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"I can teach you," he says.
His voice is often neutral — just a shade warmer than the tone he might use with a stranger. Yor studies his face, but she can't tell if it's a genuine offer or if he feels sorry for her (or worse, contempt, or worse...). He's just staring at her: those wide open eyes, that half-smiling mouth, so open, so easy to read...
...and so closed-off.
"I can learn on my own," says Yor awkwardly. "I've been taking lessons."
Loid's smile twitches. "Well ... but wouldn't it be fun if we learned together?"
Is this what husbands and wives do? No, Yor supposes not. Husbands and wives already know each other. But boyfriends and girlfriends might take the time, might try something new together, might learn something about each other in the process. Blood rushes to her cheeks in an unexpected blush; she bows her head.
"Mm," she says. "Okay. Let's try it."
So Loid shows her how to heat the saucepan, and he shows her just how much sauce to add so she can saute the onions, and he shows her how often to stir, when to add the seasonings, when to toss in the thin strips of beef, and when—
His thumb brushes over the inside her wrist. A shiver rocks up Yor's spine, makes her twitch in his arms. Both of them are gripping the stirring spoon — and both of them flinch a little — and both of them reach too far over the pot, into the steam.
"Yowch!" Yor says, and Loid hisses in pain, and both of them rear back to examine their wrists.
Matching steam burns.
His forehead is hot to the touch. His hair is damp with sweat. There are bags beneath his red-rimmed eyes, cracks in his lips, and though he tries to push Yor's hand away — and he grumbles in his sleep — he's too weak to do much good. His hand drops back down to the mattress, useless, and even though he's not awake, Yor thinks she sees a hint of embarrassment on his face. Vulnerability. Fear.
"Definitely ill," Yor announces.
"Aww," Anya says. She drops the little backpack she'd packed in anticipation of a trip to the zoo. Loid would've made her empty out most of it anyway — Yor can almost hear him digging through the contents, his exasperation: Why on earth did you pack this many toy lions?? And Anya's cheerful, So the zoo animals can meet new friends!
But it won't happen today. Loid just keeps overextending himself at work. He comes home each night exhausted, worked to the bone; he's been losing weight, not eating right. Having nightmares. It was only a matter of time before his immune system gave out and he got sick; it used to happen to Yuri all the time when he was a kid.
"So Papa's sick?" Anya asks, coming closer to the bed, still half-pouting.
"Yes," says Yor. She brushes his hair back and folds a damp cloth onto his hot forehead. With a quiet sigh, Anya grabs a fistful of Loid's blanket and climbs onto the bed with him.
"If Papa gets to sleep in, then I do too!" she announces.
Yor just chuckles. She sits there, running her fingers through Loid's hair, humming a lullaby as Anya drops off to sleep pressed against her father's side — as Loid's breathing evens out and deepens, as the stress lines on his face smooth away.
It doesn't occur to Yor that she can go.
She stays.
It's the worst summer in ages.
Anya lies on the cool floor in front of the TV, but she's not watching anything: "It's too hot to watch," she mumbles, semi-incoherent, when Yor asks. There's a melting ice bar in her hand, but her face is pressed to the floor like she might fall asleep any moment now, and she's wearing just her swimsuit in hopes that a swimming pool will appear out of nowhere and invite her in.
Yor's not much better. Her lightest clothes are her summer pajamas, so that's what she's wearing: a halter top and short, lightweight shorts — and it's all well and good until Loid comes out and sits on the sofa at her side, wilted from the weather, and suddenly Yor is uncomfortably conscious of how low-cut her top is. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares straight ahead, trying not to blush.
"I called off work," says Loid, his words heavy — like the heat is so oppressive he can't even enunciate properly.
"All the civil servants were sent home," Yor says. "Heat advisory."
He just nods. When he leans forward, she sees that his undershirt has ridden up at the back. Sweat leaves his skin slick, makes it stick to the — so he shifts uncomfortably, his legs slowly wiggling away from the material, his eyes hooded.
He looks good like this, Yor realizes with a jolt. Hair a mess from sweat, from running his fingers through it — cheeks flushed, lips swollen from biting them too hard — clothes sticking to his skin from sweat, and so much of his bare body on display: his arms, muscled and scarred; his legs, covered in a thick dusting of blond hair that Yor's never seen up-close.
She wants to run her fingers through it. She wants to pluck at those short hairs and see exactly how long they are. She wants to make Loid flinch a little and jerk his knee away, because she can almost here the mixed exasperation and bewilderment in his voice — those two emotions he always aims at her and Anya, because he can't bring himself to express anything else. She could push his undershirt up, see if the same hair covers his stomach — down to the waistband of his shorts, and underneath, thicker and curlier and...
"Yor?" Loid says.
She jolts out of her daydream.
"You look ready to die of heatstroke," Loid says, studying her red face with concern. "Let me get you an ice bar, okay?"
"Mm," says Yor, unable to speak.
"Watermelon flavor?"
"Mm."
Damn him. He looks good even walking away, even plastered with sweat.
And he knows her favorite flavor.
His hands are warm.
She knows this from his proposal, the way he cupped her hands in his palms and passed over the ring.
His eyes have sparks in them.
She's seen the glassy, too-clear surface of them change from cheerful to deadly in a heartbeat, especially when it's Anya involved, or even — well, she doesn't like to presume, she doesn't like to think about it, but even when it's her.
He gives off body heat in his sleep. She knows because he nodded off on the sofa beside her once, long after Anya went to bed. His arms were crossed over his chest; he didn't lean on her, didn't rest his head against her shoulder — too reserved, even in his sleep, to allow himself that comfort. But he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin anyway.
So his hands are warm. His eyes are warm. His voice is warm. His smiles, his touches, his reassuring words.
His lips.
His kiss.
Slow and soft and gentle. Desperate, passionate, begging. Lips and teeth and tongue — and wet, and hot. So hot it makes her close her eyes; open her mouth; lean into the touch.
She doesn't need a period of acclimation here. She doesn't need to learn to like this type of heat.
It's a natural fit for her own. It's her perfect match.
She kisses him back.