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Alyosha is stubborn.
He is a hunter after all, and you reckon that is simply their nature. Stubborn, driven things hunters are—venturing through any conditions and weather to earn their prize. Alyosha is hunter first and man second. He is only everything else when he can survive, and he only survives by hunting, even if it wears him down to the bone. Which means, of course, when his nose is a concerning shade of red, and his freckles stand out particularly starkly from the rosiness of his cheeks, he is stubbornly resolute in pretending he is not ill.
You wrestle the blanket higher up his body despite his insistence to get up. “You aren’t leaving in this state in that weather,” you give him a long-suffering sigh, pushing him back against your mattress.
(It’s a small mattress. Meant for one body, really, and not the three that regularly pile on every night. Tugarin likes to think he is above sleeping anywhere other than a proper bed, and…well, you are inclined to agree. But money is tight as it always is, and there are more important things to spend it on than something as luxurious as a new mattress. And besides—what’s so bad about being pressed so close to Alyosha every night? You don’t complain…and neither does he…and a mattress is a mattress, after all. As long as it gets the job done, you’re in no rush to get another one.)
“Well, who will hunt game today if I don’t leave in this state in that weather?” He replies smartly. His voice is hoarse. Raspier and deeper than it normally is, and admittedly, it sounds rather…no—your mind instantly chides you for even thinking like that. The sound of his sick voice is nothing to get excited over—especially not when Alyosha is as sick as you suspect he is. Which is to say, very sick. “We don’t have any meat left, in case you didn’t notice. What are we meant to eat?”
“We do have red beets.” You purse your lips. “I grow them myself! You know, you ought to appreciate the labor it takes to grow those things a decent size in this snow. We can have borscht—soup will be good for you right now, anyway.”
He makes a face at that. Crinkles his nose in a sulky manner that is almost instantly mirrored by Tugarin, who lets out a helpless whine at your words. No meat?—you can practically hear the canine say with that head tilt. It only seems to egg Alyosha on further as he eyes his companion’s disappointment. He turns to you as he says, “You can’t possibly sentence Tugarin to that fate.”
“Lucky for Tugarin, we have just a little bit of sausage left. It’ll do for him.”
He doesn’t like that answer. Alyosha is stubborn—and he is a hunter. If his belly protests for meat, he will stubbornly hunt what he so desires. It is in the nature of a hunter to do so, you suppose. But you are just as stubborn, and it is in your nature to stop him from leaving the bed when he is sick and feverish during Snezhnaya’s bitter everwinter.
“I’ll never get any better with no protein,” he argues. You raise a brow. “I’ll be fine. You’re underestimating the resilience of a hunter—”
“I’m not underestimating anything.” His expression pinches. You point at his flushed face. “You have a fever.”
“It’s barely a fever.”
You raise a brow, unconvinced. “You’re shivering, you’ve been coughing all morning, and your nose is ridiculously red. I’ve never seen such awful bags under your eyes before, either.”
He looks almost offended as he says, “You don’t have to go after my looks so fiercely, you know. And besides, I’m perfectly capable of judging whether or not I’m well enough to hunt.”
“The only thing you’re capable of being this morning is foolish,” you hiss. “If you worsen this cold, you’ll likely need medicine that we’ll have to sell limbs to pay for. Just sit inside and eat your beet soup, and you can have meat soon enough.”
Alyosha gives you a rather grumpy look. You return it instantly. Tugarin, who has decided that this argument has gone on long enough and robbed him of his usual attention, drops his head onto Alyosha’s lap with a heavy sigh.
You gesture toward him. “Look. Even Tugarin agrees with me. He’s telling you to stay in bed.”
Alyosha looks down at his companion. “Tugarin agrees with whoever feeds him. As soon as the sausage is gone, he’ll urge me out the door. I need to hunt.”
“No.” You pinch your nose. “You need to rest.”
“If I don’t hunt, we’ll have nothing to eat.”
“We have food.” His mouth opens to retort, but you lift a finger and speak before he can. “No. I know what you’re going to say—you’re going to tell me that you’ve hunted in worse conditions—”
“Well, I have—”
“And that you’ve gone out with worse injuries—”
“I’ve done that too—”
“And that you know your own limits—”
“Yes, I do—”
“And that I’m being overly cautious—”
“Well, you are—”
You stare him in the eye as you say, “And I’m going to tell you that I don’t care. You’re feverish, and it’s snowing terribly outside, and you’re not leaving that bed.”
There’s a sense of finality in your tone that he seems to know he doesn’t have a chance of arguing with. Or maybe, he simply doesn’t have the energy. You don’t quite know, but you do know that you seem to have won this argument when he sighs and slumps back against the mattress.
Getting sick in Snezhnaya is a common thing. Sometimes, a cough is easier to catch than it is to breathe in a year-round winter. Most people have learned how to work around a common cold. They have to. Food on the table and a few spare mora to slip into pouches is not easy to come by, and certainly not at all if they are bedridden.
Some part of you knows that Alyosha’s stubbornness is a byproduct of the only life he knows. But the other, larger part of you cannot reconcile the image of his sickly face shrugging his hood on and carrying his rifle with those weak hands.
You love him too much to watch him walk out that door. You love him too much to not soldier through a few days of no meat and less filling meals if it means he is warm and here. That is how things go in the nation of love, you like to think—you cannot always make life easier, but you can certainly struggle together.
“I suppose I’ll just be hostage in my own home for the next few days,” he mumbles.
You roll your eyes as he settles. And, despite his earlier persistence, he sleeps through the whole day, waking only to eat the soup you’ve made and drink the warm tea you brew him.
— — — — — — — — — —
It’s midnight when Alyosha shivers—you and Tugarin have joined him in your usual pile of limbs huddled on the bed. He hugs Tugarin closer in an attempt to warm himself with the heat radiating from the canine’s body and thick fur. You are mildly offended that he chooses his dog over you as his choice of body heat to share, so you decide to let him know that.
“If you’re cold and need to cuddle, you can just say that,” you huff, “surely being close to your partner isn’t worse than your dog?”
He lets out a quiet, nasally laugh. “I see you aren’t any less quick to sulk over trivial things when I’m under the weather. Good. I expect nothing less from you.”
“I’m just saying,” you mutter. It does sound a bit too sulky for your liking—it proves his point entirely too easily. You decide to pretend you don’t notice that fact as you add, “I would keep you much warmer, you know.”
“Our mattress leaves practically no room at all for us to have any space. You keep me warm plenty.”
“I could keep you warmer if you cuddled me,” you huff once more.
Finally, he sighs as he says, “You could get sick. Best not to get any closer than you have to.”
You might just laugh at the absurdity of his statement if you weren’t a little bit endeared. Your home is humble enough that your sleeping quarters, kitchen, and lounge area are all considered one room. The only other room you really have is the bathroom. Whatever distance he wishes to keep from you, out of concern for the sake of your wellbeing, is limited to still being within a few feet of each other at best. Unless you fancy sleeping in the bathtub—which you do not. Still, it’s sweet he worries for you. Sometimes, you like being reminded that he cares, even though you know he always does. Sometimes, you enjoy when he says things aloud.
“Alyosha,” you snort, “you can’t be serious. You said it yourself—this mattress of ours hardly allows us any room to have distance. You might as well use that to your advantage.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then two. Then finally, he mumbles, “Well, alright then. Come here.”
You know him well enough to know he intends to reach for you. Instead, you beat him to it.
Before Alyosha can so much as shift beneath the blankets, you turn toward him and gently grab him by the shoulders, tugging him against you. He gives a quiet, surprised grunt as you maneuver him until his head is resting against your chest, one arm instinctively settling around his back to keep him there. Tugarin is half sprawled over him on the other side, and he happily wiggles so that the other half now settles over you, too.
There. Much better.
You settle your cheek against the top of Alyosha’s head, satisfied with your positions, and pull the blankets higher around the both of you.
There’s a pause. Then, muffled against you, comes his voice. “…This is not what I had in mind.”
You smile. “I know.”
“I was under the impression that I was the one inviting you to come here.”
“And?”
“And yet somehow, I’ve ended up here.”
“Is that a bad thing? Don’t tell me you find your own girlfriend awful and distasteful and can’t fathom having contact with her body. Do you hate me secretly? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He lifts his head just enough to give you a tired, thoroughly unimpressed look. Even sick, Alyosha somehow manages to reserve just enough energy to let you know that he does not appreciate your penchant for dramatics.
“You really seem to enjoy putting words in my mouth.”
“You’re sick.” You finally glare. “I swear—I’ve never met someone so stubborn, you know! Always so hellbent on doing things yourself. Being sick is the one time you get taken care of, Alyosha, so I’m taking care of you. End of discussion.”
“I don’t suppose I’m going to have a say in this matter.”
“You’d be correct.”
He exhales through his nose and lets his head fall back against you with all the resignation he can muster. Which really isn’t a lot, in all honesty—he takes the extra care to settle his cheek against your chest where he is most comfortable. And he looks a little too happy doing it. You don’t really believe there was any resignation at all.
“You are remarkably difficult,” he says hoarsely. You make a mental note to brew him more tea in the morning to soothe his throat.
“And you’re remarkably stubborn. Rich coming from you.”
“I guess that explains our chemistry,” he chuckles.
You gently smooth a hand through his hair, fighting the smile tugging at your mouth when he doesn’t actually make any attempt to move away. For all his complaining, he settles more comfortably against you, his weight gradually relaxing as the warmth of your body seeps through the blankets. He shivers a little less, and you find that you like it more than you should when Alyosha is sick. You like being this close.
Of course, Alyosha does not ever deny you proximity when you initiate it. He is surprisingly affectionate when he wants to be—though you quickly realize it’s nothing to be surprised over. You have seen him with Tugarin. You have seen the soft eyes and the gentle pats that he does not give out scarcely. Still, a human companion is much different from a canine one. He is more hesitant to offer you his affection in the form of touch, and you suspect it’s because he has little knowledge of how to touch another person outside of hunting and bloodshed. After all, it’s all he tends to know. And, as much as you tell yourself you don’t need to be, you are still a little shy when it comes to touching him.
You cherish the opportunities as they come. It just so happens that when he is sick, the opportunities are much more bountiful.
“You can complain all you want,” you whisper, closing your eyes. Sleep will take you soon—Alyosha’s unnaturally warm body is lulling you faster than usual. “We’ll be staying like this because I said so.”
“I gathered.”
“And if you get any colder, I’ll pull you even closer. Be prepared”
“That sounds less like a threat and more like a wish, but I’ll still keep that in mind.”
“You can admit you enjoy this too, you know.” You open your eyes just to roll them. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt you melt like this.”
“…Fine,” he mutters after a moment.
You grin. “Fine?”
“I suppose it’s not terrible to be kept warm like this when I don’t feel well.”
“I do love it when you admit I’m right,” you say cheekily.
“You know,” he says, amused, “if in another life you decided to be a bandit, I think you would excel. You’re quite skilled at taking what you want.”
“I don’t take what I want,” you argue, “you just have a habit of letting me get my way.”
“That,” Alyosha says, already sounding half-asleep, “is also true. Maybe when I’m better I’ll try to unlearn some bad habits.”
You laugh quietly, pressing a kiss to his hair. He hums happily at the gesture, yawning as his body slumps into yours further as sleep takes over him. And when you feel him finally relax completely against you, you decide that, for once, you can let him have the last word.
— — — — — — — — — —
It’s morning when your eyes peel open.
Tugarin has woken already, and he has occupied himself with sitting by the window, watching the birds and pressing his nose against the glass with quiet growls when they fly too close to the house. Skilled and intelligent as he is for a hunting partner, Tugarin is still a dog, and he still has habits that remind you of it. That fact endears you at times like this.
Alyosha is still asleep against your chest. You look down to see his lips parted as he rests peacefully—rarely does he ever sleep in this late. It’s rewarding, you think, to watch the sun paint his face and kiss his freckles with its brushstrokes. Your finger traces the little spots on his skin gently, and he instantly shifts before blinking his eyes open.
A hunter’s curse, you suppose—there is little movement that won’t wake them from their featherlight slumbers.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice gravelly.
“Morning,” you smile.
He looks up at you for a moment, like he’s deciding on something. And as if he finds his answer in your gaze, he shuffles closer before digging his face into the crook of your neck, his nose pressing into your skin.
“My head is killing me,” he admits quietly. “Whatever hit me is the worst I’ve been hit in a long time.”
“Well, there’s no need to worry,” you hum, “I’ll nurse you back to health. You’re in good hands.”
He chuckles, melting as your fingers gently press into his scalp in slow circles, soothing the pounding ache seeping into his skull. “Well. Isn’t that a relief?”
“Yes, it is. I’m glad you see your blessings for what they are.”
“You know, the last time I was this sick, I was still pretty young,” he says quietly. “I played it up more than I should have, though—I was trying to escape my father’s math lessons.”
You soften at his words.
It’s rare when Alyosha mentions bits of his childhood. Even rarer when he brings it up all on his own. You’ve pieced together enough to know that life has not been kind to Alyosha. Life is not kind to most Snezhnayans. The nation of love is buried beneath bitter, unforgiving coldness, and any warmth is a labor to uncover for yourself. But Snezhnayans know a thing or two about labor. They know how to work hard and make ends meet despite the harsh weather, and they are people who do not let the snow bury their livelihoods if they can help it. He has made it this far. He is a boy from Snezhnaya, after all—a place where the locals are born with the resilience to survive, and enough love that it melts the ice that tries to make its way into their hearts.
He is yours—your piece of warmth in the blizzard, pressed into your palm and held to your chest. The ice thaws and your heart beats easily. You are reminded that you reside in the nation of love. How lucky you are to be born within the borders of a country that births love warmer than anywhere else, despite such frigid conditions.
“It’s a miracle you’ve earned a living by hunting for this long,” you chuckle, “a hunter who isn’t gifted in math. Isn’t that something?”
“You shouldn’t be cruel to the sick. It’s not a sign of good character.”
“You’re right,” you hum, kissing his forehead before prying away from his body and sitting up. He instantly frowns. “I’ve got to take care of my sick boyfriend if I want to say I have a good character.”
“Where are you going?” he grumbles.
“To run you a bath.” You poke the tip of his red nose. He crinkles it instantly, and you reward him with a soft giggle. “You’ll feel better after one.”
True to your word, you run Alyosha a bath. A rather nice bath—you were once gifted a decently expensive bath set from Fontaine by a traveling merchant some time ago. Something you're sure you could have earned a pretty coin or two on if you’d played your cards right and sold them to the next group of Druzhna soldiers passing through. You’ve learned that the smaller the town the Druzhna members are assigned, the lower their rank tends to be. Luxuries such as these are not as easy for them to come by as you once thought.
But you are only human. Money comes and goes, but there’s never enough in your possession at a time to purchase something like this. You cannot bring yourself to part with it, even if it would bring you a generous sum of mora for a few weeks. So you cherish your little bath salts and oils, and you bring them out only for special occasions. Nice, important days where you like to remember that you, too, are deserving of the finer things in life, if you could only get your hands on them.
Alyosha notices it immediately. He takes one look at the bath water and knows instantly that your precious bath ornaments have been mixed in, and he turns to you, alarmed.
“You shouldn’t have wasted those,” he chides, “who knows when you’ll next get your hands on something so nice?”
“Hm, you’re always so nitpicky about indulging yourself now and then,” you huff, tugging his shirt over his body and chucking it to the floor. He lets you undress him, giving you a frown as you do. “What is the point of having something fancy if you don’t enjoy it exactly when it would be nice to enjoy?”
“I don’t know if a fever is the right time for this,” he argues.
Stubborn. Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn—that is all he is, you think fondly. Too stubborn to allow himself something nicer than what he needs, and too stubborn to accept it from you if it comes at the cost of your own desires. You crouch down to work his pants off, and he turns away from meeting your eyes, the slightest hitch in his breath as he stays frighteningly still.
“A fever is the perfect time for it,” you hum, working the button undone before sliding the fabric down his legs. He steps out of it as it pools by his feet, shivering now that he is fully bare. You rub your palm along his arm, pressing warmth back into his skin as the hairs stand straight from the cool air of your bathroom. “When else would you use something that helps you relax than when you aren’t feeling well?”
“I’m feeling fine enough,” he counters.
Sometimes, you wonder if Alyosha hesitates to allow himself the luxury of companionship. The more intimate kind, that is—the kind that comes with you. It is costly, in the Snezhnayan economy, to lose something precious to you. Something that keeps you surviving the merciless everwinter. Sometimes, you wonder if Alyosha does not allow himself the luxury of being taken care of, the luxury of taking for once, without a fair trade, the luxury of having nothing but himself and still being valuable for it, for fear that it will lose its value someday. That he will be left destitute—more than he already is—if he grows too used to something so priceless, only to be stripped of it. (How will he survive, after all? If he loses his warmth in this cold nation?)
So you cup his cheeks, and against your better judgement, kiss his sickened lips, even if it means you might be signing yourself up for the same fate.
“You argue so much for someone so weak and sickly,” you mumble into his lips. His breathing grows just a touch labored at the feel of you. “I said I would nurse you back to health, didn’t I? Patients shouldn’t argue with their nurses.”
“I’ve never met a nurse so bossy,” he whispers against your lips before kissing you once more. His hands grip your waist, and when he is reminded of the fabric that separates you from his bare skin, he decides he won’t have it. “Well, if you really insist on such a fancy bath, there’s no point in letting it go to waste. We can enjoy it together.”
“Alyosha—”
“I’m weak and sickly,” he grins, using your own words against you. “What happens if I lose consciousness in the water and drown? You’d be a pretty lousy nurse if you lost a patient so carelessly.”
You give him a flat look. He only responds by tugging your own shirt over your arms, undressing you the same way you’d undressed him earlier. And you let him. Because if Alyosha desires something, on the rare occasion that he asks, you are helpless to give in to his whims. How can you not, when he is so frugal with his own luxuries? How can you dream of saying no when he hardly ever allows himself to have what he wants?
“Alright, then.” You give him a prickly glare (which, of course, is hardly a glare of any resolve). “I must say, I never realized you’d be my fussiest patient.”
“Just how many patients do you have?” He stares at you from the corner of his eye.
You giggle, shoving him gently as you say, “You alone keep me way too busy to consider anyone else for now, you stubborn thing.”
He grins, stepping into the water and pulling you in after him, wrapping his arms around you from behind. The water is warm, and you are warmer. Just for now, Snezhnaya, the nation of love, is a little less cold.