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The fever warning beeps from the thermometer that Till stares down with a haggard sigh. His head aches with pulsing pain and everything is too loud, too bright, too stifling.
He and Ivan were meant to be going out to see a movie later, but Till can’t even imagine getting properly dressed to go outside at the present moment.
He fishes out his phone from his pocket and navigates to Ivan’s contact. Even the dim light of his phone screen hurts his eyes as he hastily types out a message to let Ivan know he can’t make it.
‘Fever. Gotta cancel,’ the message reads back at him. That should be enough to get his point across, he can't fathom typing even a word more.
Till deposits his phone onto his nightstand and pulls the covers around him, sinking into his cocoon of sweat and shivery nausea. The medicine he took earlier does its job and he is out like a light in minutes.
He wakes to the smell of soup. It’s an unusual scent for his apartment, the kitchen generally going untouched amongst art commissions, university assignments, and his part-time job. Ivan often has to drag him out to get a decent meal every few days or Till will forget his body cannot healthily sustain itself on energy drinks and cup ramen alone.
He’s still blinking the sleep out of his vision when Ivan enters his room, freshly made soup in tow. The raven-haired man spies Till’s eyes peeking out from the bundle of blankets and pulls up a chair to spoon-feed him.
It's so domestic that it makes Till's chest ache, he's transported back to a time when it was Io looking after him and not his devoted boyfriend. He's too warm and his head hurts and it's taking everything in Till not to start crying at the sight of his lover caring for him so sweetly, unprompted and without complaint like so many of the numerous other things Ivan does for him.
The soup smells really good. The world is so unfair that Ivan has been graced with good looks, money and the ability to cook. It should be illegal to have everything going for you when your personality is so messed up.
Immediately, Till feels guilty at the thought. Here his boyfriend is looking after him in his time of need and all he can do in thanks is insult him in his mind. He sits up now, not wanting to embarrass himself any further by choking on the meal.
Before Ivan can say something witty about Till’s abysmal self-care routine and lack of skill in looking after himself, Till beats him by opening the conversation with a quiet, “I’m sorry,” tumbling out from his lips.
Ivan stares down at the teary man, silent and impassive. If he admits that he enjoys Till like this, the boy will surely start throwing punches once he regains the strength in his limbs.
So he lets Till wallow for now, ready to pick him back up once he’s let his feelings run their course.
He holds out the spoonful of soup and Till obediently takes his first mouthful of many. Warm from fever, the soup, and Ivan’s quiet affection that begs no recognition or reciprocation.
Tomorrow, Till promises, he will do something nice to show his appreciation for all that Ivan does for him.