He felt guilty. He usually felt guilty when David was ill. As if he could have single handedly fought off the diseases or injuries. But he never got over the idea that he could have done something else, something more.
No point in dwelling now, though. It was just a cold, a nasty one, but not fetal by any stretch. David was asleep on the couch, his lover's hand stroking his overheated brow and damp hair. Gentle music played in the background - one of David's favorites.
On the table was all the pariphenalia of a cold - a box of tissues, a large sports bottle of water, some still warm chicken soup.
David was a wonderful patient, even if he did keep trying to do things for himself. His lover adored taking care of him, though, sick or not.
David had been ill already when his lover returned home. Remembering a handful of presents he'd gotten for the redhead, he stood and went to their bedroom. From his still packed luggage, he pulled out a small wrapped package and carried it back to the livingroom.
The neatly wrapped present was set on the table and David's lover settle on the floor beside him again, just watching his lover sleep, willing him to get better, just loving him with all his heart.
