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“I hate my life“, Marc groans as his forehead hits the table. He closes his eyes to enjoy the coldness of the surface cooling his overheating skin. Everything is feeling too warm today. His bed, his clothes, his room. Even the air outside, when he had opened the window, had been hot. Marc had gone to bed with an itch in his throat, hoping for it to just be a result of dehydration or dry air, and had woken up to his clothes drenched in sweat.
“I hate my life”, he whines again.
Dovi chuckles behind him and runs his hand into Marc’s curls. “It’s going to be alright. You have survived worse things than this.” His nails rhythmically scratch along his scalp, periodically stopping, when his fingertips press into the Spaniards skin instead. The moan Marc lets out sounds downright dirty.
The man must be a godsent, turning up at Marc’s door after somebody, probably Alex (the traitor, who is currently on some marketing trip), must have informed him, that Marc was sick. Dovi should count himself lucky, that he had been awake enough to drag himself to the door, when he had heard the doorbell ringing.
For a few seconds, he had thought the other man was a fever-induced hallucination, that would turn into a postman in the blink of an eye. But no. Dovi had stayed on his doorstep, with a grin on his face, a concerned look in his eyes and shopping bags in his hands.
They didn’t do this. Sure, they are friends, were friends even before they started fucking and before they started fucking again. But not like this.
Dovi should have maybe sent him a text, something like Get well soon! and a smiley face made of brackets, because he was nice like that, good like that. Because he was Dovi. And Marc could have obsessed over it and could have pretended not to feel something in his stomach after reading. But that should have been it.
Instead, here they are, with a goddamn homemade chicken soup on the stove, a cup of tea in front of his face and Andrea’s hand in his hair.
This feels like too much, like something too fragile, like something Marc could ruin. Like the seed of a tree slowly weaving it’s way through the earth, towards the sun in his garden, instead of a bunch of roses in a vase on his windowsill. Beautiful, but destined to wilt and die when their designated time is over.
“You didn’t have to come here”, he says.
And Dovi needs to understand this, right? Dovi always understands him. He needs to see, that they can’t continue, while Dovi acts like this. That Marc can’t pretend that it’s only sex, when he is here. That there will come a day, when he will wake up the morning after and won’t be able to get up and sneak out the front door.
(It’s not like that would happen either way. The other man has somehow managed to figure out Marc’s sleep rhythm and now every time, without fail, he wakes up to the smell of pancakes and coffee in the air.)
(Marc has stubbornly managed to ignore that)
Dovi chuckles again. “Of course I didn’t have to come. But I wanted to. Somebody needs to make sure you don’t drag yourself onto the bike like this.”
He rolls his eyes, even though the older man can’t see his face. “Thank you, daddy.”
It’s nice being cared for this way, even if Marc would probably rather sit his ass on a KTM for the rest of the season, than admit it. He doesn’t like being vulnerable, doesn’t like others knowing that he is hurt. But when they do know, sue him for it, he likes to be babied.
A pair of fingers snap him back into reality. “Come on, be a good boy and drink up.” His gaze moves towards the cup in front of him. Ginger tea. The real stuff, not just a teabag. Marc despises the sharpness in the taste, but Dovi had just mixed in a teaspoon of honey and had looked at him expectantly with his freakishly brown eyes.
There probably is also some type of medication mixed inside. Marc had denied the pills the other man had brought him after he first entered the living room and had spent an hour trying to convince him that he “is fine” and just “hasn’t slept well”, until giving up and starting to cough violently. Suspiciously, the Italian hadn’t tried with the medicine again.
Ergo, the tea.
Marc nods slowly and wraps his hands around the black mug. He can’t argue with Dovi. The tea actually tastes alright now, the honey probably doing most of the heavy lifting, and he can feel his throat calming, as swallowing seems to become less painful with every sip.
“I’m proud of you”, the Italian accent mumbling in his ears makes him shiver. “Come on, let’s get you to bed now. You need to rest.”
He wants to get up and follow Dovi, he swears he does. But suddenly there is a wave of tiredness engulfing him and standing up and getting to his room just seems so exhausting and unnecessary. He could just nap at the table. Marc has done it often enough to know that the neck pain will ease after a few hours.
A sign sounds behind him, carrying a known feeling of exasperation and fondness. Only a moment later, there are two muscular arms wrapping around him and steadily lifting him up from his chair. If he wasn’t so tired, Marc would have made a comment on Dovi’s biceps. Instead, he just lets himself lean into the familiar safety, trusting to reach his destination unharmed.
Dovi shuffles a bit with the pillows, before laying him down softly in his bed. Marc almost forgets himself for a second and wants to keep his grip on the other man’s shoulder to pull him down next to him. He remembers himself in the last moment. The Italian has already done too much. If Marc now starts tearing down his walls, it would be over.
“Thank you”, he breathes into the air of his bedroom, because he knows the older man will leave now. Because his mission was accomplished, because Marc was safe, and drank enough, and had his meds and would spend the next ten hours sleeping and Alex would be back home, when he woke up.
A thumb gently massages his temple and he groans for the second time this hour. Some blanket is used to cover him. Everything seems to be turning into cotton now, his skin is tingling pleasantly and his brain is clouding quickly, too quickly almost. Whatever had been mixed into the tea must have included a sleeping pill.
I love you, he thinks, loudly enough that Dovi maybe has felt it, because he laughs again and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.
The door starts closing quietly and Marc must have fallen asleep already, because in his dreams he can hear somebody whisper:
“I love you too, but let’s talk about that when you’re feeling better, hmmm?”
When he wakes up the next morning, he can smell pancakes and coffee.