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You were naïve. Oh so woefully naïve. Yes, surely my bit of nausea and headache on the flight here was just because of the turbulence — nevermind that it had probably been the smoothest flight of your life, thanks to a certain-someone’s private plane. You were trying not to be so bitter about Sylus right now, but you were just — you didn’t feel well. And it was making you miserable and upset and frankly a bit mean because of how unhappy you were about everything. Overwhelmed by the pain in your skull and the heaviness of your body.
You let a little whimper fall from your lips and turn onto your stomach, hiding under the hotel duvet. The bedding was one of the softest things you’d ever felt, maybe second only to that in Sylus’s own bed — a pinnacle of luxury and a sign of how expensive you were certain this hotel was. Sylus was out, you didn’t know where. You weren’t sure you cared. Or, well, you cared, but frankly you were certain your brain was going to crack out of your skull, so you were trying admirably not to think too hard. It wasn’t really working, though. The longer you lay hidden under the soft bedding, the more your thoughts run wild, even though your head screams in protest.
You had been looking forward to this trip for months. This was, partially, a work trip for Sylus: he had business here, on this beautiful little tropical island in the middle of paradise. But his work would only occupy him for a few hours on the first day — probably where he was now, while you were resting — and the rest of the two weeks you were here was reserved wholly for the two of you. You pictured long days at the beach, swimming or simply laying in the sun side by side, your hair gone curly from salt water. Lunches at cute little beachside restaurants overlooking the waves. Dinners at fancy restaurants, excuses to wear all those beautiful dresses Sylus had gifted you that you never had the occasions for. A picture-perfect, romantic beachside vacation, something out of a romance novel.
Now, all of those quiet little fantasies and the months of longing daydreams were quickly dissolving. You were fairly sure you weren’t going to be able to make it out of this bed any time soon.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, you curse yourself, tears welling in your eyes. This is what you deserve, you suppose. This was your punishment for hoping. For longing. For wanting anything at all. You are never allowed to want anything, much less allowed to actually have it. So often, things played out as they are now: the object of your desires so close you can feel it, but you know you won’t have it. You don’t deserve two weeks of a dreamy, beach vacation with the man you love. You don’t deserve salt-curled hair, or the way your freckles pop when you get sun, or the feeling of an expensive dress on your sun-kissed skin. You don’t deserve to stand at Sylus’s side in such a beautiful setting. And that’s proven by him not being here, isn’t it? You’re alone in this elegant hotel room. The curtains are closed, but if you opened them, you would see the sea. Maybe that’s why you closed them as soon as you came in; you couldn’t bear the reminder of what you couldn’t have.
You didn’t tell Sylus how you were feeling. Obviously you didn’t. You were supposed to be okay. Always, always, always supposed to be okay. And besides, you really did think it was nothing. You were always a little queasy after planerides, especially longer ones, so you chalked up all your symptoms to that. Blamed it on non-existent turbulence and told Sylus in a confident tone that you just needed to nap for a few hours, sleep off the jetlag while he worked. And then you settled into the hotel room, collapsed on the luxurious bedding, and felt everything you had been fighting creep in. The migraine hit first, bringing with it nausea so terrible you could hardly bear to open your eyes. Then, the chills, sending you shivering under the thick blankets.
Then, your heart.
Consequences of your protocore syndrome, that damned Aether Core that lived in your chest and made your life hell. Whatever tiny little illnesses you may catch were guaranteed to be worsened by your weak, pathetic heart. Fevered blood pumped unsteadily through your body, your chest hammering, your eyes wide and pained. It hurt more than anything. Even more than the pain in your skull and behind your eyes, your heart thudding against your ribcage like it wanted out. Unsteady, worsened by the fear starting to infect you. You hated this. It was too quiet, in this stupid, perfect hotel room built for two. A suite, really. Your mind tells you honeymoon suite and you don’t even have the energy to scoff; instead the thought brings with it a sense of terrible dread, an expectation that pushes you further to tears. An ugly, pained sob slips from you, and you curl into a tighter shape.
Sylus deserved more than this, you think. He deserves more than the sickly, weak form that trembles in what was meant to be a shared bed. He deserves more than your panting breaths and unsteady heart and the sweat that sticks to your skin. He brought you to this place — for what, you wonder. Companionship? Someone to fend away boredom on an otherwise mundane work trip for him? He goes to places like this all the time. He doesn’t need you here. So often he has gone without you. He deserves better than this. And more than that, you don’t deserve him: you know this. You’ve always known this. Another terrible instance of your longing rearing its head, begging for things it cannot have. Sylus is beautiful. Powerful. Perfect. Everything you are not. And he brings you along to show you into his beautiful, perfect world, and you respond with a fever and a migraine and a heart about to burst. Stupid.
Your body aches. You try and force a deep breath into your pained lungs, but the feeling of air in your throat almost triggers your gag reflex. Tears are streaming down your cheeks now, soaking the soft pillowcase under your head. There’s a ringing in your ears — or, no, your phone is ringing. In your bag on the table across the hotel room, it may as well be a world away. You make no move to get up, and instead you tremble, drawing the blankets tighter around yourself. You wonder when Sylus will get back, and then you scold yourself for thinking this. But… You want him back.
You are not allowed to want, your mind seethes. And you know it to be true. But you let yourself selfishly want anyway; you imagine the door opening, and Sylus noticing you sick in bed. He would sit next to your bedside, and he would pet your hair. And he would tell you, It’s alright, my love. Everything can wait. You can hear his voice so clearly; it’s something he’s said to you before, and often. Assuring you that he would wait for you, no matter what. Insisting that he would take care of you. That you were his, and he was yours. Always. In every lifetime. And perhaps you are not allowed to want, but you’re allowed to believe him, aren’t you? Can you? You always struggle with this. Believing him. It comes as easy as anything some days, and then there are others — like now — where your mind insists you aren’t allowed such a luxury as Sylus’s care. A man like him could never want someone like you, no matter what he says otherwise. (But has he ever lied to you? Really? Truly? Would he ever lie to you?)
You don’t know, but the daydream calms you, at least a little. Enough that your body becomes something beyond your awareness, a strange haze settling over you. The fever, you imagine, though the thought is as distant as your body. You imagine him at your side, and you let yourself dream. Even if it’s not quite the daydream you wanted before.
You must fall asleep — you’re not sure. You fall into that strange, uncomfortable state between dreams and awake, where you can never fully tell what’s real and what isn’t. Your dreams are filled with Sylus. Carrying you to the beach, or sitting at your bedside and holding your hand, or stroking your hair. Other times, you are alone, feverish and aching in a bed too luxurious for you to exist in alone. And, at last, you think you hear the hotel door opening. A sigh, shoes being kicked off, a coat being hung up.
You’re buried in blankets, so you don’t see the way Sylus’s gaze sweeps across the hotel room, taking note of your unopened luggage and settling on you: a trembling mass of blankets. He hesitates by the door for a long moment. Then, he clicks the lock, and he steps towards the bed. Taking a cautious seat at the edge, near you, he murmurs, “Are you awake, sweetie?”
You’re not sure. But his voice sounds clearer than it had before, and your body hurts so terribly, you think you might be. You respond in a groan and roll over to face him — still buried completely in the bedding.
He takes this as an opportunity to gently lay his hand over your shoulder, though the duvet lies between his skin and yours. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice low. You have to be alright. You always have to be alright. You think of the beach, and the pretty dresses, and you whimper. You squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to keep your tears in, but it doesn’t matter. Your face and the pillowcase are already soaked — you had been weeping, even in your sleep.
“Let me see you, love,” Sylus urges, and you don’t protest. You let him pull the blankets down and expose your face to him. He sees you: flushed and feverish, hair sticking to your forehead, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks damp. He frowns and reaches for you, his hand gentle when it brushes your hair off of your face, then pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.
You whimper, leaning into his touch as well as you can. Finally you open your eyes, gazing at him blearily through your tears. “Sylus,” you murmur, your voice weak in a way that makes it sound like it isn’t yours. It can’t be yours. You could never be so pathetic as to sound like that, all raspy and high-pitched.
“You’re burning up,” he observes, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “How long?”
“The — the fever is…” You trail off, uncertain. You whine and turn your body until you’re face down in the pillow, unwilling to look at him anymore. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmur. “I — I’ll… You can just — you can leave me here. You don’t need me.”
“Of course I need you,” he dismisses, with such speed and certainty it catches you off guard. “I always need you. Look at me?” You don’t: you keep your face stubbornly pressed into your pillow. “I’m not leaving. Even if you hide from me.”
“I’ll be alright,” you croak. You’re always alright, aren’t you? This will pass. It has to.
Except… Except Sylus doesn’t accept your words. Instead he sighs, and you feel his hand settle on the back of your head, threading through your tangled hair. “You will,” he agrees. “I know you will. But you don’t have to be alone until then.”
You stiffen. But, “You — your plans, I…”
“Nothing I have planned matters more to me than you,” Sylus soothes. His hand smoothes down your head and upper back tenderly. “I want to help you. Will you let me?”
You… You want him to. To help you. You want to want. You long to be selfish, and you know it’s terrible, you know it’s not how you are meant to behave. But you’ve never been very good at behaving as you were meant to, were you? You’ve been selfish since you were created, since long before that. You have an Aether Core in your heart to prove it. You take a stuttering breath, your chest hammering against your insides. “It hurts,” you finally admit, gasping more than you speak. “It hurts so much, I — I…”
“Come here,” Sylus murmurs, and you don’t think twice. You force your weak body up until Sylus’s arms wrap around you and pull you into his chest, and you weep against him, too tired and too painful for anything more than that. He shifts the both of you until he’s sitting by the headboard, with you draped sideways in his lap, but you’re hardly aware of the movement. It doesn’t matter to you. All that matters to you is his arms around you, one around your back and the other stroking your hair when you cry against his body. You can hear his heartbeat. Slow, steady, calming. Nothing like your own. Your chest hurts.
Your weeping morphs into proper sobs the longer you’re held and the longer you come into awareness of your own body, choking with them. “I’m so sorry,” you wheeze, clutching Sylus’s shirt in trembling hands. “I’m — I wanted — I…”
“I know,” he murmurs. He nuzzles into your hair, and he whispers just like you had fantasized, “It’s alright, my love. Everything can wait.” Strange, you think. That the version of him that exists in the most selfish corner of your mind syncs up with the version of him holding you now. You must be dreaming after all, you decide. You don’t think you mind. This is a nice dream. Not as nice as the beach, but at least you feel safe, and at least Sylus is here. You just wish you didn’t hurt in your dreams, too.
You pant for breath, chest heaving with the effort of breathing. Air feels thick in your mouth, in your throat. Your nausea settles back in, somewhere behind your pain, buzzing beneath your tongue like a threat. You swallow, whimper, “Sylus —”
Already he’s moving, pulling you until he’s holding you bridal-style when he stands from the bed. You pull in a terrible breath and keep it in, forcing yourself to hold your breath while the world spins around you. He carries you to the bathroom, where he sets you down in front of the toilet. Carefully, like you’re something precious. You sob until the air in your throat becomes too much to bear and you’re throwing up, heaving, shaking through it all. Sylus sits at your side, gathering your hair into a loose ponytail with his hand, his other gently rubbing your back.
You heave until you’re empty. It doesn’t take long: you haven’t eaten in a while. Even after, you keep on heaving, struggling to breathe in between, gagging each time the air enters your mouth. You wonder if your heart is going to work its way up your throat and join the contents of your stomach. Deliriously, you think you’d be happy if it did. One less burden, to live without your heart. It’s never been good to you.
“Breathe,” Sylus tells you, as though it should be easy. You find that it is: only because he tells you to. You force a deep breath into your lungs, and it doesn’t make you gag this time. It leaves you shakily. “I’ll get you some medicine,” he tells you softly, releasing your hair and standing up.
You hardly process him leaving, only that he’s gone. A heavy sigh leaves you and you shuffle backwards until you can lean against the wall behind you, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling. You’re shivering again, you notice, clenching your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering. The world has lost some of its haze. Enough to decide you’re awake, kind of. You might be half-awake. Falling into dreams in search of comfort: that must be why Sylus was there. Your mind conjured the image of him to get you to the bathroom before you threw up. That must be —
A shadow passed over you and you turn your head to see Sylus, holding a water bottle and frowning and entirely real. He kneels next to you, gentling cupping your face to turn your head, forcing your eyes onto his. Soft when he asks, “Where are you?”
“Dreaming,” you tell him. “You’re a dream. A nice dream, though.”
His expressions softens the slightest bit. “Is that so?”
“Mhm. I just wish…” You trail off, gaze drifting to your lap.
“... You wish?”
“I shouldn’t be sick like this,” you murmur. “I — I wanted… This isn’t what I wanted.”
“I know, sweetie.” He strokes your cheek before pulling away, and you glance at him, confused by the lack of contact. He holds the water bottle for you, and you take it, wary. Then he takes your free hand and unfurls it to deposit two little capsules of medication in your palm. “Take those. Maybe we’ll be able to do what you want when you recover.”
You stare down at the pills. Your head is spinning so much you can barely see them in your palm, but you pop them into your mouth anyway, washing them down with the water. You end up drinking most the bottle, the cold water soothing your burned throat and helping you feel the slightest bit better. You swallow it down with a sigh, settling the bottle in your lap. “I’m sorry,” you murmur again. “I shouldn’t be like this. I — wanted…”
“It’s alright,” he soothes. He takes the bottle from you and screws the cap closed, then moves to pull you back into his arms. You go easily. Head on his shoulder this time, he carries you with one arm, bearing your weight like it's nothing. “I don’t mind. I’ve never minded. I’m only on this trip to spend time with you,” he tells you. “Nothing else matters to me.”
“But I…”
“Shh, none of that.” He sets you down in bed, and before you can protest the lack of his arms around you, he’s crawling in next to you. He pulls you into his embrace, your head on his chest, curled so contently in the length of his side. “Why don’t you tell me what you were wanting, hm?”
… If this is a dream, you guess you don’t see the harm in telling Sylus of your desires. The version of him in your dreams is the version conjured by your selfish mind anyway. He can know how much you long, even when you shouldn’t. So, you tell him everything you had planned: you tell him of the beach. Of swimming in salty waters and laying in the sun until your hair went curly and your freckles went dark. You tell him about all the little restaurants along the beach you had researched; fresh seafood specials, local bands, casual atmosphere. You would be wearing a cute sundress and sandals, and he would be wearing one of his pretty shirts with the top buttons undone, and everyone would look at you like you were perfect (and oh how you wished you were as perfect as he was). You tell him of how you imagined your dinner reservations, the gorgeous evening wear tucked in your suitcase that you could never find the occasion to wear, how all you wanted was to look as beautiful as Sylus wanted you to. You pictured your arms linked, him pulling out a chair at the table for you, candlelit dinner and red wine.
He listens through your feverish ramblings, even when you lose your words and stop making sense. And when that happens, he urges you gently back on course. When you’ve finished baring your ugly, selfish desires, he’s quiet for a time. Thoughtful. Then, he tells you, “There will always be time for that, sweetheart. I’ll make certain of it.”
“But I’m sick,” you whine. Tearing up when you admit, “What if I’m sick for the whole trip? I — I don’t… I don’t want to waste your time…”
“You won’t waste my time.” He rolls onto his side, pulling you snug to his chest in the same movement, arms wrapped protectively around you. “Even if you’re sick this whole trip, I would still get to spend two whole weeks with you, side by side. That’s all I want.”
“B — But —”
“And as for your desires,” he interrupts, “there will always be another chance. We have time. We can schedule another vacation. Or, even if we don’t, we can make a daytrip to Whitesand Bay, and you can wear your sundress. And I can make reservations somewhere nice in Linkon and give you your occasion to dress up. Whatever you want.”
Your protests die on your tongue. He sounds too certain for you to dismiss. Petting you while he speaks, fingers threading through your hair. There’s nothing for you to counter. Instead you simply whimper, pouting, “But I wanted this trip to be special…”
“We’ll make it special when you’re better,” he tells you. He presses a kiss to your crown, and your heart swells with the affection. “Tell me when you’re not feeling well next time. I don’t like that you were here alone.”
“... Thought it was nothing,” you mumbled.
“But you knew it wasn’t.” He knows you too well. You say nothing. “Tell me even when you think it’s nothing. I would still want to know.”
“... Okay,” you murmur, too dazed to protest like you normally might. Your eyes fall shut with a sigh, and you let yourself relax. Your heart isn’t hammering like before: instead, it seems to seek Sylus’s pace, slowing to match his own heart rate. Quiet and cautious, you ask, “Are you really a dream?”
He chuckles. The sound is low and rich in a way that flusters you, blushing under your fever. “No, I’m not a dream. I’m very real, kitten.”
“... You were a dream earlier,” you protest. “That’s — that’s why you took care of me, ‘cus… ‘Cus dream Sylus is from selfish me…”
“Well, maybe the real Sylus cares just as much.”
You try to fathom that. You’re too tired, now, for your doubt. The voice in your mind that tells you never to want is quiet. Perhaps, then, you are allowed to believe him. Still, you ask, “Do you mean that?”
And you know the answer to that question. He tells you anyway, “I always do, love. You know that.”
You do. Sylus would never lie to you. He never has, really. You have no reason to doubt him. You’re allowed to believe him: this time, yes, and every time in the future. “Okay,” you murmur. You nuzzle him, pressing your burning forehead to his chest. Somehow, he doesn’t mind. “I’m sorry…”
“No more apologizing, sweetheart,” he dismisses. “You have no reason to be sorry. Just rest. Everything else can come later. We have time.”
We have time. Maybe that's the hardest thing for you to believe. You've spent your entire life rushing, convinced that wasting time was the greatest sin you could commit. But Sylus never rushes. He moves throughout the world with a leisurely pace, as though expecting time to bend to him. And, more often than not, it does. He makes sure that there is enough time for you. Always. There will always be time.
You're not sure if it's the medicine or simply the fact that you feel better around Sylus, but your headache begins to ease. When the pain ebbs away, drowsiness settles heavily over your body. You nuzzle him once more before you fall still, fatigue weighing you down. “I love you,” you murmur, your voice faded and tired.
Sylus hums. His arms wrapped around you, you feel perfectly secure. “I love you, too,” he whispers into your hair. “Now sleep. I've got you.” And you've always found it very easy to listen to Sylus, so you do. Within moments, your consciousness slips away from you, and you fall into a hazy world of feverish dreams.
You spend the next two days or so in bed, only getting up to eat or to let Sylus carry you to and from the bathroom. When you ask, he bathes with you. Stands behind you while you sit in the massive shower and carefully washes your hair, tender in a way that makes your chest ache. You're… You're used to being sick. But you're used to being alone when you are: that someone is here, readily taking care of you, eager to help in any way you'll allow, it's… It's foreign, to you. But it's not unwelcome — far from. You want so desperately to be cared for. The selfish part of you claws out of your heart and begs for affection, and Sylus responds with soft kisses to your damp skin when he dries you off. He feeds you by hand, even when you insist you can do it yourself. It's as though he enjoys this: the caring for you, the doting, the spoiling. More than once, you wake up on his chest while he's reading, and he reads aloud to you when he asks.
On the third day of what was meant to be your dream vacation, you beg to go to the beach, even though your fever still lingers and your legs haven't regained enough strength to walk that far. But Sylus doesn't point out either of those things. Instead he smiles, and he gets dressed, and he doesn't let you do the same. He simply scoops you out of bed and carries you out of the hotel room to the elevator. Then, out of the building entirely and down to the beach. He only sets you down when you're at the shore, close enough to the water that particularly tall waves lap at your bare feet. You stand side by side and look out over the glittering, vast sea, and you feel completely at ease.
And maybe this wasn't what you wanted from your vacation, really. You're not wearing one of your nice swimsuits, or a cute sundress paired with strappy sandals. You're dressed in one of Sylus’s shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, no shoes at all. And you can't really walk with Sylus hand-in-hand down the shore like you fantasized, turning heads on the way to lunch. But you don't think you mind. This is nice, too. Simply standing at the edge of the sea, your toes damp with salty water, Sylus right there next to you.
You let out a soft, content sigh and lean into his side. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you snug against him, and you fit there perfectly, small and content next to him. “Sylus?” you start. When he hums in acknowledgement, you continue, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this,” you say. You gesture vaguely at the ocean, then snuggle into his side. “It's nice. Thank you.”
He chuckles. Then he dips his head to kiss your temple, “Of course, my love. Whatever you want.”
And you know he means that. Sylus will always indulge you, even like this. Even at your weakest, he will carry you to the beach, just so you can come a little closer to the scenarios you had daydreamed. His arm around you, the two of you simply enjoy the ocean together. When you're better, you decide, you'll ask if you can go swimming. There will be time for that. Maybe you'll get your curly hair after all. But for now, this is all you want. The selfish part of you is quiet and content, and you begin to realise that it isn't that selfish at all, really. Not when Sylus seems to want the same things you do. The version of Sylus conjured by your longing is the same as the real Sylus who carries you to the water when you ask. The same Sylus who holds you, who washes your hair, who feeds you by hand when yours are shaking too terribly.
“I love you,” you tell him, soft, almost drowned out by the sound of the waves lapping at your feet.
But he hears it. And you hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I love you, too. Always, sweetheart.”
Always. You are his, and he is yours, and not even a fever will break that. And you believe him. And you allow yourself to want, because you know Sylus wants the same.
Always, always, always.