#@nutashall

Yova is a smart woman. She knows how to take care of herself, be it how to protect herself on the street or what streets not to walk through unless she can absolutely not avoid them.

And she knows about sickness.

At home, the treasure one would inherit and cherish as if it was a crate of gold was the homemade remedies for each and every affliction under the sun; from mild allergies to delirium caused by a relentless fever, Yova’s family had taught her a recipe for every occasion.

It is not fair.

She sneezes once more, waiting at the clinic back door with the crate of herbs, powders and elixirs the doctor sent her to gather for him tightly clutched against her as her whole body shudders.

She’s done some work for the doctor here and there, but not enough to catch something, she’s sure of it. She keeps a fairly good enough diet, with good hearty stocks in every meal and citrus fruits to prevent any of this.

She’s not sick. She cannot be sick.

She sneezes again,. and this time it makes her grunt and kick a little pebble against the wooden door in frustration. Illness is weakness, it’s time consuming and an effort to fight and it makes everything so slow. She cannot be sick; she takes care of everything so diligently! She just can’t!

She sneezes again.

“Motherf-!”

The door opens.

“I hope I haven’t taken too long.” Kuras’ smile is polite, barely there; her cheeks flush red. She must have offended him. Great fucking timing,

He still reaches for her baggage, and she lets him take it. The second it’s out of her hands, she tries to apologize but he’s already halfway across the examination room, the door still open for her.

“Doctor, I’m sorry if I-” she starts but he doesn’t seem to mind her for the longest of times, or at least worry. She closes the back door behind her while he accommodates jars of herbs, powders and vials on their respective shelves and drawers.

“If you got here late? Do not concern yourself with such matters, Yova; I have been tending patients until just now.” He stops for a second to take her hand; he’s warm, but not uncomfortably so. He feels like being under the Sun in a quiet Sunday morning.

It’s.. eerie, in a way. It’s mindnumbing, almost every time.

“Thank you for your effort, and I apologize if you had to wait.”

“Oh no, no problem at all! I just-” There it is: the tickling in her nose. She resists it; her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, and after a moment, the sensation fizzles out. Not right now.

“Mh.” His attention moves from her to every detail of hr face; she can see him focusing on her eyes, long fingers barely caressing his chin to encourage her to turn her head up for him, pressing then to open her mouth…

Why does she feel so compliant, so easy to handle in his hand is something she cannot quite pinpoint, but he’s a doctor; she can always trusts in his expertise. She’s got enough first hand knowledge of what they can do, and certainly still cannot understand his methods.

“What?” She finally asks, but his thumb is still held against her chin, forcing her mouth open. A thin sliver of saliva begins to crawl out the plump center of her lip, down onto his thumb pad.

Why doesn’t he wear gloves, after all?

“Your throat looks inflamed. Can you swallow for me?” He asks with the simplicity of someone talking about the weather, and it is a simple sentence,yet it makes her skin burn even hotter than before.

She swallows and her entire body flinches; the sudden urge to cough pulls her out of his hold and bends her over in a terrible fit that brings tears to her eyes.

By the time she manages to stop herself, breathless and red in the face, she clocks up at Kuras who is only staring impassively at her. Even politely smiling.

He is… odd, at best.

“Ah, well, that does sound like a problem.” He sounds as concerned as one would be wit ha fly on the wall.

“It’s fine.” Yova replies, her voice comes out hoarse and struggling. “I’ll have some medicinal tea and chicken soup; I’ll be fine in no time.”

“I see.” He turns to his counter again; he reaches for his glasses, nonchalantly, to wipe them with a soft cloth. “And how long has that cough lingered? at least around five days, I’d say.”

She has been around his clinic a lot lately; the weather brought the flu back to this part of town, especially to poorly insulated houses and empty stomachs, and with it, the doctor’s need for extra help.

“Maybe.” She still crosses her hands across her chest. She cannot afford days off, not right now.

“And you have been taking, what exactly, these past days?” He inquires and Yova already knows where he’s going. Still, she cannot stop it.

“... Medicinal tea and chicken soup.”

He chuckles. Instead of going for a punchline, he extends his hand towards her. “Well then. I believe it is my turn to try. Is it not?”

“Yeah.” She finally deflates, admitting defeat.

His hand moves from a simple offering to a firm but delicate grab onto her chin, making her turn her eyes towards his. The golden hue of his gaze is almost hypnotizing like this, when she cannot look away.

“What was that, again?” His politeness starts to crack at the edges, showing something else underneath.

It feels like a foreign language, something too complex to pick up so easily. Her fever and the constant eye contact makes her feel dizzy, malleable in his arms.

“Yes, doctor.” She offers, and he smiles, satisfied, and lets her go, taking her hand instead to walk with her to the examination cot.

“Very well, then. Let us start with a quick revision.”

Her legs dangle without touching the ground; if she fixes her eyes on them the floor suddenly feels too far away, and still moving, as if she was floating, flying. The thought brings something acidic to her mouth, nausea settling in her stomach.

Long warm fingers stretch under her chin, pulling her gaze upwards. “Mh? Do you need some water?” The doctor asks while the back of his other hand finds her forehead but only for a moment; he moves away too quickly for her to enjoy the cool refreshing touch of his skin.

Weird, isn’t he always so warm and sunlike?

“So, Yova,” She knows already the tone of small talk to keep her mind busy but if she doesn’t snap out of her spiral she might just embarrass herself and vomit on his ridiculously impeccable floor (how was this full of bleeding patient just a bit ago?) and she is not willing to go down that road. “Were there any plans for tonight?”

“Were? Are you cancelling those for me, doctor?” She jokes but just looking up at the halo of light coming from the ceiling lamp makes her dizzy, acid reflux creeping up her throat.

Come on, you can do better than this. It’s only a cold.

“I think the color leaving your face is doing that for you, not me.” She can hear the smile on his lips but there’s nothing behind it. She’s not actually sick, is she?

There’s still so much to do! It could take days to get better; she doesn’t have free days!

“Open your mouth, tongue out please.” He commands so simply that she doesn’t even think twice; even then, the back of her throat feels like sandpaper when in contact with the air. She flinches almost immediately to retreat into another cough fit. It’s dry and relentless; her vision is blurred with tears by the time she can control her breathing once more.

“Tell me, Yova, how do you take your coffee?” She can feel the soft pat on her back turning into a slow pet before the doctor finally moves away to were burners and glass vials and jars spread out in organized clumps.

“Depends on the day, I guess?” She responds absentmindedly: the strong aroma of roasted coffee beans being milled and the constant wirr of the gears grinding filled somewhat comfortable, homely, covering the sharp smell of cleaner she walked in on. It’s not evening yet, but certainly later than her usual coffee hours; yet Kuras doesn't seem to mind much.

“I will be recommending it quite sweet at the time, if you don’t mind it much.” The water boils and bubbles angrily; the coffee press steams as the water fills it, perfuming the room more intensely.

It is quite nice, actually; it feels like a reprieve from her busy, terribly exhausting day. Yova’s body has been protesting, hurting for no reason, and her energy levels dwindling much faster than usual. She wouldn't reject a nice cup of coffee right now.

What Kuras delivers her is creamy, thick and incredibly sweet; it makes her grimace, as if she’s drinking directly from the pulp of a slightly flavoured sugarcane.

“I hope it’s not too bad.” The doctor’s politeness is endearing, if not a little embarrassing. It’s not as bad, as it is unbearably sugared, as if he has made it with an ingredient list and without tasting anything.

But still, it coats her throat well and the itch she’s had permanently for the past week is completely muted.

“It’s, uh, it’s fine.” She says, slowly, but her voice doesn’t break, her throat doesn’t fight her back. She tries it again: it’s milky, somewhat metallic, and it feels denser on her mouth. Her tongue tingles, slightly numb, but not too uncomfortable. “What’s in this?”

“Medicine.” He answers shortly; Yova can see the hints of a playful smile on the edge of his lips. He’s playing mysterious just for the sake of it, it seems. “Oftentimes, patients disregard medical attenton in favour of self medicating. Not that I would never accuse such an intelligent person of such a thing.” Kuras’ tone is calculated amiability, meant for her not to fight back.

The thing is she’s quick enough to catch it on the fly.

“This is for all the remedies, isn’t it?” She twists her mouth but doesn’t protest. The medicine is working, at least to calm the most annoying part, even when it makes talking feel like a foreign thing for her mouth, her tongue feeling heavy, lazy.

“Oh, I’m sure they did as much good as they could, Yova. If you could strip off your clothes and lay face down, please.” He shrugs off his coat with swift elegance to hang it appropriately on the back of his chair.

So fittingly neat.

She hesitates still, fidgeting with the hem of her clothes.

“Why?”

“With the provided cocktail your throat should feel smoother and the fever should come down soon enough. It is time to address the body pain, is it not?”

Yova is good to turn down almost anything if she’s not feeling comfortable about it; she will more easily run from an unwanted situation than endure it for any reason, especially when the situation is anything that requires her to be touched in a thorough manner. She wears discreet clothes, covering as much of her past as it does whatever some bastard could call bait.

But this is the doctor. Kuras is easily the most intelligent person she’s met in Eridia, at least so far, since the Senobium is entirely out of bounds -and something Vere mentioned about big hats not being there to match the big minds-. He’s respectable, sensible, soft spoken.

And his hands feel like the Sun kissing her skin directly, like morning dew personified.

She can’t help being a little curious.

Still, it's a line but so easily crossed.

She slowly drags her hands across her clothes, shedding layers; the doctor makes no comment, only takes every piece and folds it neatly on the chair.

It doesn't feel like a trick, not enough at least. Kuras does have a sort of privileged spot; he should know what he’s doing. She’s meant to trust him.

Yova stills her hand after most of her clothes are carefully organized on a pile in the chair, keeping her undershirt and pants on. He doesn’t quite need much more than that, anyways, does he?

She looks up at him and he only gestures at the cot with a warm, polite smile. She nods and lays down, slowly; her muscles feel like led, pulling in a way they seem to not have made for, as if her body was calcifying with her fever. Moving involves heaviness, small crams here and there, and an herculean amount of effort.

His smile curves into a mischievous smirk but only for a moment. It might have just been her imagination; the fever does terrible things to one’s mind.

He lets his hands fall on her shoulders, heavy but not imposing, his fingers stretching bit by bit, trying to find the hardest spots. That pressure alone is enough to make Yova wince and squirm; his shoulders might just have been carved from stone, every move feeling like chiseling away at her.

“Try to relax, if you would.” The doctor’s words are soft, honeyed and thick in her ears; His hands expertly find the tightest of knots, pushing his thumb in and drawing circles, first one way then the other, trying to unravel the puzzle that is her back, turning her from stone to clay in his hands.

It’s… special. She doesn’t usually get massages often (really, who does? Other than rich kids and, well, Leander probably?) and when she does, the process starts so painfully she taps out halfway. There’s so much stress, long night’s work and untold stories piing up on her bones like bricks it takes real commitment to even make an indent.

But Kuras’ hands are warm, sun kissed warm, and feel like melting away at her knots, moulding her muscles back into shape.

She squirms, stretches a little under his touch, and her hands find their way under her head as she lets out a satisfied sigh. Kuras chuckles, and her fever seems to run back up her face in a second.

“Please, do make yourself comfortable, Yova; I am aiming for your wellbeing, after all.” He says with a hint of playfulness in his voice, as his thumbs dig further into the tough spots around her spine and she can’t help but stretch out and let out something a bit too close to a moan.

She makes sure her face is fully covered, just in case. Her limbs tense up at the idea of that happening again.

“Is this alright?” He asks, moving down to dig around her spine with his fingers, moving outwards. It feels like the weight on her muscles becomes liquid, rippling out of her following the movement of his hands.

“Mh-hm.” She tries, biting her lip as he towers over her, pressing with his full weight, making her tension unfurl in his hands like threads into water.

“Would you like me to adjust anything? Pressure, location?” His questions are so innocent, so calculated it almost feels as if he’s trying to poke at her instead of just following protocol.

“No, it’s-ah-” Yova steels her voice but the massage keeps getting under her skin, making her fortitude tremble like jelly. “It’s go-ood.”

He laughs.

Oh, fucking hell, this is uncomfortable. But it also is so easy to get lost in it, to let him crush her insecurities, her walls, her burdens down to sand, wash it off her feet, with an expert touch. She clutches onto the edges of the cot, stretching her whole body, her toes pointing out as her bones crack and settle back into place.

As if she was a doll dropped from a high shelf, she has handled herself with a slight amount of pain, a stiff mobility, for so long she could not even remember a specific hit to have provoked it; it could have been easily the long nights up, the running for her life, her own fate looming over her like a shadow trying to claw at her. Having Kuras so skilfully put her back together feels close to a rebirth, fire igniting under her skin in every place he touches her.

She cannot even imagine what it would be like if she had agreed to take her clothes fully off; her skin ablaze, her senses overwhelmed and awakened, all at once, her body bending to his touch, jealous of every moment he stops…

She doesn't even notice her own voice once he moves away from her back to grasp his hand around one of her ankles. His thumbs draw circles upwards, dig into her flesh as she sighs and moans onto every touch, her shame chiseled away with every other knot; he hums, almost musically, as he moves up her calf, and the little pinpricks of a cramp threatened her before turning into soft warm pressure draped over her skin, the thin fabric of her pants be damned.

Following his touch becomes fuzzy, as he moves to her other leg and back up, working her body as if he was a sculptor; all she knows is hot, heavy, insistent, and disarming, and it works. She’s left a mewling thing, draped over the cot, molding to it as he works.

The doctor’s hands envelop around the back of her thighs, higher, until the curve in between his thumbs and his index fingers threaten to climb up the slope of her ass. She flinches, only slightly, but enough for him to notice.

“Relax,” He talks over her ear and she jolts at the sudden feeling of his breathing against the back of her head, his hair falling onto her back, “it is only a treatment, nothing more.” His hands massage over the higher part of her legs, the plump thick muscle heating up and still shivering under his touch, his morning like touch, a medicine against the harshness.

Yova is now oddly aware of how close he is, how he doesn't move away, his body radiating heat over her as if Dawn would have come to stay into the clinic itself.

Still, it feels much too short once he does pull away, and the too eager sigh she cannot hide shows it.

He shows no sign of having heard her; instead, he offers a hand to her.

Standing up suddenly feels like getting accustomed to her long legs once more; she wobbles like a baby deer, and her hand closes on his, her boy finding support against his chest.

She flushes red but he only laughs. She might have just been looking like that throughout the whole evening, for all she knows.

“Better?” He asks simply, without pushing her away.

Yova does a mental checklist: her head feels better, her vision is not blurrier than any other sleepless night, and her body feels lighter than it has in…. longer than she can remember, really.

Oh, she’s going to miss this if she doesn’t get to get another… treatment like this again

“Much. Thank you, doctor.” She responds in a shy voice, wary of it remembering the way it sounded just a little bit ago.

It’s a bit embarrassing, to say the least; it’s a doctor’s office, she’s certain he hasn’t meant to have her moan and arch and plead for his touch.

It is only a massage.

“Very well, I will leave you to dress again, then. Please, do take your time.” He says, but his body doesn’t seem to respond to him, still clutching onto her hand, the other one hovering over her back, almost scared to touch her.

She clears her throat and he snaps out of it, letting her go. Hee shuffles out the examination room door quickly.

Yova thinks she could see a hint of pink across his cheeks.

She looks at her clothes. It would only take a minute to get dressed, but immediately her body feels like it would be so heavy, so much work, and this place is so nice and warm, so comfortable even despite the hard cot and the smell of cleaner (which has subsided quite a bit, in her favour). She keeps staring, and sitting on the cot becomes laying on it with her hands under her head and her knees pulled against her.

She doesn’t even notice Kuras knocking on the door. Her eyes are heavy, and her body feels finally blissful, free of burden, light as clouds.

“Excuse me, is everything- oh.”

Yova succumbed to days of faulty sleep, to the soft touch of comfort and is now completely asleep, her chest moving up and down so softly he even walks carefully in order not to wake her.

He drapes a fresh, perfumed sheet over her shoulders; it’s not much for warmth but the clinic is always kept at a steady temperature. He leas in to talk in a tender voice, before kissing her forehead.

“You slept well, Yova. I will see you tomorrow.”

He closes up for the night.

(And that might have been it, at least according to her. The heaviness of her sleep would never let her know he came back several times in the night to read next to her with the most subtitles of candles. She stirred, barely, after a sudden move of the pages, but nothing else. Kuras made sure of it.

The morning after she would apologize, blushing, as if he wasn’t so utterly grateful for having her as a reading companion, for getting to see her finally peaceful, for being a part of it all, a little hint of sunlight in her day. He would only tell her it is nothing, but it is so important for her to come back more often to not let her body become so stiff and painful.