Sick, Sick Lady-NG11 boys
Pairing: New Gen 11 x Female Reader
Summary: He returns home after being away for a few days to play an important game. But at home, something is happening that is far more important to him. "You know you're more important than a measly 90 minutes on the field."
Tag/Warnings: Fluff, taking care of his sick girlfriend/wife, domestic fluff, heartwarming, mention of vomiting, A/U where they actually feel human’s emotions and feelings such as empathy and compassion.
a/n: In memory of the first time I got sick while living on my own. Here 'Je suis malade' by Lara Fabian (Hugo). Here 'Je reviens te chercher' by Gilbert Bécaud (Loki).
Barça’s crushing victory over Sevilla in the Copa del Rey final made headlines.
In red, in big letters, on every TV channel. Even if you were bedridden, with a fever clinging to you like a sin, you knew everything—from every dribble to Iglesias’s hat trick.
Because no headache on earth could stop you from watching his games and feeling that pride. You’d brave a dry throat and dizziness just to see him celebrate his goal from afar.
Even if the flu meant dozing off unintentionally for a few minutes and waking up thinking you’d landed in paradise.
But no, that wasn’t the case yet—it was just Bunny standing at the foot of the bed.
Fatigue kept you from making out the expression on his face, but you knew him. He was probably studying you, a smile on his lips as he tried to guess whether you’d just woken up from a nap or were faking it.
He broke the silence, his eyebrows furrowing in a mix of concern and relief at your presence. Priceless, starved for your mere company.
“I’m sorry,” a cough interrupted your sentence, and your runny nose compelled you to search for a pack of tissues among the pile on the bed. “I didn’t hear you. Did everything went well?”
Lying there like a mummy, wrapped in dozens of blankets and yet still feeling a chill in the air, he moved closer to you and handed you what you were looking for. A gentle expression etched on his face.
So soft, his voice echoed through the room bathed in orange light—the only light your fragile eyes could bear—his hand finding yours. Pressing it gently with a tenderness that whispered to you that he was there now.
"I don't know," you sniffed again. But this time it was different—he could tell. It was a sniff that revealed an overwhelming urge to cry out of sheer exhaustion. "I think I'm sick."
Trembling, your faint voice reached his ears, tugging at his heartstrings.
"I think so too," he knelt down beside you, the cold of his hand contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from your forehead. "Very much indeed."
With a difficulty as great as not laughing when he missed a goal he had dedicated to you, you propped yourself up. And the world around you rocked like a boat caught in a raging sea.
A sea where every ship flies his flag.
"Easy there," he cooed, stroking your back, probably feeling how damp you were from having stayed in bed all day. "Why didn't you call?"
Slowly, sliding like a snake toward your chin, his thumb cupped your face, lifting it just enough to make out your tired eyes, ringed with dark circles.
"I didn't want to worry you," you blubbered, averting your gaze as tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm such a burden."
You had this innate ability to make everything more romantic.
Even when you were sick as a dog, all he noticed was that your pajamas had his name on them.
He didn’t notice anything else—just the way you’d slept on his side of the bed. Or that the TV was playing highlights from his game.
He didn’t care about your sweat, your runny nose, or your hoarse voice. All he saw was how much of him shone through you. That even in pain and discomfort, you were still thinking of him.
"You know that's not true," Brief and gentle on your chapped lips, he pressed a soft kiss. The tips of his fingers drying away those tears he so despised on you. "You know you’re more important than 90 minutes on a pitch."
"Stop that, Bunny. You’ll get sick."
"That's the best gift you could ever give me," again, he planted another peck on them. "Wouldn't you like to be stuck in bed with me?"
The front door slammed shut, jolting you abruptly out of your daze.
Slumped over your desk, wearing a dressing gown that wasn’t yours, you struggled as best you could to remember your very name.
Your mind was still foggy, your eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh light, and your head was pounding in time with your heartbeat—or even faster. You couldn’t tell.
Even peeling the paper off your sweaty arm was a real ordeal. The pen wedged between your fingers a clue about what you were doing before you succumbed to exhaustion.
Desperately trapped in a kind of dream where you couldn’t tell if the voice echoing down the hallway was his.
"Bichette, where are you?"
A reply didn't even have to cross your lips; his inner compass naturally guided him to you.
Like a cat that always lands on its feet, he knew by heart that sense of peace that washed over him whenever he found you again.
Even if he turned blind, his legs alone would guide him to you. That was destiny.
"There you are," he breathed, relieved to find you in your usual spot. As if you would ever miss one of his comings home. "Were you working with your headphones on? What did I tell you about the risk of hearing loss?"
Hugo was very pragmatic; the kind of guy who would point out the doormat that was in the wrong place—the one you might have tripped over—before even kissing you hello.
"I’m sorry, I was sleeping."
Your revelation made him drop his bag from his shoulder, a puzzled look frozen on his face. It was almost as if you’d just told him something huge, really huge, and completely unbelievable.
"What do you mean, 'sleep'? On the desk, you mean? What about your lower back? Your neck? I’ve already told you that taking naps in the middle of the day messes up your sleep cycle."
You couldn’t even get a word in edgewise, the concern in his voice growing as the realization hit him.
There it was—the question and the answer at the same time. He wasn’t slow on the uptake; he just took the time to consider all the facts before drawing a conclusion.
"I’ll be right back," he slipped away, and you heard the cabinets open, the faucet turn on, then his footsteps in the hallway. "Why didn’t you call me?"
The big question. The one that had been running through his head for what felt like agonizing seconds and had probably already rewritten his brain.
"It's just the flu," you clumsily grabbed the glass of water he handed you, his fingers wrapping around it to steady your hand. "And besides, I had to work."
"Working in these conditions? Seriously," his thumb rested on your chin, opening your mouth just enough to slip an ibuprofen tablet inside. "Look at yourself. You can barely sit up. Drink."
He was a jack-of-all-trades—scolding you while playing doctor and giving you orders. So quick-witted, all yours.
"I ended up falling asleep. Maybe I passed out or something like that," you admitted, gulping down the water he offered you. "I’m sick, that’s all. No need to make a big deal out of it."
He was a proxy hypochondriac, and using terms such as "passed out" may have been the last straw on his scale of what was acceptable to hear.
He wasn’t reassured by your words; you could tell by the way he took your hand. His other hand resting against your lower back, he guided you through the apartment, a labyrinth to a mind so foggy.
“I can’t even concentrate when I’m sick. The flu makes me feel stupid.”
“Lara Fabian sings a song about being sick,” he murmured, tucking you into a bed with rumpled sheets and planting a kiss on your forehead.
The you from this morning was far too preoccupied with his game rather than doing household chores.
"I think she’s talking about a broken heart, not catching a nasty virus," your tried to recall, far too somnolently.
"See? Being sick doesn’t take away from your insight, choupette."
Soon after, sleep carried you away once more while he was telling you about his day. But this time, under the watchful eye of a man who was looking out for you.
And when you woke up, he already seemed more at peace. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his blank book resting on his laps, he looked at you the way a tourist might look at the Eiffel Tower.
A look of wonder and that already irresistible urge to come back and visit her every night, as the “Iron Lady” sparkles with a thousand lights.
"Was it my destiny to get sick?
"I don’t think so. But it was my destiny to take care of you."
He had come back to claim her—that trophy with rabbit ears that sealed the second star on the Parisian jersey.
The capital erupted, the streets overflowing with people celebrating the coronation of the rightful champion.
Their shouts of joy echoed until the early hours of the morning, until the realization of this exploit finally catches up with them.
As for you, you dazed off as the players lifted her, your eyes closing on that picture of him. A silly smile on his lips, your ears almost picking up that beautiful laugh of his.
Maybe the stress of being away from him got the better of you, giving way to something a little more wicked.
A cold that immediately put you in bed—no room for negotiation. Just like him when he'd remind you to go to sleep, saying you needed to get your 8 hours of rest.
A cold that made you sleep for 12 hours straight, that woke you up the day after the celebrations with regret that you hadn't called him to congratulate him, and a dry throat.
Not even a quick text, worse than any type of fever.
The first thing your mind jumped on, grabbing your phone with such difficulty that just pulling your arm out from under the comforter made you shiver.
There wasn't even time for your eyes to adjust to the light before they widened.
On your home screen, dozens of unread messages ranging from cute morning texts to immense concerns. Missed calls logged at all hours of the night, almost every minutes. He’d even sent emails.
A sort of descent into madness, made worse by your dismissive attitude. And a realization that only deepened your sadness; you’d probably ruined his evening.
Still a little groggy, your brain didn’t know what to do. He was probably still asleep at that hour, after undoubtedly celebrating late into the night, but his absence actually reassured you.
It bought you some time to get back on your feet. And you would have hated for him to get sick too.
Leaning against the bedroom door, arms crossed, he was observing you. Eyes tired, still wearing the sweatpants from the day before, he looked as if he had a restless, unrefreshing night.
And knowing his personality and habits, that was undoubtedly the case.
"Loki," you called out, the drowsiness finally leaving your limbs. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I didn't call you to celebrate your victory."
Gathering what little strength you had left, you waved him over; your headache still too severe for you to even consider getting up.
Quiet, obedient, he slipped by your side, dropping to his knees as to be at eyes level. For a few seconds, all you could discerne was how his eyes sparkled with the pride and determination of a newlywed.
A gaze that made your heart tighten, leaving your lungs unsure whether to inhale or exhale.
"It’s okay," he reassured, sweet. "Are you sick?"
You nodded, and your throat went dry at the sound of his soft voice. As if you had longed for it for too long, his touch tingly on your skin.
His kiss, as gentle as waves lapping at your ankles, grazing the back of your hand.
"Mon cœur, you should have called me."
Right away, you shook your head.
"Certainly not," you admitted, tightening your grip with what little strength you had left. "It’s not every day you become European champion by beating your friend."
He chuckled, his piercing eyes softening for a moment. A moment when he looked at you the way he looked at her yesterday.
Terribly in love, proud and reassured.
And without even breaking his gaze, he slipped a bouquet of flowers into your palm.
The ones you adored, the ones he gifted you on every occasion. The ones who soothed your heart and could have healed all your ills.
"Maybe you’re right," again, a kiss. "But it's not every day I get the chance to take care of my own bedridden girl."
Even though Bayern Munich’s championship win wasn’t much of a surprise after their 35th title, it was still a reason to celebrate.
Confined to bed with a sore throat and a stuffy nose, you felt like you were dying every time you swallowed your saliva and choking when air wouldn’t get through your nostrils.
Feeling both cold and hot at the same time, you were losing your mind as the hours ticked by. Being sick didn’t suit you—it made you very dramatic and caused a lot of overthink.
Overthinking about everything. Like those unanswered messages you sent to Micheal.
Your mind, far too foggy for such an hour of the day, overflowed with morbid thoughts. When you closed your eyes, you saw his plane crashing. When you buried your face in his pillow, you imagined a fatal car accident.
Even staring at the ceiling turned into a manhunt: supposedly, his plane had already reported its landing. So no doubt that he was still alive and that your fever was making you anxious.
Wrapped in his blanket, you peered over the balcony to see if you could spot his car on the street. But nothing—every black cars oddly resembling his.
Every blond men sporting a jaded expression a hint of hope.
Leaning on the railing, you watched the passersby wearing Bayern jerseys, smiles lighting up their faces, and a sigh escaped your lips.
Your nerves were on the verge of snapping; exhaustion was starting to make you delirious, and at that moment, you wished for him to come back to you.
That he would gently scold you, tucking your feverish body in bed, still with that hint of arrogance dripping from every words.
That feigned nonchalance that hides something as big as his love for football.
"What’s exactly is wrong with you now?"
Cold and probing, that voice felt just as good as a fresh breeze when you suddenly felt like suffocating. Disdainful even over such a simple matter—you didn’t know it was possible to be that way.
And yet, as you clutched your comforter tighter, when you turned around, you were glad to see him.
Black tracksuit adorned with the club’s crest, perfect hair, and a bag at his fingertips.
There he was, annoyingly cute with that pout religiously stuck on his lips, a gleam of animosity sparkling in the blue of his eyes.
"Michael, you’re back," you breathed softly, your fever and that anxiety subsiding with every step you took toward him.
“Because I was…” You stopped short, and a silence fell over the room as you realized there was actually no reason to worry.
"Get into bed," he snapped, his irritation already evident in his voice. But his rudeness was just as poorly feigned as the distant, anxious look that shone in his eyes. "I brought you some medicine."
You watched him, a raised eyebrow the only display of your confusion.
"Medicine? How did you know I was sick?"
Clearly not in the mood to explain, he just repeated himself. A slightly more serious look settled on his face to drive home his point, but it vanished when he tucked you in under the comforter.
Piling blankets on your lap, he even resigned himself to covering you with the one with little hearts—the one you’d given him as a joke and that he kept hidden from prying eyes. The very same one he used when you weren’t there.
He was silent, focused on his task, and brimming with caution.
And watching him open the bottles one by one, tear open the ibuprofen packets, and make trips back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom to take care of you—secretly—had a greater effect than his medicine.
"Open your mouth," he ordered and you obeyed, your gaze never leaving his. In love. Completely charmed by his gentle behaviour. "Wider!"
You shouldn’t have pushed it—this was still Michael Kaiser, after all.
He made sure you swallowed it, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in your grimace at the bitter medicine before forcing you to lie down, a damp towel on your forehead.
He took care of you as if you had an incurable disease. An innate affliction he’d waited his whole life to cure through you—something he couldn’t even cure within himself.
"How did you know I was sick?"
You were sick, sure, but his lies didn’t go unnoticed.
"I saw it on the surveillance cameras," he confessed, his words barely a whisper, as if he were ashamed of keeping an eye on you even from across the country.
He acted as if he hated having to take care of you, when deep down, far away, he was almost reveling in it.
"Since when do we have surveillance-"
You’d woken up with a start in the middle of the night, the winter fog still blanketing the streets outside.
Drenched in sweat, like a damp towel clinging to your body after a swim.
Head spinning, just like on those days when the sun strikes so hard you lose track of time.
And yet, none of that was the case right now. Far from the gentle summers spent away from everyone, tonight it was you who was far from him.
Your bedroom was still lit by the TV you’d left on last night, its blinding light splattering across the walls and bedding. Letting you come to your senses, steady your breathing in front of him.
Or at least, in front of the highlights of the Supercoppa—its final won by Lorenzo and his teammates barely a couple of hours ago.
His footwork and dribbles made your head spin even more, your palms oddly sweaty around the remote control to turn it off.
You couldn’t even remember how your evening had ended. Almost as if you’d collapsed into bed, clutching his pillow—still carrying his scent—to your body like a sin.
Just like the sin of envy, your mind unable to accept the fact he wasn’t by your side at this hour of the night.
All of that just to wake up feeling nauseous, alone in that bed, your whole body burning with the urge to throw up everything you’d swallowed.
As you dared to get up, your legs were so wobbly they threatened to give out, your vision blurry when you reached for the bathroom light switch.
Then suddenly, your stomach turned, and a sudden wave of heat surged through your chest, overwhelming your face.
You could still feel the acid burning in your throat, while your breathing quickened at the sight of a second reflection in the mirror.
Slender, tall, and carrying that weary look no amount of sleep by your side could cure. Lorenzo had come home at the worst possible moment.
"You weren’t answering your phone," he whispered, approaching you cautiously, as if afraid you might falter at the slightest sudden movement. "What’s wrong? Tell me."
You leaned against the sink when you realized that everything was going to be okay now, your racing mind finally quieted.
It must have been a painful sight to see—your trembling hands pushing him away, breaking his heart. Even more than your fleeting gaze.
"Sorry for worrying you," you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, securing it with the same confidence he’d shown when lifting the trophy. "It’ll pass, don’t worry. But stay away—I don’t want you to get sick."
You didn’t even dare look up, embarrassed that he’d see you in such a condition.
But that was underestimating him—his resolve was tenfold when the one he cherished was suffering. Because he knew perfectly well that he could help you feel better and never suffer the way he had.
So gently on your cheeks, he cupped your face so you’d look at him. Because even with your tired eyes, chapped lips, and sweaty face, you still shone with that way you had of wanting to protect him.
To shield him a little more from this cruel world.
"I'm calling the best doctor in town," he said, grabbing his phone while his other hand remained on your forehead. "What are your symptoms?"
"It's just the flu—it's no big deal," you reassured, with a confidence he could hardly believe.
Your body barely able to remain steady, swaying so much that even the edge of the sink looked like a wobbly pudding.
As if to prove you wrong, agree with him against your own will, your body sent you those unmistakable signals.
A knot in your stomach that tightened up as breathing alone became a conscious effort, a bead of sweat running down the nape of your neck sending a shill down to your fingertips.
And then, that sudden dryness in your mouth made you lean over the sink, Lorenzo grabbing your hair to keep it out of the way of what was about to happen.
"Is this nothing?" Another gag, his fingers brushing away a strand of hair, tucking it gently behind your ear. "Nothing this expensive doctor can't treat?"
"Money doesn't solve everything..." The faucet turned on; the water still bearing a strange taste in your mouth.
And yet, his words seemed to you like honey that healed all your ills. His mere presence the cure for your troubles.
"I guarantee that, as far as you're concerned, my money is the answer to all your problems."
In your dream, sporting an invisible smile, Sae had just won his fourth Champions League.
Content, maybe proud, he looked like a whole different man. That trophy a the tip of his fingers like a king being crowned after years of struggle.
His white jersey as immaculate as the rebirth of a player who had lost all hope.
"Why are you smiling? Wake up."
Sudden, unwanted, your eyes flew open, gasping for air as if you had been emerged under water for too long.
Sweaty and exhausted despite your visible very, very extended nap, your body almost instantly reminded you of that night spent rummaging around the house for medecine that could make you sleep.
Like a ghost haunting the walls of an old building, your sore throat and dizziness didn’t magically disappeared after a restless twelve hour of 'nap.'
"Why are you sleeping on the couch?"
Startled once again, his figure looming over yours made you gasp.
He seemed carefree, with his bag slung over his shoulder like a teenager, yet he appeared worried. As if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Something that had to do with you.
You asked, trying to prop yourself up—at least having the decency to sit up straight so you wouldn't look like a slumped-over rag.
Without exchanging a word, he helped you, wrapping your shivering figure in that blanket that always carried your scent, your warmth never too far away in its fabric.
"What do you mean? I just got home."
A silence, your mind racing with thoughts of everything and nothing at once. Your memory failing you to even remember the last time you saw him.
"It was yesterday, and we won." He looked at you like you were some sort of alien, speaking gibberish. "I rushed back home because you weren’t answering."
His statement was laced with sarcasm, as if you were playing at his face—trying to fool him with one of your unfunny jokes.
"It doesn’t matter," He took off his bag, his usual expression replaced by one that was even more indescribable—a mixture of worry and confusion. "What’s wrong with you? Sleeping on the couch, ignoring my calls, not answering my texts."
"I don’t know, I’m feeling dizzy and all."
"You’re sick," it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. In the sense he knew you so much that every of your actions had a meaning.
Ignoring him? Certainly napping.
Speaking nonsense in your sleep? Dreaming of him.
Sleeping on the couch? Watching one of his games.
A long sigh, exasperated, escaped from his lips as he watched you. Like two people waiting for the other to carry on the conversation.
More like, one man pretending not to be happy that you were sick.
He stubbornly pretended not to care about anything, but deep down, he longed for those moments of vulnerability when he felt he was needed.
When he didn’t have to settle for something less prestigious than his dream. When you were his dream, and no matter what happened, that dream would never change.
"Why didn’t you call? I could have send you a doctor."
"I didn’t even realised I was sick myself."
A glance that said it all was offered to you. And today, it seemed like even your puppy eyes won’t be enough to save you from his gentle scolding.
"And you’re an adult with responsibilities?" A hand raised to your blazing forehead. "You’re lucky I love you."
