told Geapora I would come by this morning, and I will. It will still be “this morning” after I’ve made sure you are alright.”
“But you-”
“Ah.” Horwell stopped him with a finger over his lips, and though he couldn’t see through the blindfold, Owlan could envision very clearly the eyebrow raise he was receiving at that moment, “I’m taking care of you, and I won't hear another word about it.”
Owlan felt an initial urge to protest rise up in his throat, but a perfectly (or imperfectly) timed pang behind his eyes did very well at knocking such objections from him. He sighed and let his shoulders relax, “Yes, dear.”
He was granted a kiss for that, soft and quick against his lips before it was gone again and he was being gently pushed further onto the bed. Owlan ended up cross-legged, leaning back against the headboard as his husband sat beside him and massaged the pressure point between his thumb and pointer finge. The relief was almost immediate; both the sharp pain in his skull and swelling nausea easing to more manageable levels. Horwell was being achingly careful with him and Owlan wondered, just as he had many other times in the years they had been married, what he had done to deserve being loved by such a brilliant man.
"I'll pick you up a potion or two for your head once I've made sure things are settled with the Loftwing chicks," Horwell said, his voice gentle so that it grated as little as possible on Owlan's already aching head, "For now, rest here and I'll make you some tea to tide you over while I'm gone, hm?"
"It'll do," Owlan replied, then returned his hand over in to take his husband's and bring it to his lips, "Though how I'll survive the wait until you return, I don't know."
"Overt flirting?" Horwell asked amusedly, "You really must be in a state."
Owlan laughed, then regretted it immediately when it sent a lightning strike of pain shocking behind his eyes. "I was talking about my head."
It was a joke, but clearly not one that landed as he heard Horwell make a sympathetic noise, "I'm sorry, my love. You're sure you don't need me to stay? I'm sure Geapora will-"
"Absolutely not," Owlan insisted firmly, his hand tightening around Horwell's, "You've spent the last two months making sure those eggs were taken care of to perfection, and I'll not see you wasting another moment before going to see them."
"Well, I wouldn't call this wasting-"
"Horwell."
Horwell sighed and relented, "Yes, alright." The bed shifted as Horwell stood, and very soon after, another soft kiss was pressed to Owlan's lips.
"Let me make you tea," he said gently, "Then, I'll be back as soon as I can."
Owlan settled back against the pillows with a sigh, "You'll be back when you've had your fill of Loftwing chicks and not a moment sooner."
Owlan heard his husband's soft chuckle as he replied, "Yes, dear."
His footsteps retreated then and the door creaked open before clicking shut, leaving Owlan in his bed with the pattering rain to keep him company. He closed his eyes and thought that perhaps the ache in his head had already begun to subside.