Live love laugh

“What the fuck!” Wes yelled, demanding some fucking answers—an apology, an explanation—something. When he got nothing but another pained sound, he leaned down, gripping Seven’s blonde hair in one hand and slapping his face with the other—once, twice—in an attempt to revive his attention. At last, Seven’s eyes blinked back open. His gaze seemed hazy and unfocused. His face was flushed red with heat. 

Shit.

Wes wiped the sweat-slicked bangs off of Seven’s forehead and felt the skin beneath it with the back of his hand. The boy was absolutely burning up.

“Fuck me,” Wes mumbled to himself, heaving a deep resigned sigh as he realized the situation he’d created for himself.

Leaving the spilled espresso and the shattered cup on the kitchen floor for now, Wes hauled Seven’s lithe form up into a bridal style carry. The servant’s head lolled limply to the side to expose his neck and he groaned in that far-away sort of fashion you’d get from someone who doesn’t entirely know what's happening or where they are. That can’t be comfortable, Wes thought, upon seeing the awkward way Seven’s head dangled off the side of his bicep. Not that he typically gave Seven’s comfort much thought, but something about this felt different—it was a discomfort Wes hadn’t intended for.

God fucking dammit. Wes gave another begrudging sigh and carried his little servant back up the stairs to his bedroom. 

He should’ve known the boy wouldn’t be able to handle it. Pushed him too far again, Wes. You fucking dumbass. Wes cursed that he’d have to clean up the espresso by himself now, if he didn’t want it to dry into a big sticky mess—he certainly didn’t—but he had to tend to the manner of his servant first. Wes had been the one to reduce Seven to this state after all. 

Wes deposited Seven on the bed, genuinely trying not to be too rough with him this time, and Seven only gave a small groan in response. “Yeah, yeah,” Wes said with a wave of his hand, turning towards the attached bathroom. 

“You feel like shit,” Wes grumbled to himself, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage around until he found what he was looking for. A digital thermometer. A bottle of ibuprofen. He snatched a wash cloth off the towel rack and ran it under the cool tap water, giving it a firm squeeze once it was thoroughly soaked. 

“Don’t… don’t feel.. good..” Seven whined softly when Wes returned to the bedroom. His limbs were all splayed out exactly where Wes had left him. It seemed Seven really had spent every last ounce of his energy—Wes had really wrung it all out of him, hadn’t he, just like he’d done to the washcloth in the sink. Wes tried to suppress the urge to mentally kick himself, but the cause and effect here was obvious. He really should’ve just let the damn kid sleep. 

“Mmmnnn too hottt!” Seven whined louder, thrashing a bit, his words slurred like someone too many shots deep. 

“Yeah, could you fucking wait a sec?” Wes snapped, trying and failing to keep the irritation from his voice.  

He set the thermometer and the bottle on the bedside table, before folding the cool wet wash cloth in half and swiping Seven’s bangs up once more off of his face in order to lay the cloth on the servant’s burning forehead. Wes gave it a firm press to make sure it would stay in place, even if Seven moved around a bit. 

Next, the thermometer. “Open,” Wes said, his voice low, as though he’d finally figured out that it wasn’t necessary nor welcome to project one’s voice at such close proximity. Seven’s lips were already parted as he panted slightly, his eyes half lidded and unfocused, and Wes took the opportunity to stick the metal tip right into Seven’s mouth. 

“Close,” Wes felt his tone get a little firmer this time, and Seven obeyed, despite his distress. “Keep it under your tongue. You know the drill.”

Indeed, Seven did know the drill, for this was always the first thing to be done when he felt like this—too hot and too cold at the same time, body shaking slightly, random aches and pains all throughout his limbs. His brain was full of cotton and it hurt to think, so he just listened for when Wes’ voice told him to do something and tried to focus on doing it as well as he could. He couldn’t take any more punishment in this state and would do anything to avoid it. 

Shit. The coffee—Seven suddenly remembered—he’d spilled the fucking coffee. Seven desperately wanted to open his mouth and apologize profusely, but knew if he parted his lips right now and the thermometer fell out, Wes would be even more angry with him. So he just let out a sad closed-lipped whine around the thermometer. 

A few moments later, the thing started beeping loudly, and Wes pulled it from between Seven’s lips. 

“Fuck my life,” Wes sighed. “Yeah, it’s a fever.” Guess I shouldn’t have kept him out all night. Wes felt a sharp tinge of regret in his chest, but he didn’t voice it. He needed Seven to believe that everything Wes did to him was always deserved. It was easier that way, to pretend it was all on purpose, all according to his design. But getting him sick had genuinely been an accident. Having Seven out of commission did nothing but make Wes' life more inconvenient. 

“I…I’m sorry, I’msorry, Sir—” Seven whimpered out the string of apologies, hoping Wes would have mercy on him for once.

Wes just scoffed, and turned without a word, walking back into the bathroom to wash off the tip of the thermometer. Once it was put away, he picked up a glass on the counter and filled it with cool tap water. 

“Gotta get some of these pills in you,” Wes said, his mouth full of gravel as he walked back into the bedroom. “I don’t have a straw up here, so you gotta sit up, Seven.” He punctuated his last few words so they would register as an order to his servant’s likely half-delirious brain. 

Seven’s head indeed was swimming, thick and hot with fever, but he heard the order to sit up and managed to tuck a bent elbow beneath him to prop himself up. He whined a little as he forced himself upright—the sort of sound one might let out when their first morning alarm went off. 

Wes put the cup in Seven’s other hand, and when he was sure the boy wouldn’t instantly drop it, he released his grip to shake three pills out of the ibuprofen container. He held them up to Seven’s face and his servant’s lips parted without being asked, tilting his head back just slightly so Wes could drop the pills into his mouth. Wes let one hand hover beneath the glass as Seven lifted it to his lips, just in case he suddenly fucking dropped it, and took it back when Seven had swallowed all the pills. 

Task complete, Seven let himself collapse back down to the bed sheets once more. “Alright,” Wes set the glass on the side table. “I’ve gotta go clean up the fucking mess you made downstairs,” Wes grunted, turning towards the hallway.

“You’re fucking welcome by the way!” Wes called out on his way out the door.

Seven managed a weak “Th-thank you.. Sir…” before Wes disappeared down the hall and Seven’s eyes slipped shut once more.

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Some of you know what is coming next.. im excited :>

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