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Coughing. Endless coughing. Hassel turned over on the couch, the ache in his back flaring with the effort. Another night of coughing. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, listening for the tell-tale gasp, listening for a sudden fit of wheezing. But Brassius just kept coughing. Did Hassel have any right to feel sorry for himself? He had chosen this. Inflicted himself on Brassius every step of the way, from cold to pneumonia to bronchitis.
The coughing came and went in fits, just as Hassel's sleep had these past few weeks. But tonight, even that small luxury was beyond him. His back hurt. The silence weighed on him, more ominous than the coughing. What if Brassius couldn't breathe again? What if he needed help, and Hassel never even noticed, was too busy lying here trying to sleep?
He couldn't abandon Brassius. Not now. Not when Brassius had already abandoned himself.
But the night had a monstrous way of magnifying things. Paralyzed by half-sleep, Hassel could only lie there as the parade of his anxieties told him stories, made suggestions. Brassius dying in the hospital. Brassius killing himself. Brassius needing him and finding no one.
When the morning came, Hassel cried. He sat himself up on the couch and folded over, his back aching all the while, helpless tears staining his clothes. What had he taken on? How could he be any help to Brassius like this? He was buckling under the weight of a burden that should have been no burden at all. It was love! That should have meant something.
"H-Hassel?" Brassius' whispy voice sounded from the bedroom.
Hassel shot up, wiping his eyes, taking deep breaths. Weeks of this, and Brassius had never once called for him. He weaved into the bedroom and knelt by the bedside. "Yes, Brassie?"
Somehow it hurt worse to see Brassius sitting up like this, a spark of inquiry in his eyes. To know that he was about to ask for something, which should have been a triumph, and to fear it because Hassel was growing too weak to bear the burden.
Brassius grew more animated at the sight of him, and sat up straighter, and frowned, leaning in. "Hass. What's the matter?"
"N-noth—" was all Hassel could manage before bursting into tears. Ruined! He was ruining everything! What use was all this progress? Brassius had been about to ask for help, and Hassel had ruined it.
"Hassel, Hassel!" Brassius sat up properly, abandoning the support of the pillows, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Hassel, what is it?"
"I— I—" Hassel's breaths came in great, sobs, all his words fractured and thin. "I'm sorry!"
Brassius adjusted further so he could press Hassel's head to his chest, his hand making light strokes across Hassel's arm. "What do you have to be sorry for, my dear Hass? Whatever it is, I can assure you, I've forgiven you already."
"No..." Tears burned Hassel's eyes, and smeared where his cheek touched Brassius' shirt. "I'm not— I'm not good enough— I'm not enough—"
"Never mind, Hass." Brassius kept stroking him, kept holding him. "Breathe. Just breathe, and then we can talk. I won't say anything."
Hassel calmed slowly. At one point, Brassius coughed, and that set him off again. Stuck in a panicking body and a breaking mind, a new cage of self-loathing.
At last, his breathing evened out, and he slumped forward into Brassius' lap, sighing.
Brassius stroked his temple. "What's bothering you, my dear Hass?"
"I'm tired." Hassel pushed his nose into the blankets for just a moment, chasing the darkness. Pain pinched at his temples. "I'm sorry, Brassie. I wanted— I tried— I want to be here; I want—" He took a deep breath. "I want to look after you."
"You have been, my dear. You've been the most faithful of companions. Even when I have not been the sweetest of company in return."
"And now I..." Hassel's breath hitched. "I need to... I don't want to leave you, Brassie. I would stay forever if I could, but I don't think I can." Here it was. The hideous, damning truth of the matter. "I'm too tired."
Petty. Small. Selfish.
Brassius took up a lock of Hassel's hair and turned it idly between his fingers. "How long have I been ill, Hass?"
"What?"
"Over a month now, yes? Counting the cold."
"I... suppose..." Hassel opened his eyes, frowning at the blurry expanse of the bedding. Yes, over a month since he'd caught that cold, which he'd subsequently ignored until it turned into pneumonia.
"And we agree that it was my own fault that I ended up in the hospital?"
"Well—"
"That my own actions, and not the actions of any other, resulted in my worsening condition?"
Hassel sighed. Brassius' self-flagellation had certainly improved, but these fits had not yet entirely vanished. "Brassie."
"Yes or no, Hass."
"Yes."
"And you agree," Brassius continued, his hands warm and gentle on Hassel's temples, "that you looked after me anyway."
"Of course I did!" Hassel said. At least, he'd tried to.
"That you have kept up a ceaseless campaign of selflessness," Brassius continued, "from the moment I fell ill to the moment I called you this morning."
Hassel squirmed. "I wouldn't put it like that—"
"And now you're ashamed to be tired," Brassius said with finality. "After all the kindness you have shown to me. After all you've given me." He paused, shifting a little. "May I be perfectly honest, Hass?"
This drew a laugh out of Hassel. Oh, his darling Brassie. "Haven't you been?"
"I have been letting you baby me because I thought perhaps you needed it," Brassius said, with his freight-train candor.
Hassel sighed, long and slow. "I wanted to show you, that's all. All the things it's hard to say."
"You have." Brassius shifted and bent to kiss Hassel's head. "Now please, go home and rest."
"I could stay here," Hassel murmured, though his knees were already starting to ache from their prolonged contact with the floor, and the angle of his neck promised more pain later.
"Sleep in your bed. Have someone else cook for you. No more work for a while, my dear."
"But Brassie—"
"Come back to me when you're ready."
"But—" Hassel sat back, studying Brassius. What was to prevent all the things that had happened before, all the self-neglect and punishment? "Who's going to look after you?"
"I will," Brassius declared gravely, his silver eyes gleaming. "I daresay you've shown me how."
Hassel nodded and got to his feet, his whole body aching. "I'll come back."
"When you feel better."
"I'll come back when I feel better." Hassel bent and kissed Brassius on the forehead, where the old fever liked to rage.
"Good." Brassius sat back and smiled, shooing him gently. "Go on, Hassel. We shall both face tomorrow in better health."
Hassel stole another kiss and went out.