Of Carrots and Turnips — Hadrian (Patreon)

Sweat covers your brow in a feverish glow. You're hot, your skin crawls, but as much as you dig your nails in, you can't get deep enough to satisfy the itch. Your limbs are heavy but restless, and you can't think straight, but sleep evades you too. From the depths of your closed eyes, colors twirl against a black that should be soothing.

You can't sleep, and you can't stay still, but you have no strength to leave the bed, so you toss and turn and scratch and moan. You're hot, you're so incredibly hot, and sweat drips down your chin, it coats your back, it slips into your legs. You're hot and feverish, and the mad colors never stop their frenzied dance. If the Church is right and there is a Hell, then you've found it. You have plunged in it, you have-

"Hold still." A voice rises from the midst of your suffering. It's low and spoken quietly, the timber rumbling like an earthquake that doesn't send you stumbling but lifts you up instead. It's welcomed, this voice, but not as welcomed as the sudden coolness that presses onto your forehead. "This should help."

Cold, blessed cold, and wet. Frigid water mingles with your sweat, bathing your heated skin, and coating your cracked lips. You open them, letting out a pained sigh, but there's pleasure in there too. The wet cloth gently dabs at your temples, and then your cheeks, the motions careful and tender. Almost as tender as his voice, rumbling next to your ear. "I know you don't feel like it, but you're better. The worst is done, you just need rest and food, and you'll be better."

You hear the fear Hadrian carries with him too, the concern buried just beneath the surface. And your eyelids feel almost as heavy as your limbs, but you force them open because you want to see him. "Just... rest, alright? And- and everything will be fine. I'm here for you."

The colors stop their mad dancing as you blink, and the world slowly comes into focus. You see the room's ceiling first, plain white, and then you roll your head to the side, cheek pressing onto your damp pillow, to see Hadrian hunched over your bedside. He sits on a small stool with his legs cramped underneath and his shoulders curved so he can bend near you. The cloth dampens the side of your neck now, but he freezes when he sees you awake, eyes wide and deep green on yours.

And wet too. Dampened too. It makes your heart clench, deep in your chest. Makes you force your throat to work because God strike you, you'll reassure him. "Hadrian," you manage to croak out. It's not much, but it's more than you've managed for days. "Hadrian, I'm... I'm fine."

You're not, really. You don't feel even close to fine, but you know you will be. And that's what matters. Hadrian opens his mouth, then closes it. You see his throat working before he nods. "You are," he says, sounding almost in disbelief. "You are. Your fever is down and-"

Hadrian drops the cloth to put his palm over your forehead. You notice then, the deep dark circles under his eyes, the lines of exhaustion around his mouth. "And you're awake. That's- that's a good sign," he says, choking slightly on the words. You hate hearing it, hate seeing him like this. "Lord, that's a good sign."

You try to give him a smile, but you fear it doesn't look much better than a grimace. "All thanks to you."

Hadrian shakes his head. "I didn't do anything," he lies. You were barely conscious, but you know you heard his voice praying beside you. You know you felt his hands, large and rough and so very gentle, cleaning you and feeding you what little you could swallow. Pressing water to your lips. He lies because you wouldn't be alive if not for him. "You conquered it alone. Like you always do."

Hadrian smiles back, a tight little smile that does nothing to hide the shaking of his lips. Your liar. "Hadrian," you say again, gathering all your strength to put your hand over his. His fingers jerk, but he quickly squeezes your hand back. "Thank you," you say. You want to say so much more, but you hope this will suffice for now.

Hadrian shakes his head once again, but instead of a refusal, he lets out a sharp exhale as all strength seems to leave him. His shoulders drop, and he bends down until his forehead rests on your chest, his other arm coming to hold onto you. He takes another deep breath, shaky, on the edge of control. "Lord," he says, voice muffled as he presses his face into you. But you can hear it breaking all the same. "Lord, I-"

You can feel his whole body shaking. You lift your other arm to tangle your fingers in his hair, stroking his scalp, fighting back the knot on your throat. You don't see it, but you know he weeps. He weeps for you. "I'm fine," you say again. He needs to hear it, needs to believe it.

Hadrian doesn't answer for a while, he just holds you tighter. You keep stroking his hair, fingers sinking until you caress the back of his neck, and then the plains of his shoulders. You wait in silence, the room like a haven, simply touching him, feeling his breathing gradually calm and his iron grip slowly ease. At least, Hadrian lifts his head, and you let your hand trail down his cheek as he finally faces you again.

His eyes are wet, but you would never mention it. "I'm sorry," he says.

You smile again, warmer this time. "Don't be." Your nails scratch his stubble, longer than you remember.

Hadrian turns his head so he can nuzzle into your palm. "You're fine, aren't you?" he asks, the question as much a plea as a declaration.

"I am."

He smiles, and he kisses your palm before leaning over to kiss your cheek. "Thank God," he whispers, kissing your other cheek, lips as gentle as his touch. You're feverish still, your skin is hot still, but his heat feels like no other. "Bloody Hell, thank the Lord."

You chuckle, and he does too before Hadrian cradles your face and kisses you gently on the lips. It's chaste and brief, but you close your eyes all the same. "Blasphemer," you say, lips moving against his. You feel him smiling, feel him rest his forehead against yours.

"It's what you make of me," he answers.

Your smile tilts. "You like it."

Hadrian kisses you one last time. "I do," he says so quietly you almost didn't hear it. "I don't know what that means for my soul, but that's a problem for later."

You laugh again but bite your tongue when your head throbs. Hadrian's eyes fly open, and he leans away, watching you closely. Whatever he sees must have failed his inspection because his face hardens. "You need to eat while you're awake."

He moves away, and you have a complaint ready on the tip of your tongue, but it never leaves your lips. You pause, mouth opened, and realize then that you're ravenous. Your stomach suddenly clenches, as if sprung to life, and if you weren't already laying down, you think your knees would have given out.

"I... Yes, that sounds good," you say, and have to close your eyes when the room starts to spin. Your skin still crawls, and fever wants to take hold once again. But you're hungry, and that must count for something.

Hadrian places the cloth back on your forehead, and from between the cooling droplets, you see him smiling down at you. "I'll go get a bowl of warm soup," he says, fingertips trailing the side of your face. "It has carrots and spinach, I think. You'll like it."

You nod, words starting to feel too heavy now. Sleep calls you, and it would be welcome too, but you fight it. Not yet.

Hadrian hesitates but then gives a sharp nod and starts walking towards the door. "I'll, uh. I'll be right back," he says on the threshold, brows furrowed and hand gripping the wood with too much force. And he looks so handsome, then, with his dark circles and his tousled hair and outgrown stubble.

Not yet. You won't sleep just yet. "I'll wait for you," you whisper.

And when he leaves, you think of how you may feel like hell, but you couldn't be the furthest away from it.