#follo x reader

You lived alone—or, well, you used to, before Follo basically moved himself in. Your boyfriend always managed to find himself at your door. Morning. Afternoon. Evening.

He'd recently taken on work as a Giver, and you knew how relentless his hours were. Whenever you manage to raspy-voice a protest, insisting that he had better things to do, he only smiles. It's that soft, incredibly patient smile of his, reassuring you that he doesn't mind. He even chuckles a little, rolling his eyes as he jokes how this is the only way he can hang with you, with your different work schedules recently.

So, you let him stay. You let him press the heavy ceramic mug to your lips, whispering for you to drink every last drop.

Yesterday was one of those long stretches where his job kept him away until past midnight, again. And when you woke up this morning, the heavy weight in your chest felt just lighter, your head didn't throb when you blinked. For a fleeting second, you actually felt a spark of genuine hunger—not the nausea that usually accompanied the thought of food.

Then, Follo returned. He immediately set to work, bringing you your morning tea. But just as he set the steaming mug on your nightstand, a sharp crash echoed from the kitchen had him rushing out of the room in haste.

​There, resting on the white porcelain edge of the washbasin, was his keyring.

You hadn't even been thinking about the keys at first. You had only dragged yourself up because, suddenly, a wave of heat crashed over you. Panicked by the spike in your symptoms, you had tried to call out his name, but from the kitchen, the noise of him cleaning the spill drowned you out completely. He couldn't hear you.

A wave of guilt had washed over you then. He was already so busy, already doing so much as a Giver, and you hated the thought of burdening him further just because you need a few fever reducers. So, on second thought: you'll just do it yourself. It takes a ridiculous, almost laughable amount of minutes just to swing your dead-weight legs over the edge of the bed.

Your feet hit the cold floorboards and you instantly sway—gripping the washbasin for dear life while the room spins violently. You remembered laughing once, mostly at yourself of how ridiculous you'd become. You gripped the edge of the washbasin, your fingers freezing over the cold metal of the keys.

You know there's a wooden box in the bottom nightstand drawer. Follo always claimed it held rare herbs he'd gone out of his way to buy for you. A private little part of you feels terrible for snooping, but desperate times, right?

​It took every ounce of your remaining strength to sink to the floor, sliding the key into the brass lock of the wooden box.

You expect to find the usual suspects, maybe some over-the-counter fever reducers. But no. Instead, your fingers wrap around a sleek little amber glass dropper bottle. ​The labels are handwritten, which would be charming if the words belladonna and digitalis weren't staring right back at you. Concentrated sedatives. Muscle paralytics. You bring the glass dropper to your nose, taking a tentative sniff, and underneath the harsh bitterness of the chemicals is a faint, sweet scent.

​The exact same flavor that's been in your tea, your broths, your water. Every single day. For weeks.

​Oh.

You tried to move. Your mind screamed at you to run, to hide the bottle, to drag yourself to the front door. You remembered trying to think, too. Not panicking—not yet. Panic felt too expensive somehow, there had to be another explanation.

Herbal extracts could be poisonous in the wrong quantities. Apothecaries stocked strange ingredients all the time. Follo had always been meticulous; perhaps he'd purchased them for something else. Perhaps the dropper had been used for tinctures. Perhaps—

You collapsed against the base of the nightstand, then, clutching the small amber vial to your chest.

Sweat prickled along the back of your neck. Your thoughts, so wonderfully clear only minutes before, began bending ever so slightly like reflections in disturbed water.

Only then did your gaze drift toward the untouched teacup, steam no longer curling from its surface. You couldn't remember how long it had been sitting there. You couldn't remember whether you'd taken a sip. You couldn't remember a frightening number of things.

With trembling hands, you tried reaching for your phone instead. It wasn't far—just across the bedside table—but the distance felt laughable now, your arm refusing to obey like it had only moments ago.

You managed half a step, then another. You sank to the floor before gravity could decide to throw you there instead, your shoulder knocking painfully against the side of the bed, the locked box remained open beside you.

You hated how familiar the feeling was.

How many mornings had started exactly like this? How many times had you accepted it as another cruel turn in whatever mysterious illness had taken hold of you?

You had no idea how long you lay there, paralyzed in your own skin, listening to the agonizingly slow tick of the clock.

When the door finally clicked open, his soft footsteps padded back into the room, a fresh cloth in his hand, his expression open and bright. His eyes found you first, curled awkwardly against the bedside.

Concern immediately softened his features.

"...What happened?"

The words were almost painfully gentle.

He crossed the room at once and knelt beside you as if you had simply tripped, one hand already brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead. "Look at you, you shouldn't have gotten out of bed."

His gaze scanned the space, instantly landing on the open drawer, the keys, and the bottle clenched in your trembling fist. If surprise touched him, it vanished so quickly you wondered later whether you'd imagined it.

"Oh," an awkward laugh escaped him, a soft, breathy sound, "so that's what this is."

You jerked weakly away from the hand against your face.

The bottle you'd managed to keep hold of scraped clumsily against the floor as you lifted it between you, your grip so unsteady it threatened to fall a second time. The accusation never emerged as clearly as you'd intended, your thoughts refused to line themselves into neat sentences.

"What..." you rasped, even your own voice sounded weak. "What is this?"

For a heartbeat, he only looked at you.

Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed. A small, affectionate sound, almost under his breath.

​"Come on," he said, reaching toward your hand as though you were a frightened child clutching something dangerous. His fingertips brushed yours, patient rather than forceful. "You really are still so sick. You're just seeing things, alright? Let's get you back to bed before you hurt yourself."

The bottle slipped another inch through your weakening grasp.

"No..."

The protest came out rough, barely louder than a whisper.

"You put this in my food."

His smile faltered only slightly.

You tried again. The words tangled together, but the meaning remained unmistakable. You knew the truth now, and no matter whatever haze clouded your mind, that fact wasn't moving.

"[You]." Another patient sigh from him, he spoke your name with heartbreaking tenderness. "You've had a fever, and you've barely slept a full night. They can cause confusion."

His hand found your forehead, checking your temperature. The same gesture he'd performed dozens of times before.

​"...You don't even know what you're talking about right now."

"I do, you've been poisoning me," you snapped. The sentence emerged stronger than you expected.

"As if I'd ever do such a thing."

"Stop lying!" You're practically screaming now, though it feels more like a pathetic whimper. You slammed your weak fist against his shoulder, refusing to let go of the bottle. "You've been poisoning me! You made me take a break from my job, you kept me trapped here—"

​"Hey, stop it, you're getting worked up," he interrupts, his hands swooping in to pin your wrists. "Just give me the bottle. You're losing it, I'd never hurt you."

"I am not confused!" you fiercely insisted, your eyes burning with tears of fury.

With a final surge of will that defied the paralysis spreading through your limbs, you hurled the amber bottle across the room.

It smashed against the far wall, a harsh, shattering explosion of glass and brown liquid that stained the pale wallpaper. The sound was deafening in the otherwise silent house. But Follo didn't even flinch. He didn't turn to look at the mess. His eyes searched yours, waiting almost hopefully, as though expecting the panic to break.

When it didn't, he rose to his feet, calmly brushing the dust off his pants, his eyes turning entirely flat and devoid of warmth. He looked down at your shivering form on the floor, and didn't even bother to deny it anymore.

"Alright," he said, looking at the wet stain on the wallpaper. "You know. Now... what are you going to do about it?"

All the righteous fury inside you is instantly snuffed out.

And God, he was right, wasn't he? You stopped dead. Because when you actually thought about it—really, truly thought about it—what could you do? You lived alone. The neighbors should be at work right now, and it had been days since you'd even bothered to reply to your supervisor's messages. You were entirely on your own.

​You tried to drag yourself backward, but your fingers just twitched uselessly against the wood. (A total joke, honestly, considering how fiercely you'd just thrown that vial.) When you begged your legs to move, nothing happened.

And of course he noticed.

"Look at you," he continued. "You can barely walk on your own. Who are you going to scream for?"

He actually paused, waiting.

Not because he expected an answer, obviously. No, he did it because he knew, just as well as you did, that there simply wasn't one.

Your mouth opened once, then closed again. Whatever righteous declaration had surged through you only moments ago dissolved somewhere between your mind and your tongue, lost beneath the mounting heaviness spreading through your limbs. Your fingers, still stubbornly wrapped around the bottle, no longer obeyed when you tried to tighten them.

Follo watched the effort with a sigh. "You know, I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this today."

He leaned down and lifted you, but you weren't about to just let him take you—not without a fight, anyway. You managed to dig your fingernails into the fabric of his shirt, tearing at the collar, trying with everything left in you to twist out of his grip.

​But barely even flinched, just clamping his arms tighter around you, pinning your flailing elbows against your ribs with a grunt of mild irritation.

​Within seconds, the brief burst of adrenaline evaporated, leaving your muscles completely spent. Your limbs fell away, hanging like lead and completely useless as he gathered your limp form fully into his arms and carried you back to the bed. He laid you down against the pillows, smoothing your blankets before lifting your heavy, trembling hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. You flinched at it.

Turning slowly, his eyes drifted over to the far wall where the shattered glass lay.

"It really is such a shame you broke that one," he murmured. "But it doesn't matter, I always keep spares."

He walked over to the nightstand, reaching into his pocket for a vial you hadn't even seen. To your horror, he uncorked it and began to pour a clear liquid directly into the half-finished cup of tea sitting beside your bed. "I'll just have to make this batch a little stronger since you decided to spill your medicine."

You tried to scream, tried to thrash, but your body was a frozen cage. You could only watch in absolute terror as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"I know."

His voice softened immediately.

"I know."

One arm slipped carefully behind your shoulders, drawing your limp weight upright until you rested against his chest. He adjusted you, making certain your neck was supported, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.

"There, much better," he said. His other hand came up, his thumb and forefinger catching your jaw, forcing your chin upward to tilt your head back.

The cold rim of the ceramic mug pressed hard against your lips. You tried to turn away, though it was hardly movement at all.

"Don't fight it," he said, tipping the tea further.

Warm liquid pooled against your lips; some escaped down your chin, , sure, but most of it found its way past them. Its sweetness coated your tongue.

You coughed weakly, he paused just long enough for you to breathe. Then lifted the cup again.

"I know you don't understand. But I tried."

Another swallow.

"I told myself I'd let you recover... I really believed I could."

Another.

"But I love you far too much..."

He continued, his forehead rested briefly against your temple.

"...to ever risk you thinking you don't need me."

The darkness didn't wait long this time. It rushed in from the edges of your blurred vision, pulling you under before the mug even left your lips. Your head fell back against his shoulder, you thought you were still trying to fight and still trying to remember something desperately important. But the thought slipped away before you could grasp it.

He laid you back against the pillows with the same meticulous care he'd shown every day before, the blankets settled over you. He lingered only long enough to smooth your hair one last time, then he extinguished the bedside lamp.

The last thing you remembered was the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place from the outside of your bedroom door, followed by his muffled voice echoing through the solid wood.

If it were up to him, time would stay right there, suspended.

But it doesn’t.

“Follo! Tomme says he needs you to finish today’s report–oh…” Gris’s voice falls over him like a bucket of cold water.

The man freezes when he sees you, and Follo pulls away from you immediately, as if he had just been caught doing something illegal in the middle of the street.

“I… we were… uhm…” he stammers, feeling the heat rise all the way to his ears, completely unable to form a single coherent sentence.

Gris lets out a low, amused laugh, gives you a thumbs-up before mercilessly ruffling Follo’s hair.

“Sorry for interrupting. But Tomme needs you as soon as possible.” Without adding anything else, he turns around and walks away with an irritating calmness.

The silence he leaves behind is heavy.

Follo doesn’t turn right away. He just stands there, stiff, staring at some nonexistent point, as if he’s still processing what just happened. Then, slowly, he brings a hand to the back of his neck and sighs.

“I’m going to kill him…” he mutters, though there’s no real intent in his words.

When he finally looks at you, his cheeks are still flushed red.

“This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen” he says, half embarrassed, half frustrated, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in a little closer and wraps his arms around you again; you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and you can clearly see how red his face is.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I have to go now” he says with a hint of hesitation, his face slowly moving closer to yours, never breaking eye contact.

And this time, when his lips brush against yours again, it’s briefer, softer… but also more deliberate.

“I’ll see you later” he whispers against your mouth, as if it were a secret.

He pulls away with effort, stepping back once, then twice, as if every inch costs him, and even so, before leaving, he can’t help but look at you one more time.

Because he already misses your lips, you.