Kadar was sleeping on the couch when they got to the apartment, a quilt tossed over him and the news playing on low. He woke with a start when Altaïr dropped the morning paper on his face, lifting his legs for Malik to sit and placing them in his lap.

"What'd he say," Kadar asked, voice a little scratchy.

"Ickle sicky-kins is dehydrated," Altaïr reported dryly. "Probably from him working too much. He's ordered to bed rest and fluids, as well as out of work for the rest of the week."

"Nice," Kadar said, using his socked foot to prod Malik into a state of semi-alertness. "Go take a nap. I'll make you some soup before work."

Malik opened an eye. "Are you ordering me around?" he asked, his head falling back against the back of the couch.

Kadar shrugged, sitting up enough to kneel on the couch and feel Malik's forehead. "Someone's gotta take care of you, you big grump," he murmured fondly, frowning generously at Malik before tugging him into a hug. "I was worried about you, you know."

Malik returned the hug as best as he could, squashed into Kadar's chest. "'M fine," he mumbled, his tongue still feeling swollen and his head still pounding. But he did feel a little better.

It was Altaïr that hauled him to his feet, one strong arm around his waist and the other against the nape of his neck. It was an awkward shuffle to the bedroom like that, but soon enough Malik was falling back into bed and the door was shut with a soft click.

"How do you feel?" Altaïr asked, sitting down and beginning to remove Malik's shoes. Malik didn't like the helpless feeling of the situation, open and still slightly feverish. He kicked his feet in protest, only to have Altaïr's fingers around his ankles in a vice grip. "How do you feel?" he repeated evenly, working off both of Malik's sneakers and socks.

"Tired mostly, the nauseous is gone," Malik answered honestly. His sweatshirt and undershirt were apparently next, smelling slightly of vomit and more strongly of sweat. He heard the garments hit the floor, absently calling out, "Laundry basket, Altaïr."

There was a grumble from somewhere at the right of the bed, the pointed sound of clothes going into the laundry basket moments later. Malik's smile was pleased, opening his eyes as Altaïr's fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants.


The kisses that Altaïr placed to his hipbones were soft and slow, his skin looking winter-pale against his own dark tone. It was with great effort that Malik lifted his hand, resting against the back of Altaïr's hair and sliding his finger through the short strands warmly. "You were worried," he pointed out, voice oddly quiet to match the room.

Altaïr nodded against his skin, burying his face into the warm skin of his groin. "I was," he admitted, eyes flicking up to Malik, "You know I don't like seeing you hurting."

"Softie," Malik accused, letting his fingertips slide against Altaïr's jaw. Altaïr's smile didn't quiet reach his eyes, settling his cheek against the thatch of wiry hair just above Malik's cock.

They stayed like that for a while, Altaïr's hands smoothing over Malik's sides while he toyed with his hair absently. They hadn't had much time with each other lately, both of them too busy with work and little things to do anything besides collapse into bed at night and maybe take a shower together in the morning. It was nice to feel Altaïr's breath fan over his hipbones, to have his hair slip through his fingers. It was more comforting than he would ever willingly admit.

"Are you going to work?" Malik asked eventually, his head settled against his pillow and body lax.