Work Text:
Takato sneezed. Loudly. Wetly. Followed by a sad blow into a tissue and a cautious dab at a scarlet, chafed nose.
"I'm dying."
"Takato-san!" Junta was torn. His every instinct was to gather Takato in his arms and kiss him better. But he was forbidden to get close, exiled to the far side of the room, and Takato insisted he wore a mask. Takato would have worn one too but he sneezed so often it wasn't practical.
Voice hoarse from coughing, Takato croaked, "At least I'm safe from your incessant demands on my body."
Junta hesitated. There was something plaintive about that. This cold had lasted for four days now, peaking with Takato sleepy and feverish, Junta tiptoeing around, providing cooling drinks and damp cloths to lay across a burning forehead.
Today, Takato was snuffly and grumpy but on the mend despite how rough he sounded.
Was it possible…
No. He was letting his own desires blind him to how unwell Takato was. He had to be the nurse, not the lover.
"Safe," Takato repeated and there it was again; that wistful undertone.
Takato was an actor. He knew how to do undertones and make the audience feel every nuance.
Junta let hesitation join the soggy, crumpled tissues in the trash.
"You're not safe at all, Takato-san."
"Hah?" Takato snarled with a return to liveliness. "If you think for one minute I'm in the mood to, uh, have the energy to defend myself from your lustful advances—"
Junta pivoted fast. His smile didn't work on Takato as well as it did on others but he gave it all he had. "I meant I'm getting close to you, Takato-san. To take care of you and make you feel better. I'm fine. If I was going to catch your cold, it would've happened by now and I'm free anyway. You've got a busy week ahead of you and Sasaki-san can only reschedule so often before they go with someone else…"
He let his voice trail off. It wouldn't happen. Anyone lucky enough to have booked Saijou Takato would willingly wait a few days to make sure he was at his best, but he knew Takato would fall for it. His professionalism made him vulnerable. Junta was lying too; he was fully booked but he didn't care. If he caught a cold and missed a job or two, he'd handle the fallout. Takato came first.
"How do you plan to make me feel better?'"
Oh, see that spark of curiosity light Takato's eyes… Junta smiled again, gently, reassuringly.
"I'm running you a bath—"
Suspicion, quick, hot, flared in Takato's eyes, obliterating the spark. "I remember the last time we shared—"
So did Junta. He bit back the sound that rose to his lips, a primal growl. Takato had thrashed wildly as Junta slid two fingers deep, water spilling out to splash the floor, soaked hair ink-black, sleek, dripping, his skin hot and slick.
"While you're relaxing, letting the steam ease your throat and clear your nose, I'll be changing the bed. Cool, clean sheets, Takato-san. Won't they feel good? And I know you said you couldn't smell the broth I'm making, but you will when you get out and a bowl of it will soothe your throat. Now wait here and let me do what I can to make you feel good."
The suspicion didn't disappear but Takato nodded warily.
It stung a little. Yes, making love to Takato was a joy he'd never get tired of, but not when he was sick. Did Takato really think he'd force him into bed? He wouldn't. Takato needed rest.
He ran the bath, tossing in some bath crystals scented with a potent mix of ginger, cypress and yuzu. He breathed in and sighed. Perfect. When the bath was full, he helped Takato into it, ignoring the involuntary response of his body at seeing Takato naked. The steam swirling didn’t hide anything. In fact, it gave Takato's pale skin a pearlescent shimmer. Junta pictured him swimming through clear, warm water, a merman, seducing a sailor from the safety of his ship to those waiting, treacherous arms…
If it were him, Junta reflected, he'd dive in before the seduction began… Or maybe not. It would be something new and exciting to have Takato flirt enticingly with him.
Leaving the door closed to keep the steam in, but alert to any sound, he busied himself with his tasks. Remaking the bed as the broth simmered, he chose the most expensive sheets they owned, ones that would be crisp as a tart apple, yet feel liquid against Takato's bare skin. He shook their pillows until they were marshmallow fluffs of pillows and added a throw in case Takato got shivery; a ripple of plushness that warmed without weight. Then he pulled the covers back so Takato didn't even have to do that.
Changing into a pair of sleep pants and a T-shirt, he spooned the broth into a deep bowl; one of Takato's favorites. It was antique Satsuma ware, a century old, picked up by chance in an open-air market in Spain. Takato had held with a smile curving his lips as he admired the design of frisking black cats and golden dragons against cobalt blue. It had a small crack, repaired in the traditional way, and how it had got from where it was made to the market was a story Junta could only guess at, but it had come home again safely.
The chicken broth, fragrant steam rising, was drunk in small, tired sips by a damp, flushed Takato, eyes half-closed.
Junta waited for the last swallow, then scooped Takato up into his arms, ignoring the half-hearted protests. He put Takato on the bed and slid the robe off his naked body, then eased him down. Before he pulled the covers up, he took a glance, a moment enough to capture the delicious sight of Takato curled up, skin flushed to the pink of sakura blossom, against white sheets.
Leaving a single candle burning, he turned to walk away. He'd sleep on the couch again, he supposed—
"Chunta."
It was a breath, a sigh. He turned.
Takato didn't invite him to come over. Didn't open his eyes. But he'd pushed the covers down, exposing the empty side and his hand rested on the bed for a moment before he drew it back in a slow, languid drag of palm against cotton.
Junta drew in a quick breath. To sleep beside Takato and not touch him freely was hell, but he'd choose it over sleeping alone without hesitation. Something in him almost relished the sweet torment because he knew it would end soon. His control was strong enough for this; he'd endured the year apart after falling in love; the weeks of their later separation.
A few nights? That was nothing.
It was different now, though; they lived together. Without ever taking it for granted, he was used to having Takato beside him every night. Used to making love with him often. To lie, restless and yearning on the couch, with Takato close enough to hear him roll over or yawn, Takato's scent saturating the pillow he used, the blanket over him, was worse than the old days, alone in his apartment.
Tantalized…the true meaning of the word, stretching out his hand, thirsting, hungry for the sweet grapes and having them be forever out of reach.
And now, his patience had been rewarded. He'd wait a little longer to be with Takato again as a lover, but for tonight…
He undressed and blew out the candle.
He didn't need its faint light to show him Takato's face now.
Smiling in the darkness, he drew the covers over them again and Takato came into his arms, falling asleep as his head found its favorite resting place against Junta's chest.