#boilingwatershipping

She tries to answer and agree, but she's cut off by an unpleasant, throaty cough. His blood cools and his face pales, afraid this might be a bit more serious than previously thought. He's still naked as he scrambles to her side, fingers burning - shaking with a terrible want to hold her. But he can't afford to catch whatever she has, if only for her sake.

Still, she looks so unlike the Malva he adores, crumpled beneath him with bloodshot eyes. And what kind of man would he be, if his lover sweats and sniffles alone, without his comfort and support?

"Do you...do you want some soup?" he asks when her cough calms and she sits herself against the bed frame, the blankets slipping from the top of her neck to the ends of her shoulders, "I can make you some - it won't take long, I promise."

Malva turns her face towards him, and he can tell she wants to smile, but her lips are chapped and swollen, and it must hurt to even breathe, "It'll help, right?"

"Of course," Siebold nods and kisses the top of her forehead, the taste of stale salt clinging to her brow, "I'll be in the kitchen. Just try to sleep for now, okay?"

"Alright," Malva replies, her voice heavy and soft all at once, "I'll be waiting."

He's reluctant to leave the bed - to leave her at all - but he reassures himself that she'll be fine, that it wasn't that big of a deal. It was only his lover (who wasn't quite his girlfriend), sick in his bed, vulnerable in the worse way, needing him in a way she didn't before....

His heart remains restless as he prepares Malva's soup, ensuring each  measurement is exact. He hates that he can't just throw the ingredients into the pot and light the stove - that he can't find one can of tomato or chicken soup in his pantry, ready to open and microwave. Malva is sick - in his bed - and he has to cut three potatoes, has to fish out a dirty teaspoon from the sink so he can measure the precise amount salt and cloves.

It's in these moments he realizes the extent of his obsession, and that maybe he should do something about it.

But the thought flees him when Malva coughs from his bedroom while he finishes her meal, adding a soft bread roll and a glass of water on either side of the large bowl. He doesn't panic, but his feet hit the wood floor harder than they should, and the door swings faster than he would have liked.

She's sitting up again, and now she's crying, her fingers knotted into thick, pink hair. When she notices him, she turns away, likely ashamed to be seen in such a state. Most of all from him - the lover not yet anything more.

And he can't - he can't drop the plate of food onto the ground and run towards her. Can't take her cold hands into his and kiss away every tear streaming down her cheeks.

Not until he sits the food onto his dresser. Not until he knows her food (his art) is safe.

"Siebold," Malva whimpers from the other side of the room, "Siebold..."

He pulls her into his arms seconds later, whispering, "Do you think we should go to the ER?"

She doesn't say anything, and he knows that's as much of an answer he'll receive.

Pride blinds her like obsession blinds him, after all.

Her hold loosens, however, and she leans the whole of her back into his chest, breathing just a bit easier, "Stay with me."

Just as much of a command as a plea - but he'll comply nonetheless.

"Always, ma fifille," he murmurs into her damp hair, "Always."