Hi! I'm back with my OC's! Pics of them here if you're curious!
Summary: 4.5k words. OC m/m. Nass is really sick. Prince Bellamy to the rescue. Bellamy's POV.
TW: Alcohol, and violence mentioned. Whump. Magical illness. Hospital setting.
*Yekitiverse is a magical world based on North Africa but I imagine it to take place sort of akin to our 1920's - 1930's. So there are cars and radio, but no phones.*
I have created a Ko-fi that I am going to link here. It is absolutely not necessary. But truthfully, I have been unemployed for many months lol. Creating the Yekitiverse has been a huge part of coping with that stress. Anyway, if you enjoy my content and feel called to offer something, it is deeply appreciated. Either way, thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys this universe. <3
Read the rest of their stories here.
In the end it was Bellamy who suggested they see other people.
After having sex with Nass in the Hookah Lounge, he’d laid in bed more angry than he’s ever been in his life, the scent of smoke still on his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw red light, velvet, Nass’s mouth — the sobering truth curdling any form of sleep.
Nass will always see him as a Northerner. Even if they have feelings for each other — Nass still feels ashamed of it. Ashamed that he wants Bellamy.
And Bellamy doesn’t blame him. His father murdered his mother. Torched Southern land and stole all their resources. No wonder he feels guilty liking him.
Bellamy doesn’t want Nass to hate himself. He cares about him far too much for that.
“We can never be together,” Nass had said in the winter, while they stood in the hallway during their evaluation. “My ancestors would roll in their graves.”
Bellamy doesn’t want to make any Southern spirits roll in their graves. The Velazquez family has done enough to the South. And besides, if his father ever, gods forbid, found out he was seeing a Southerner — Bellamy could be flogged. Nass could be killed.
And so, he decided the best thing to do would be to remove himself from the situation.
When he suggested to Nass that they stop seeing each other, Nass had looked a little shocked. Then of course, because its Nass, shock turned almost instantly to anger.
“Is this because of what I said to my friends?” he’d said, face paling. “I said I was sorry, Bellamy. You made me walk through campus nearly half-naked.”
“That’s not why,” Bellamy had said, everything in him fighting to stay calm. “It’s for your safety, Nass — the king could come after you.”
“Let him!” Nass half shouted. “I’m one of the best fire mages in the country!”
Bellamy had nearly given in at that.
“It’s in your best interest to see other people,” he continued. “You’re ashamed to be with me. You hate yourself for it — I see it killing you. I’m doing this for you, Nass.”
Nass had trembled at that.
Bellamy had swallowed every urge in his body to touch him and said instead,
“I understand. My family has done unspeakable things to yours. I don’t want to make you choose between your village and me. We don’t need to stop being friends. But I think you’d be better off being with a Southerner.”
He had touched Nass’s arm at that — and Nass immediately ripped it away.
“Fine!” Nass had shouted. “I will.”
“I care about you, Nass,” Bellamy said quietly. “More than anyone. And I want you to be safe and happy. Even if it’s not with me.”
Nass had stalked away — and that was over a month and a half ago.
Days later, Nass immediately started seeing an underclassman — Raul.
The quick turn around time hurt.
Especially because Raul’s everything Bellamy is not. Southern. A fire mage. Dark, wild beauty that makes Bellamy stare at his own stupid blue eyes in the mirror and wonder why Nass ever liked him at all.
But besides his new boyfriend, Nass has not been handling their (breakup?) well. And Bellamy is worried.
Marwa told him on the weekends he spends his time in bars and clubs with Raul and hardly sleeps.
“You have to do something, Bellamy,” she had said. “Anha and I are going on exchange for two weeks and I’m worried to leave him.”
“I’ll keep an eye on Nass,” Bellamy had promised her before she left. “But he refuses to speak to me.”
Nass barely goes to class — which is alarming, since he’s already on academic probation. Three days ago, he showed up to their meditation class at 9 in the morning with a black eye, piss drunk. It was so bad that Master Khandro had personally escorted him back to his room.
Bellamy doesn’t know what to do. Nass won’t speak to him, makes out with Raul whenever Bellamy is within eyesight, and has basically decided Bellamy does not exist.
It looks like anger, but Bellamy knows it’s disguised as grief.
And gods, Bellamy misses him.
He misses Nass’s teasing, their tutoring sessions, their arguments — fucking him. He misses the way Nass treats him like a regular person, demands he be human instead of a prince.
But Bellamy needs to keep it together. That has always been his job.
But between missing Nass and getting ready to travel the South with his father next week, Bellamy has hardly been sleeping.
And that is why, at three a.m., in the middle of studying from his Kureesh textbook, he is awake to hear a very angry knock at his dorm door.
His stomach plummets. It must be Nass. Only Nass knocks like that.
Half alarmed, half hopeful, Bellamy drags himself upright, rubbing at his heavy eyes. He straightens his shirt and opens the door — only to freeze.
Not Nass.
Raul.
For a heartbeat, Bellamy’s brain stalls. Raul’s stands in front of him, jaw tight, hand curled into a fist, expression caught somewhere between fury and restraint.
“Raul,” Bellamy manages, reining in his shock and forcing his face into neutrality — an automatic habit beaten into him by years of royal training.“Is there something I can help you with at this hour?”
His tone is polite, measured — but he can feel the grief tightening in his throat. Three days ago, he’d walked into lunch to see Raul’s tongue down Nass’s throat. The image still stings like acid.
He wonders, despite himself, if Nass prefers Raul’s kiss to his.
“Your Highness,” Raul says flatly. “Sorry to wake you.”
The words drip with contempt.
Bellamy resists the instinct to flinch. Raul hates him — probably for a dozen reasons. Maybe he’s here to scream about the Kureesh ban. Maybe about the North in general. Maybe about how Bellamy used to fuck his boyfriend.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Bellamy says, folding his arms. “And please. Just call me Bellamy.”
Raul’s Adam’s apple bobs. He looks somewhere between upset and furious.
“It’s Nass,” he finally gets out.
A cold rush of alarm floods Bellamy.
“What about him?” he asks, the neutrality in his voice already starting to crack.
“He’s really sick,” Raul says.
“Oh,” Bellamy blinks. He isn’t surprised, not with the way Nass has been burning himself down lately. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to see. You’re his boyfriend. Have you been with him?”
“I’ve been with him all night,” Raul snaps. “His fever’s really high. He should probably go to emergency down in the city.”
Bellamy stares at him. He can feel the vein in his forehead start to twitch.
“So,” he says slowly, every word dipped in ice, “why aren’t you doing that, then? Why are you wasting time standing here talking to me?”
Raul’s glare hardens. “Because,” he spits, “he’s been in and out of sleep — half delirious — and started calling your name instead of mine.”
Bellamy’s mouth goes dry.
Nass has been calling for him?
Raul steps back, fury radiating off him. “So here I am. Since he clearly wants you so fucking badly — he can be your problem. You take him to emergency. I’m out.”
He turns and stalks down the hallway toward the underclassmen dorms, the slam of the stairwell door echoing like a gunshot.
The sound jolts Bellamy out of his shock. Then instinct takes over.
He snatches his jacket, slides into his shoes, and bolts down the corridor — his heart pounding.
Raul’s left the door open; it hangs slightly ajar.
Bellamy shoves the door hard— and the smell hits him first.
Liquor. Sweat. Stale smoke.
The dorm is chaos. Clothes, books, and papers cover every surface. The floor’s littered with bottles and crumpled cigarette packs. The whole place looks like a bomb went off.
And there, on the bed, lies Nass.
He’s sprawled half sideways on top of the sheets, sweat-soaked, shivering, shirt twisted around his torso. His chest rises and falls in uneven, shallow breaths. His skin is the wrong color — flushed scarlet across his cheekbones, pale everywhere else.
Bellamy’s breath catches. His anger he’s felt towards Nass for the past month and a half evaporates.
“Raul,” Nass rasps, head rolling across his bed. His voice is a rasped, ragged, sound, like he’s gargled marbles. “M’sorry — m’sorry — ”
Bellamy’s breath catches.
“Nass,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “It’s me.”
No response which sends every nerve in Bellamy’s body alight with panic. He crosses the room in three strides and crouches at the bedside. The heat radiating off Nass’s skin hits him before he even touches him.
“Gods,” Bellamy mutters under his breath, pressing a hand to his slick forehead. He’s burning up.
Nass stirs faintly, blinking through half-lidded eyes. His lips part, cracked and dry.
“B’lamy?” he slurs, voice hoarse and broken, jerking forward with a "hh’hhh’tsschh!”
The sound is soft, broken, more air than voice and Bellamy winces at the noise of pain Nass makes from the sneeze.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Bless you. I’m here, Nass.”
Nass lets out something between a laugh and a groan. “Missed you,” he breathes, a raw, delirious sound. “Fuck. Missed you… a lotd.”
Bellamy freezes. His heart starts pounding so hard he thinks it might crack his ribs.
“You need water.” he swallows, glancing around for a cloth, a glass, anything. “Gods, how long have you been like this? I’m taking your temperature. Now.”
He finds a thermometer half-buried under rolling papers and slips it between Nass’s lips. Nass blinks at him, dark eyes glassy, fever-bright.
Then Bellamy stands, dumps a half-drunk glass of whiskey, and fills it with water. He returns to the bed, hauling Nass gently upright — his back slick, shirt clinging, every muscle trembling with effort.
The thermometer beeps. Bellamy pulls it out, stomach dropping at the number.
No wonder he’s delirious.
“You need to drink,” Bellamy says, attempting to raise the glass it to his lips. “You’re severely dehydrated.”
Nass shakes his head, sagging sideways, too weak to hold himself up.
“Hurtds too drink,” he rasps. “I — hh’iiisSCH’yue!”
Nass moans in the aftermath, dark eyebrows twisting in agony.
Bellamy’s gaze flicks down to Nass’s throat and chest. The skin there is blotched and red, his lymph nodes swollen and puffy.
The realization drops like lead in his stomach — a highly contagious infection that makes speaking, swallowing, even breathing feel like fire.
He’s only had it once himself — fire lung — back when he was a small child still living in the orphanage in his northern village. He remembers the burn that crawled down his throat like swallowing embers, the way his fever shimmered behind the eyes until the world swam.
Bellamy swears in Northern tongue.
“We’re going to emergency in the city,” Bellamy says. “You need antibiotics.”
“Ndo,” Nass coughs, throat tearing raw. “So…far.”
Action. Right. Doing things. He is very good at doing things. And now he has to do a very big thing of bringing Nass all the way down to the city port and into a cab.
“You can sleep on the gondola down,” Bellamy stands. “Promise.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He yanks open Nass’s wardrobe, finds the warmest fleece jacket and brings it back.
“All right,” he murmurs. “Up we go.”
Nass mumbles something incoherent but doesn’t fight him. He guides Nass’s arms through the sleeves, fingers fumbling with the zipper. Heat radiates through the fabric, blistering. Nass’s head lolls against his shoulder, breath wheezing shallow and fast.
Bellamy moves faster. He slides on Nass’s shoes then wraps his own arm around his back, hoisting him out of his bed and half-carrying him toward the door.
“Hh’ISHh’hew!” His nose presses into the side of Bellamy’s neck, the sneeze dampening his skin. The force of the expulsion makes Nass stumble on the threshold of his room, knees buckling. Bellamy grip tightens on him instantly.
“Woah. Bless you. Hey Nass —look at me.”
Nass blinks up at him, pupils blown wide.
“Can you walk for me? As much as you can?” Bellamy works his voice into calm. “Just to the gondola?” His hand comes up, brushing the damp hair from Nass’s forehead, thumb tracing the sweat at his temple. “You’re going to feel so much better when we get emergency.”
“Kay,” Nass’s teeth chatter. The shivering is so violent it rocks them both.
They move down the hall in slow, uneven steps, Bellamy half-dragging, half-holding him upright. The old wooden floors creak beneath their feet. Nass mutters under his breath —fragments of apologies, words in Kureesh Bellamy doesn’t recognize but dearly wished he did.
It takes him nearly twenty minutes just to get outside the university. When the night air hits them, Nass gasps like he’s been dunked in icy water, then starts shaking again, violent and uncontrollable. Bellamy pulls him in closer, arm banded tight across his blistering chest.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
He half-drags him across the cobblestone courtyard to the cliffside station. The 24-hour gondola hums quietly on its rails, swaying slightly in the wind. Below them, across the sea, the entire city glitters faintly — lights flickering like a constellation.
Bellamy presses the call button. The glass doors hiss open, spilling out a rush of metal-and-salt air.
“Come on,” he whispers, more to himself than to Nass. “You can lie down.”
He half-carries, half-guides Nass inside, who immediately doubles over coughing — a raw, tearing sound that shakes his whole frame. Bellamy steadies him by the shoulders, lowering him onto the cushioned bench as gently as he can.
The gondola lurches once, then begins its slow descent — a creaking, humming slide down the cliff face. The sound of the cables groaning above mixes with the wind howling through the vents.
Bellamy sits down beside him, gently lifting Nass’s head onto his lap. The heat pouring off him is scalding. Sweat sticks his straight black hair; his pulse thruming wildly against Bellamy’s thigh. He rubs Nass’s arms in a futile effort to stop the shivering.
“B’lamy,” Nass moans, voice shredded, barely more than air. His head rolls weakly, pressing into Bellamy’s stomach. His chest seizes in another fit of shallow breaths that break into a hoarse, breathless “hH’ITSHh-!” —hh’k’tschhh!” — spraying helplessly across Bellamy’s shirt.
Bellamy doesn’t even flinch.
“M’sorry for everything,” Nass gasps, shoulders trembling, face crumpling in exhaustion and pain.
“Shh.” Bellamy looks down at him, fingers curling in his hair. “Don’t speak. I know it hurts.”
“No,” Nass croaks, shaking his head weakly. His eyes, glassy with fever, brim with tears. “Please. I…wantd to.”
Nass raises a shaking hand, fingers curling into Bellamy’s with surprising strength — like if he doesn’t hold on, he’ll drift right out of the gondola and into the sea.
It feels achingly familiar. The contact burns through Bellamy’s chest, grounding him. He tightens his grip around Nass’s hand, thumb stroking slow circles over his knuckles.
“Don’t…” Nass rasps, voice catching on a cough. His throat bobs painfully. “Want to be with andyone else.”
His voice is barely above a whisper. But Bellamy hears him loud and clear as if Nass has shouted it.
Before he can speak, Nass’s breath hitches — and then he starts to cry. Real tears. Big, hot drops rolling down his fevered cheeks.
Bellamy freezes. He’s never seen Nass cry.
Never seen Nass really be anything other than teasing or angry.
“Not…Raul….you.” Nass hiccups, curling tighter into Bellamy’s jacket. His voice breaks entirely on the last word.
Bellamy’s left hand moves instinctively, thumbing away the tears even as new ones spill over.
“Nass, I—” he starts, not sure where the words are even supposed to go.
“I —,” Nass’s squeezes his eyes shut. Then opens them. “I…love you Bellamy.”
Bellamy’s heart nearly jumps out his ribcage. For a moment, the gondola and the cliffs and the sea below just disappear.
Then Nass’s body jerks with a loud sob, wracking his fever-slick frame. “I love you,” he gets out between ragged breaths. “Want… to… make it work.”
His face twists in pain, violent coughs finally overtaking anything else he wants to say.
“It’s okay, Nass,” Bellamy swallows. His hand rub circles pressing on a nervous system point between Nass’s shoulder blades. “It’s okay. We will make it work.”
It’s not just an empty promise to get him to stop crying. The statement rings true in every fibre of Bellamy’s being. He, as much as Nass, wants to make it work.
Nass loves him. No one, except his mother, who died for his existence, ever loved him in his life.
And maybe, Bellamy loves him too. Not that he can say it right now.
Nass is still crying when the gondola docks at the base of the cliff. The whole cabin creaks with a low, metallic groan. Bellamy barely waits for the doors to open before he’s moving—his arm locked around Nass’s waist, steering him out onto the damp stone platform.
The air down here is thick and wet with sea fog. The port lamps burn low and orange, halos of light flickering across the cobblestones. The streets are mostly empty except for a few late workers and a drunk sailor arguing with his reflection in a puddle.
Nass coughs once, a low, chesty sound that makes Bellamy’s stomach twist.
“Hold on, Nass,” Bellamy murmurs, tightening his hold. “Almost there.”
He flags down the closest cab, trying his best to ignore the drivers look of absolute shock at picking up the prince of Yekiti at four in the morning.
He manages to get Nass into the car, who, too weak to sit up, immediately curls into Bellamy’s lap, spraying the bare skin on his wrist with a breathless hh’k’tschhh!”
“Hh!” Nass rasps, barely audible, voice shredding apart.. “Hih!”
“To Melera Urgent care please,” he tells the driver, who mercifully just nods and begins to drive.
Nass is still hitching out breaths in his lap, face twisted in pain. Bellamy winces, bringing the sleeve of his jacket to cover Nass’s nose just as he jerks into him with a muffled “hh! hEHSHHh’iueh!”
It tears out of him, dampening Bellamy’s sleeve immediately and wrenching a small, pained sound from Nass’s throat.
Bellamy’s stomach turns over.
“Bless you,” he murmurs, removing his sleeve from Nass's face and rubbing slow circles at Nass’s temple. “You’re going to feel better within the hour. Promise.”
The streets blur past, dark and silent. Thankfully, at this hour, the roads are empty, and in no time they’re pulling up to the glowing front doors of Melera Urgent Care.
Bellamy pays the driver and hauls Nass upright, tightening his grip as he guides him through the glass doors and into the waiting room.
The chatter in the room dies instantly. Gasps ripple through the twenty or so people sitting in plastic chairs. Every head turns toward him — even the healers at the front desk.
The air changes—goes tight and small. Bellamy feels it immediately: the eyes, the recognition, the way every breath in the room seems to hold itself. His stomach goes cold. He’s been here before—different rooms, same silence.
He swallows the wave of anxiety that ripples through him.
Any time he is in a public place it is a toss up as to whether people will be polite or spit in his face. His father has never been popular but nowadays things are at all time low.
He feels their stares like stones against his back, the kind that bruise even when he pretends it doesn’t.
“You will command any room if you are to be a Velaquez,” was one of the first things the king ever said to a terrified twelve-year old Bellamy. “You will show no emotion. Be able to control any situation you enter. This is what it means to be a royal. Now stop shaking boy.”
The words slide back into his head uninvited, sharp and metallic. Show no emotion.
Bellamy swallows hard. He tightens his grip on Nass—small, fever-hot, trembling against him—and forces his shoulders straight.
He knows what the room needs to see: composure. Authority. A prince.
He lifts his chin, voice ringing clear and authoritative through the stillness:
“My friend is very sick and requires a private room immediately.”
Ten minutes later, Bellamy and a healer named Mari, stand in a modest private room of the urgent care.
Mari had taken one look at Nass before immediately settling him down into the bed and hooking him up to an IV.
“Your Majesty,” Mari says, rummaging through her pockets. She pulls out a mask, handing it to him. “You should wear a mask. Fire lung is extremely contagious.”
“Thank you,” Bellamy says politely, taking the mask from her and putting it over his mouth and nose.
His fingers tremble as he loops the elastic behind his ears, but he forces the motion smooth. He doesn’t tell her that he’s probably already doomed.
He’s due to travel south with his father in eight days — dozens of village elders to meet, speeches to give in Kureesh. His father’s expectations. His own rising panic. All of it burns behind his ribs, something he cannot afford to think about. Not now.
Right now, Nass is breathing easier. That’s the only thing that matters.
“You were right to bring him in,” Mari nods at Nass who is staring up at the ceiling, doped on painkillers. “Fire lung usually goes away in three days or so with antibiotics. But he really needs sleep. The painkiller should help.”
“Fuck — fuck,” Nass rasps out behind his blue mask. “Fuck my throat hurrrtsssss.”
“I’ll hold him until morning,” she says. “You can go, Your Highness.” She gives him a smile behind her own mask. “You must be tired.”
“I’ll wait until you discharge him,” Bellamy says. “And bring him home.”
It’s Tuesday, which means he has class at 9 am that he probably will be missing at this rate.
“He’s myyyyyy boyfriend,” Nass laughs, which quickly turns into a cough. “Okay — sort of.” He clears his throat. “But I loveeeeee him….so he… should…. be mby….boyfriend. And he’s realllyyyyyyyy good at sex — hh’hhh’tsschhh!”
Nass snaps weakly into his mask.
Bellamy looks at the floor, heat flooding into his cheeks. His ears are burning.
It’s absurd, the way Nass can still unmake him even in a hospital bed.
Mari swallows a sound that sounds like a laugh.
“I will leave you two alone,” she says, dimming the bright lights. “Please ring me if you need anything.”
Nass is dead asleep only minutes after Mari leaves the room.
Bellamy settles down in the uncomfortable plastic chair at the end of the bed and watches the slow rise and fall of Nass’s chest. He keeps counting the breaths, again and again, until the rhythm steadies something inside him.
By nearly six am Bellamy is satisfied. He shuts the door to Nass’s bedroom quietly, exits the urgent care and back onto the street.
Sea fog drapes over the rooftops, the sky tinted pale amber. Bellamy’s coat smells like antiseptic and fever-sweat, but he can’t bring himself to care.
He always struggles with mornings. As an insomniac, he definitely prefers the quiet of the night.
But today, he enjoys watching the city of Mellila wake up.
He wanders through the narrow cobbled streets, past bakeries that smell of freshly baked bread, past shop owners opening their stores for the day. He ignores the stares of early morning commuters, and smiles at passing children heading to school.
After an hour of wandering, he is very hungry and ducks into a local café to order eggs dipped in tomato sauce — a typical breakfast in central Yekiti. The sharp spice jolts him awake. He takes a bite and thinks, absurdly, of the North — lavender bread and fruit — and feels tears sting his eyes.
He blinks them away before anyone can notice.
There are no Northern restaurants or bakeries in central Yekiti. Most of the country likes to pretend the North and its people don’t exist. And besides, so few Northerners ever leave that a Northern business wouldn’t do well here anyway.
So, Bellamy swallows his eggs, drinks two shots of sharp espresso before realizing food would probably be a good idea for Nass. He pays and wanders the streets again, able to trail his way back to the Southern restaurant where Nass had taken him in the winter, back when he was in the throes of a terrible head cold.
The employees look a little shocked to see him but hide it well. Bellamy explains the state of Nass and ten minutes later, leaves the restaurant with a takeaway cup of Southern tea and broth Southerners often eat when ill.
The spiced smell is so foreign and strange to Bellamy that holding the takeaway bag nearly makes him gag.
But still, he ignores his body’s response and carries it all the way back to the urgent care, pulling on his mask and slipping back into Nass’s dark room.
He must not have opened the door as quietly as he thought because he hears a raspy voice murmur — “Bellamy?” Then harsh coughing.
Bellamy immediately turns on the lights, sets the food down, and moves towards the bed.
“Easy,” he says, helping Nass sit up. He grabs the warm cup of Southern tea, pulling Nass’s mask down from his face. “Drink this.”
Nass obeys, taking small gulps. His throat works visibly as he swallows, eyes fluttering shut with relief.
Bellamy can feel just through Nass’s energy that his fever has gone down. He feels more with it, eyes more focused, and can say, “you’re the best sort of boyfriend ever.”
“You remember that?” Bellamy says, smirking despite himself. He sits slowly sits on the edge of Nass’s bed, squeezing the bottom of Nass’s feet.
“Yes,” Nass coughs. “Though I think I might be the worst boyfriend ever.” He rubs his throat. “Is Raul mad?”
“Well,” Bellamy purses his lips together. “You did call someone else’s name in your feverish delirium.”
He leans forward, pressing the back of his hand to Nass’s clammy skin.
“Hm,” he nods, relief flooding him. “Still feverish a little. But certainly less delirious. Are you hungry?”
Bellamy climbs to his feet to grab the broth, forcing the words out while his back is still turned.
“Do you remember anything else from last night?”
“You mean, telling you I loved you?” Nass coughs, snapping into his elbow. “Yes.”
“Hm,” Bellamy hands him the cup of broth. “I see.”
“I meantd it, Bellamy,” Nass rasps.
A heavy silence descends upon the room. Bellamy’s throat tightens.
“If you haven’t noticed,” Nass croaks out, motioning to his sickly appearance and his left eye that’s still faintly bruised. “I have not been handling our distance w-well.”
His barely their voice cracks on the last word. He begins to cough so hard that Bellamy is forced to grab the cup of broth, so it doesn’t spill.
Nass pulls his mask back over his face as he continues to cough, face whitening at the obvious pain in his throat.
“Ow,” Nass rasps as he finally catches his breath.
“Easy,” Bellamy says. “Save your voice. We don’t need to speak.”
Gods, Nass’s cough sounds horrid. They can talk about what this all means later, in a few days when Nass recovers.
“Thank you for bringing mbe here, Bellamy” Nass croaks, ignoring his suggestion.
“You’re welcome,” Bellamy says.
“I’m really sorry if I give this to you… hh! hhh’tsschhh’iyue!” Nass snaps into his mask with a miserable sounding sneeze.
Bellamy stamps down the urge to pick his fingernails — a nervous tic his tutors had spent years beating out of him. If he catches fire lung before he is due to travel the South he is royally fucked.
His father might kill him.
Not to mention that this is the first time in the entire history of Yekiti, that a Northern royal will speak with Southerners in Southern language.
But he doesn’t tell Nass any of that.
Instead, he smiles, patting the top of Nass’s knee.
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” He hands Nass a box of tissues on the bedside table. “Bless you.”
And he is. Dragging a delirious, sobbing Nass all the way down to the city in the middle of the night scared the shit out of him.
“Confessing my feelings for you while sobbing and sneezing all over you in the gondola is not how I wanted things to go,” Nass says as he blows his nose. His brown cheeks go a little red.
One of the rare times he’s ever seen Nass embarrassed.
“Well,” Bellamy shrugs, looking at the window down into the city streets of Mellila beneath them.
“Perhaps think of it as a blessing in disguise.”
