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It’s just a cold, a nasty cough scraping his throat raw, but Sylvester feels worse on waking today. His heavy head throbs, his body aching all over. Mustering his willpower, he crawls out of bed, determinedly going to the counter to start up the coffee machine. The essay for Professor Czort’s class isn’t going to write itself and it’s due tomorrow.
Downing two tablets from the medicine cabinet, he collects his mug of liquid elixir and shuffles to the desk where a depressing tower of books awaits him.
Progress is slow, a second cup of coffee not enough to re-energize his lagging thoughts. His head is heavy, his throat sore from hacking up his lungs every few minutes. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, only taking a few bites for lunch, and then it’s back to the slog.
Sometime around coffee number four and cough medicine dose number two, an all too familiar sound at the window draws his attention—the rustle of wings and the scratch of claws. A grotesque figure hovers outside, its shadow blotting out the light from the noonday sun. Hooking sharp, black claws into the gap, the gaunt pries the window open, letting in a light breeze that carries the autumnal scent of dried leaves. Membranous wings tuck in against the creature’s back, awkwardly shuffling through. On landing inside, a figure clad in white appears, stepping onto the sill.
Sylvester rubs his forehead, the throbbing behind his eyes intensifying at the arrival of this problem. “This is breaking and entering,” he informs Pontos.
“Am I not allowed to visit my favorite boy?” The reply is careless, an affable smile on Pontos’ face as he ducks through, landing lightly on the wood-paneled floor.
“I have a door, in case you forgot,” Sylvester reminds him with longsuffering patience. If there is a touch of fondness in there, well, it’s best if Pontos doesn’t know.
Pontos ambles over, clicking his tongue on seeing the desk covered in books and papers. “Don’t bother with those tedious things and come along.”
Sylvester shakes his head. “Not today. I’m behind on schoolwork.” An itch crawls up his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but it comes out in a wet, hacking cough, turning his face away and covering it with his palm.
Pontos frowns, intent scrutiny taking in the unusual flush on pale skin, the half-empty tin of cough drops open on the desk. “I was going to take you out for a jaunt, but it looks like you should be in bed.”
“It’s just a bad cold,” Sylvester says, but he isn’t so sure anymore. Since noon, the room has been too hot, his clothing damp and sticking uncomfortably to his skin.
Pontos is already in Sylvester’s personal space, ducking down. Sylvester instinctively shrinks his neck back, murky blue eyes and unsettling crimson pupils suddenly too close, but a callused hand closes over the back of his neck, keeping him in place.
“What are you—”
Pontos leans his forehead against Sylvester’s.
Sylvester swallows. He hasn’t been this close to Pontos since that time Pontos brought him into Ebwynnos to… to reclaim him. It’s been two weeks since then, with Sylvester out on investigations. There hasn’t been time for anything more than brief greetings in passing… not that he is particularly eager to talk about what happened.
“You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine,” Sylvester insists stubbornly, glad he has an excuse for the heat in his cheeks. “I need to finish this essay.”
Pontos’ disinterested gaze sweeps over the papers. “The task gaunt can handle those.” He scoops Sylvester into his arms, clearly not going to take no for an answer.
The gaunt that came with Pontos slips into Sylvester’s seat, taking up the pen.
“Pontos,” Sylvester protests, “put me down.” In truth, a large part of him is relieved, wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep, but he shouldn’t keep letting Pontos have his way with him. The surroundings begin to blur, giving him a moment of confusion, and then there is a recognizable pull at the pit of his stomach. He quickly grabs Pontos’ lapel. “Don’t take me away,” he insists.
Pontos is mostly as easygoing as he seems to be, but he is always dangerous, and can occasionally be unpredictable. Sylvester doesn’t want to take his chances in Ebwynnos while barely able to stay conscious.
“You’ve such little faith in me,” Pontos says regretfully, but the tilt of his mouth is amused.
The world solidifies back into place, Sylvester’s stomach settling with relief. “Let me down,” he tries again. “I’ll rest after. I just want to wash up first.” It’s partly an excuse and partly true—he feels pretty gross right now.
“A lukewarm bath might help bring down your temperature,” Pontos agrees, carrying him to the washroom.
Sighing, Sylvester closes his eyes and leans his head on Pontos’ chest. Better to choose his battles.
After setting Sylvester down on the bench, Pontos goes to run the bath, turning on the taps.
Eyes closed, Sylvester listens to the sound of running water, the white noise soothing. He is drifting when there is a touch to his collar, jolting him out of his drowse. His eyes fly open to find Pontos in front of him, leaning down. “What are you doing?” His voice comes out a little high. He thought it was a nice gesture for Pontos to draw the bath for him, but he expected him to leave afterwards, like any normal person would do.
“Don’t fuss.”
Used to Pontos’ usual tricks, Sylvester braces himself for the sound of sea water, and that piercing white noise, surreptitiously moving his hand towards the silver key hanging around his neck. He isn’t prepared for the large hand that gently strokes his hair, sliding down to cup his cheek.
“Little one, you look like you’re about to fall over.”
“Then please stop giving me grief and go outside. I appreciate the thought, but I’d like my privacy,” he says firmly.
For a moment, Pontos doesn’t move, looking down at him, his gaze shadowed and his hand still on Sylvester’s face. Slowly, he drags his thumb over Sylvester’s mouth, pressing down into the plush lower lip.
Sylvester’s breath hitches, his pulse quickening.
“Am I not someone who is allowed to do this for you?” Pontos asks, his voice terribly soft.
Sylvester stares, unable to answer.
He doesn’t know. What are they to each other?
Pontos has always been possessive of him, obsessively so, but his attention had always seemed ambiguous… Until that day Sylvester received the Rapture’s authority and stirred the Abyss’s wrath. Then, Pontos had kept Sylvester in bed for what felt like days.
…Not that he was complaining, but it hadn’t exactly been under ideal circumstances—he wasn’t given much of a choice about it.
Pontos leans in, fingers slipping down to tuck under Sylvester’s chin, tilting him for a soft kiss. No more than a chaste brush of lips, and Sylvester’s resistance drains out of him. When Pontos’ hands go to his shirt again, Sylvester doesn’t stop him. The movements are swift and practiced, not giving Sylvester time to feel embarrassed, and he is soon being lowered into the bath, the water comfortably cool against his feverish skin. Unable to help himself, he steals a few glances as Pontos undresses.
Bare to the skin, Pontos turns.
Sylvester doesn’t quite manage to drag his gaze away in time.
The smirk that curves Pontos’ lips is obnoxiously smug. “So you do prefer this appearance.”
“You do too,” Sylvester throws back, and is grateful for the cough that crawls up his throat, giving him an excuse to turn away.
Except once it starts, he can’t seem to stop.
Joining him in the tub, Pontos pulls Sylvester into his arms, rubbing comforting circles between his shoulders.
The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore fills his ears.
“Listen,” the abyss commands, and Sylvester’s body unconsciously obeys.
Gradually, the cough tapers down. Lightheaded and dizzy, Sylvester lies weakly against the other. Once he has caught his breath, a yellow candy is pressed to his lips.
“Cough drop. Open.”
Parting his lips, Sylvester takes the lozenge from Pontos’ fingers. It’s lemony and minty, soothing the sore itch in his throat. He doesn’t ask where it came from, used to Pontos randomly pulling things out of Ebwynnos.
Large hands urge Sylvester to face forward. As shampoo is lathered into his hair, a fresh, aquatic and mineral scent permeates the air; not the generic sage and cypress product on the shelf, but the scent that lingers on Pontos’ skin.
It’s nice, Sylvester thinks vaguely, drowsing as his scalp is rubbed.
The tub is drained and filled once, Sylvester half asleep through it, firm hands on his skin and a steady chest at his back, the lulling sound of the ocean in his ears.
**
Sylvester wakes to fingers in his hair.
He is lying on his bed, dressed modestly in his pajamas.
Pontos sits back against the headboard, looking down at him.
The sky outside the window has dimmed into evening dusk, the lamps on and the task gaunt returned to Ebwynnos.
Sylvester blinks drowsily at the other person. “Have you been watching me sleep this whole time?” It’s probably a bad sign that he isn’t creeped out by it anymore, used to this kind of behavior from this person.
Pontos’ reply is a casual “I haven’t,” giving him the answer he wants to hear.
Sylvester doesn’t get a chance to express his skepticism, cut off by his incessant cough.
Drawing Sylvester up into his arms, Pontos pats his back until the coughs die down. He settles Sylvester against the headboard, slipping a pillow behind his back, and hands him a warm mug of water.
Sylvester gulps down the water gratefully, taking the cough drop Pontos gives him after. A large palm touches his forehead.
“Your temperature has gone down,” Pontos says, approving. “It’s past dinner time. You should try eating something.”
Sylvester’s stomach isn’t too enthusiastic about food, but he gamely agrees.
A tray table appears in Pontos’ hands, a light meal laid out on top.
The savory scent of soup and fresh baked bread has Sylvester’s appetite perking with interest. It’s a light seafood soup with clear broth, mild flavors and small pieces of white fish and shrimp floating amidst the vegetables.
Pontos watches him eat. The emotion there is subtle, Sylvester glimpsing it from the corner of his vision, but he thinks it’s nostalgia, the lines of age carved more deeply into his face.
Did you take care of Jago and Leisha like this when they were sick? Sylvester wonders, but doesn’t ask, not feeling up to having that old argument.
When he is finished with his meal, the tray disappears as mysteriously as it came. Feeling drowsy again Sylvester tugs Pontos to lie down with him. “I can’t sleep with you looming over me,” he says.
“If you wanted me under the sheets with you, you only had to ask,” Pontos teases, chuckling when Sylvester grumbles at him.
Once Pontos has settled, Sylvester hesitantly rests his head on Pontos’ chest. An arm slips around his waist, pulling him in close. The chest under Sylvester’s cheek rises and falls like a gentle tide, the sound of the ocean instead of a heartbeat beneath Sylvester’s ear.
“Do you ever regret it?” Sylvester asks quietly. “Not letting them go.”
He doesn’t say who. He doesn’t need to.
Pontos looks at him, the light from the far lamp casting his expression into shadow. Bending down, he presses a kiss to Sylvester’s forehead, lingering and soft.
He doesn’t answer.