As a testament to how much time I can waste rewatching the same stuff and then creating posts about it, here we have part 3 already neatly packaged for your viewing pleasure.. Once again, our sweet child Onodera gets roasted by Takano and when someone tries to offer help, his colleagues are just like “what are you talking about?” Lol! Even Isaka-san (in a way that only Isaka can do) manages to fry Onodera in front of his colleagues by outing him as a publisher’s son - even though it’s supposed to be a moment where Isaka is lending his support to Onodera! That’s a gift that Isaka has right there… supporting and alienating Onodera with one blow!
Ahh this show never fails to make my day… Anyway, do enjoy! And perhaps I’ll be back with a part 4 at some point? Until then…
Part 1 and Part 2 can be found here (in case you’re interested).
You were home alone when you heard the knock on the door. Magnus was in the Institute, having some business with the Shadowhunters or rather Alec. You didn’t mind. Seeing Magnus happy was a good think. It’s been a while since he had taken you in and treated you like his own blood. Not just learning to control your powers, that made your mother abandon you and leave you on his porch.
For a moment you thought about ignoring the knock but you felt an urge to open it, so you followed your feelings. The door only half open, Raphael crumbled against the frame. Burning wounds all over his face as he almost looked lost, while collapsing in your arms.
Your heart started beating fast just seeing his wounds and anger trembled in you. Somebody did that to the other boy, Magnus had considered his son even far before you had come in his life. You three were family, Raphael always there to assure you that you were not alone and that it didn’t matter that he was a vampire and you a warlock.
“I got you, Raph. Everything will be fine”, you whispered, as you helped him sit down before you started healing his wounds. You always were better at that, than using your powers to damage somebody.
“Thank you, (y/n). Not sure what I would have done without you.” Raphael’s words warmed your heart. He didn’t know how you really felt about him, didn’t know that you had fallen in love with him, once you had become older.
“I’ll always help you Raph”, you said and when you saw him smirk you decided to be brave. “Because I love you.” For a moment nobody said anything but then Raphael looked at you. “You love me?”, he asked but you knew you didn’t have to answer, so you just tried to keep breathing. When he finally smiled up at you, you felt like floating. “Well then our next next date hopefully doesn’t include injuries.”
They came for Lucifer in the early morning hours and you could hear his screams echoing through your cell. You wondered if he had been able to hear you yesterday and you supposed he probably had. It was some time before they brought him back and the demons were carrying him between them. His legs dragged on the floor and he was groaning. You sat up, your back sending little tendrils of pain throughout your body, and watched as they dumped him in the middle of the cell. He collapsed in a heap, moaning, and you could see blood soaking through his shirt on his back.
The demons left, but Lucifer didn’t move. He just laid there, much like you had the day before. You realized you felt bad for him, shockingly enough. You scooted over towards him.
“Lucifer,” You said softly. He didn’t respond and you touched his shoulder gently. It was then that you realized he had passed out. Wonderful, you thought. This is going to be so much harder now.
Luckily you still had some strength in you and you were able to lift the heavy archangel off the floor and get him onto the cot. Your back was on fire when you were done, but Lucifer was at least off the dirty floor now. His shirt was ripped to shreds and through it you could see the deep, oozing wounds. Crowley started with the nine tails then, you thought bitterly. You had scars yourself from the bite of that whip.
Gently, you pulled the shirt off the archangel and ripped it into strips. You were filling the sink with warm water when he groaned.
“Don’t move,” You ordered.
A crazy laughter bubbled out of him, which promptly turned into more gasps of pain. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.” He said in a stuttering voice.
You laid the strips down on a clean shirt so they wouldn’t get dirty, then looked around and pulled a brick out of the wall. Behind it was a small jar of a waxy substance.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” You said, putting the stone back and carrying the jar over. “This might hurt a bit,” You warned him, dipping your fingers into it.
“What is it?”
“Just a healing lotion. It works great. But I’m going to have to touch your back with it and its going to hurt like hell.”
“I’ve had worse,” He said. He grunted when you first touched his bare back, but was silent as you spread the lotion over his shredded skin. You tried to be gentle, but you knew it was hurting him badly because you could feel the tenseness in his body. Once you were finished, you carefully laid the wet strips of shirt across his back until it was almost covered. His breathing had evened out as you worked and you found him studying your face every time you looked down at him. It was unnerving, but you figured he didn’t understand normal human socialization rules. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
“All done.” You said after laying the last strip down on the small of his back. You returned the jar of lotion to its hiding spot and then sat in front of Lucifer. “We’ll have to leave it on for a while, but it should feel much better once it comes off. I’ll check it when I get back.”
“Get back from where?” He asked hoarsely. You looked away from him and he said, “Oh.”
You took a deep breath. “Just get some rest.”
That day you were waterboarded, stuck with large needles, and had all the fingernails on your left hand pulled off.
Lucifer was still laying on the cot when you were shoved back into the cell. You stumbled, but didn’t fall. You quickly grabbed a shirt from the clean pile and wrapped your bloody left hand up. Then you went over to Lucifer and knelt beside the bed.
“Ready?” You rasped, your voice eroded from a long day of screaming.
He nodded, an unreadable expression on his face. You lifted a shaking hand and unpeeled the cloth from his back. The skin was raw, puckered, and swollen, but it looked a bit better. You hoped.
“Looks okay. Now it has to air.” You said, peeling off all the strips. Once you had bundled everything into a ball and set it aside, you set to work on your own wounds. Your left hand was by far the worst. Once you were finished, you turned away from him and sat, leaning your back on the metal bed frame, the burns on your back throbbing, the knife wounds on your stomach aching. And you thought wistfully of your brothers. They were probably so worried. You had been gone without a trace for almost a year now and they still hadn’t found you. You could only hope that they were close to solving the mystery of your disappearance.
“Why did you do it?” Lucifer’s voice cut into your thoughts.
A pause. Then: “Help me. Why did you help me?”
Now it was your turn to pause. “A multitude of reasons.”
“Like I don’t like seeing someone in pain. Like I know that those wounds are worse if not treated correctly. Like it was the right thing to do.” There was a long pause, so you turned towards him and asked the question that had been burning you up. “Why can’t you heal yourself?”
“Crowley won’t let me.” He answered immediately. The quickness of his response took you off-guard. You hadn’t really expected him to answer that question, at least not so readily.
“Did he take your Grace?” You asked.
“No. He trapped me in this vessel, which he remade with runes. He can have total control over me whenever he wants.”
“Whoa.” You breathed. “That’s not good.”
He grinned weakly. “No, it’s not.”
You propped your elbow up on the bed and rested your chin on your wrapped up hand.
“What happened to that?” Lucifer asked, nodding at the hand.
“Let’s just say I won’t be having any manicures for a while.”
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” You said. “Yeah.”
“Where did you get that stuff you put on me? From the jar?”
“I have my ways.” You said, not wanting to give up your secrets. You didn’t want the one helping you to be outed accidentally.
That was the last word between the two of you for a few hours. Lucifer was snoring loudly when you decided to check his back again. It was scabbing over and looked incredibly painful. You endured five whippings since your capture but your back had never looked as bad as the archangel’s. He really must have pissed Crowley off. You didn’t think he was going to be able to get off the cot for at least a day, maybe longer. And you knew that Crowley would most likely come again for him in the morning.
Crowley did come again for Lucifer in the morning. And the morning after that, and the one after that, until they all started to blend together. And you were taken every afternoon, as usual. It was strange though. Your own torments were cruel, but the ones Lucifer endured were on a whole other level. Every morning they tossed his bloodied, battered body back into the cell and every morning you picked him up off the ground, cleaned his wounds, and bandaged him up. And it was either the nineteenth or the twentieth day after Lucifer first arrived that he began to return the favor in the afternoons, if he was able.
You remembered the first time he had done it well because it had shocked you. Crowley had been particularly cruel that day. You had cuts all along your face, your nose was broken, and he had taken to branding your back again. It seemed to be a favorite of his. They tossed you back in the cell, where Lucifer lay recovering from that morning where they had just beat him senseless, and you crawled over to the sink, intending to start cleaning up. The next thing you knew, Lucifer had you in his cool arms and was placing you gently on the cot. You were so shocked that you couldn’t speak. You could only watch as Lucifer carefully cleaned your wounds. His cool hands felt heavenly though the cloth was rough and you moaned slightly at the relief they gave you.
“Don’t make it weird, Winchester.” Lucifer said gruffly.
“Sorry,” You said with a smile.
Once he had finished, you sat up and faced him. “Let me see yours,” You demanded.
Lucifer painfully pulled up his shirt and you examined the word that had been carved into the soft flesh of his stomach. ‘Dog’, the word read. You touched it to see if it was warm and heard him inhale sharply.
“Sorry,” You said. “Just checking for infection.”
“I’m fine,” He muttered, dropping his shirt.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He looked down querulously at you. “Thank you for what?”
“For cleaning me up.”
He shrugged. “You do it for me.”
“Yeah, well…thank you.”
“Don’t tell anyone about it.” He said. “I can’t have people thinking I’m losing my touch.”
“Oh, I’m telling everyone.” You said, grinning. He grinned back and you suddenly realized that you were making friends with the Devil. And it honestly didn’t feel so bad. You didn’t know that the friendship would hold up outside of the cell (you figured it probably wouldn’t), but after almost a year of being alone, it was kind of…nice…to have someone to talk to.
And things went on the way for a while, until they took Lucifer and he didn’t come back for two weeks. It was the roughest two weeks of your life. You were tormented every day and had to go back to cleaning yourself up again. It was hard, grueling, and you didn’t know if you were ever going to see the Devil again. You didn’t know what had happened to him. You figured Crowley wouldn’t kill him, but you were worried about him. And worried about yourself because you were worried about him.
He was back quite suddenly. When you went to sleep that night he wasn’t there and when you woke up, he was. You had been badly tormented the day before and so didn’t have the energy to sit up, much less stand. He was sitting across the cell from you, staring.
“Hey,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. You tried again. “Where you been?”
He had a strange look in his eyes and you realized how vulnerable he looked. With enormous effort, you got to your feet and went to kneel in front of him. He stared right through you and you wondered for a moment if the once proud archangel had finally broken.
“What happened?” You asked softly.
He inhaled, then roughly shoved you away from him. You landed on your back a few feet away from him, your body screaming in pain.
“Stay away from me.” He said coldly.
You were gasping for air on the floor, but you heard him. What the hell? You thought fiercely. You were angry, that was for sure. You had helped this dick pretty much the whole time he had been imprisoned with you and this was how he was going to act?
You crawled back over to the bed and hoisted yourself back up. The pain was intense and the anger even more so, but underneath it all you were surprised to find that you had been hurt not only physically but emotionally. You had grown close-ish to Lucifer and his rejection of you hurt. You rolled away from him and faced the wall all night.
The next morning you were surprised when the demons came for not only Lucifer, but you as well. They marched you down the long hallway side by side. The torture chamber was much the same and they strapped you the table as they usually did. Crowley appeared, as usual. But what was odd was that they didn’t strap Lucifer down on the other table. He stood sullenly off to the side, his eyes dull. Crowley stepped up next to you.
“Hello darling.” He said. “We’re going to have so much fun today.”
He whirled away before you could spit at him and strode over towards the table full of torture instruments next to the archangel. You watched as the King selected a blowtorch off the stand and turned back towards you. Smiling, he handed the torch to Lucifer.
“Burn her.” He commanded.
Lucifer looked as though he had been slapped. “What?”
“Burn her,” Crowley repeated. “Go on, I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Lucifer looked down at the blowtorch in his hand and then over to you. You could see the pain in his eyes. He looked back towards Crowley.
Crowley’s head jerked around. “No?” He snapped his fingers and Lucifer cried out, dropping the torch and falling to his knees. “Listen, dog! When I tell you to do something, you better do it!”
He snapped again and Lucifer screamed in agony. “Now, you will burn her!”
“No,” Lucifer grunted. Crowley snapped and Lucifer dropped to the floor completely in the fetal position. His bellows echoed through the room. Crowley punched him and his head bounced off the concrete floor.
“Are you going to do as I say?”
Lucifer spat out a wad of blood. “No.”
Crowley growled and his fists flew. Lucifer was fading in and out of consciousness when he was finished. The King picked the torch up off the ground, straightened his tie, clicked it on, then stepped towards you.
When the bottoms of your feet were blackened and blistered, he had Lucifer strapped face down on the other table. Lucifer’s head was turned towards you and you could see that his eyes were horribly swollen. You were in so much pain that you didn’t even realize what Crowley was doing at first. He seemed to be picking at something in the air, stretching it out, like the wing of a bird or something. Oh my God, his wings, you had time to think before Crowley went to work on those with the blowtorch.
Lucifer shrieked and struggled against the restraints but there was no escape. You had never heard those sounds come out of him before. They were animalistic and horrible. He thrashed, but Crowley only had his demons hold the invisible wing down. You wanted to look away, to run away, to do anything besides lay there, but there was no escape for you either.
When they threw the two of you back in the cell, you both laid on the floor for several long moments. Finally you sat up and looked over to the archangel. You were surprised to see tears streaming out of his eyes. You crawled over to him, knowing you wouldn’t be walking for quite a while.
“You gotta let me see them,” You said.
“No,” He said, his voice steady.
“Lucifer, you gotta let me take a look at your wings. I know you angels have a thing about letting humans see them, but from the sounds you were making, they really need some help healing.”
“Touching an angel’s wings is incredibly intimate.” He said. “No one besides me has ever touched mine.”
“I’ll be gentle.” You promised.
He clenched his jaw, but didn’t resist as you pulled him up into a seated position. You walked around behind him and touched him gently on the shoulder.
“Spread ‘em, Feathers.” You said. They were joking words, but your tone was soft rather than jovial.
Lucifer sighed, bowed his head, tugged off his shirt, and did as you bade.
They were even more magnificent than you could have ever imagined. So white they almost glowed and fluffier than the fluffiest pillow. You ran your hand through the beautiful feathers that were closest to his neck. It was like running your hand through a cloud and for a moment you forgot about where you were and what you were supposed to be doing. There was only you and the gorgeous sight before you.
Lucifer made a low sound that could have been a moan, then cleared his throat.
“Yeah?” You asked, snapping out of your trance.
“Oh.” Then you understood what he meant by that. “Oh. Oh my God. I’m sorry!”
He gave you a weak smile. “Just try to be fast.”
You nodded and looked to your left. The mangled, bloodied, blacked spots on his wings stuck out like a sore thumb. You brushed your hands over the spot closest to you and felt him shudder. Quickly, silently, you plucked the mangled feathers away from the spot and marveled at how soft the skin was underneath.
You did the same with the other spots you could see, then had Lucifer wet some shirts since you couldn’t walk. He sat back in front of you and spread his wings again. You cleaned his wounds as best you could and you couldn’t refrain yourself from running your hands again through his healthy feathers, loving the way they felt.
Lucifer inhaled sharply and you felt him tense. “Y/N.” He breathed.
“Sorry.” You said. “Couldn’t help it. They’re…amazing. And I’ll probably never get to touch them again.”
“What makes you say that?” He asked in a low voice.
You sighed and sat back. “I’m not getting out of here alive. I’ve known that for a while now. But hey, at least I can now say that I’ve touched an angel’s wings.”
He was silent for a moment. “What makes you think you aren’t getting out of this alive?”
You gave a dry laugh. “I’ve been enduring this torment day in and day out for a year now. It’s coming. My breaking point. It’ll be soon and then Crowley will kill me and it’ll all be over. Finally. You know, there are days where I wish for the end to come, and know that I could help it along. But then I think about my brothers, and everyone else I’d be letting down, and it helps me hold out a little longer. I mean Dean held out for over 40 years right? And I can’t even last a year? Pathetic.”
“You are not pathetic.” Lucifer said quietly.
“Yeah, anyways,” You said, looking away. “Let’s change the subject.”
His wings fluttered lazily and you had to resist the urge to reach out and touch them again. “What information does Crowley want from you?” He asked.
You hesitated, the memory of Lucifer shoving you away from him surfacing suddenly. He looked back over his shoulder at you and saw the expression on your face. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
“I don’t want the information getting to Crowley,” You explained. “How do I know you won’t sell me out to save your own skin?”
The wings disappeared instantly. “Typical Winchester.” He muttered, pulling his shirt back on.
“Hey, I’m not the one who disappeared for two weeks then physically attacked my cellmate. That was you.”
He stood up and crossed the room to go sit on the cot. “I have my reasons for that.”
“Yeah well, the point is that I can’t trust you.”
“Right. I forgot how trustworthy you were. Obviously you must be a master at spotting it in others.”
You crawled over to the bed, still unable to stand, and laid down on the floor looking up at him. “I’m not trying to be mean here, Lucifer. I’m trying to preserve my life. I would think that you would understand this.”
He stared down at you with an unreadable expression. “Yeah. I understand perfectly.”
“Don’t act so high and mighty,” the voice reverberated from behind the omnipresent rebreather.
“The fact we both favor green is not a point of unity between us,” Vulkan replied in a voice that was carefully neutral. He did not turn to look at his brother, but continued to study the holo-map as its information updated. “We are not alike.”
“We’re more alike than you want to admit,” Mortarion replied, matching Vulkan’s cautious toneless in a stubborn manner reminiscent of his dogged infantry tactics. “You hold weapons like phospex and bio-phage at arms’ length with one hand, then you turn around and with the other you wield a flamer with all the zealotry of a Thunder Warrior. You and your legion sing the praises of the fires of Nocturne with no less determination than the Death Guard embrace the mists of Barbarus. Death by fire,” emphasized Mortarion, even as he noted the way Vulkan’s hand was beginning to curl up. “One of the most agonizing ways for a human being to die. Isn’t it more monstrous to talk about how much you love humanity when at the same time-”
“Stop.” Vulkan had turned about, the movement shockingly swift and fluid for such a big man wearing bulky power armor. He raised his hand, but rather than a fist he held his index finger out towards Mortarion in warning. “Let me explain the difference between us. Yes, a death by fire is one of the most terrible ways to die. That is why the Salamanders treat it with the respect it deserves. Not merely in the way it makes us strong, whether it flies from our gunbarrels or marks our flesh in ritual, but also the way it brings our foes low, as well as the way fire can be shaped and treated to craft works of wonder. My sons are taught to mark in their minds the horror of war and the joy of creation in equal measure. We do not revel in the killing power, in the pain and suffering we cause, but we recognize its purpose in the greater plan to craft a lasting edifice that will protect the whole of humanity.
“That is the difference between us, Mortarion,” he said, crimson eyes locked to the XIV’s own wolf-gold. “You and yours have embraced the poisons of Barbarus to the point where you have come to believe that every human being not as strong as yourselves is unworthy of purpose. The Salamanders wield the dreadful power of flame only in last resort, when we have failed to find the good ground between once side and another, whereas you have come to revel in your poisonous tinctures and your toxins. You have chosen to set an arbitrary bar of worth and say ‘this high and no lower, or you are not worth consideration’ and that, more than any other thing, is what separates us. You cannot place a value upon a human being, Mortarion. To do so is an act of self-genocide. It is an act of racial suicide.”
“I wonder if the eldar would agree with your precepts,” Mortarion riposted, without even a moment’s hesitation to rally from Vulkan’s onslught.
The comment did not cow the primarch of the XVIII in the least. Instead he raised his chin in defiance. “Is that the best you offer?” he asked. “Whataboutism in regards to my history with the eldar xenos? Have I ever voiced an objection to your crusade to remove the cruel warlords of Barbarus, that the human population might live free?” There was a long moment of pregnant silence before Vulkan shook his head. “No. There is no point of similarity between us, Mortarion, but that we are both primarchs and leaders of space marines in service to the Imperium. That is the beginning and the end of equivalence.”
With that, he bustled out of the room, his hammer held loosely in his offhand. Mortarion turned to watch him go, and though the Death Lord was characteristically silent, in time he raised one hand and gently drew and armored thumb across the tines of his rebreather grille, the slow ticking of the metal a long-held accompaniment to the moments in which he was most introspective.
And not just by execution. No, this kind of death was going to be excruciating and nightmarish. This kind of death would take place over the course of a few weeks, at the very least.
Chanyeol had nearly broken his hand, although successfully breaking the table he was sitting at in half, when he got the news that you had been taken.
Yixing had returned to Chanyeol’s master room after forgetting to give you two extra water bottles, something he did on a usual basis in order to make sure you were remaining healthy and hydrated. The moment he entered the room and didn’t smell you, he threw the bottles to the ground and darted back out through the door. It wasn’t long before he sounded the alarm and sprinted to Chanyeol’s headquarters to alert him of your abduction.
Furious, for Chanyeol, was an understatement. He had so many questions, and not enough answers to quench hit burning anger. His stiff frame relaxed slightly only when Yixing told him that you had been tricked into leaving with them, instead of leaving on your own accord, due to the evidence.
If anyone other than Yixing had been in the room, death would have come for them warranted or not.
“Do you know who took her?” Chanyeol’s eyes were ravenous with rage and primal hunger for bloodshed as he paced back and forth across his war room.
“While there isn’t much physical proof,” Yixing crossed his arms, remaining inhumanly calm.“I could smell them.”
Pair Keith’s fire abilities with Lance’s frightening speed and accuracy, and the two are easily a strong combination when it comes to fighting crime. They work on the same side, representing the Hero Paladins, but instead of benefiting humanity with their powerful combined abilities, they compete. A lot.
The two often compete to see who can save the most lives. It becomes almost a game to them, only turning serious if a situation is dire enough to call in the whole team. They take this competition of sorts very seriously, so when Keith wakes on game day feeling slightly off with a runny nose and a dull throb pulsing against his temples, he ignores it.
In light of what just went down in this fandom, I decided to finally do the follow forever I’ve been meaning to do for a while, because there are so many lovely people in this fandom, and you all deserve so much recognition! So let’s have
Enjolras is pulled from sleep by his stomach cramping violently. He blinks at his nightstand clock reading 5:02 a.m. with furrowed brows. When he moves to sit up, his stomach lurches, and he staggers out of bed with one hand clamped loosely over his mouth.
He makes a beeline for the bathroom and drops hard to his knees in front of the toilet. He fumbles around in the dark with his free hand to lift the toilet lid, and mere seconds later, he’s bracing up on his knees and heaving.
His muscles convulse with each wave of nausea, and his throat burns as hot bile grates against it. He spends minutes hunched over the toilet until there is literally nothing left in his stomach. He just manages to reach a shaking hand up to flush the toilet before he crumples to the floor.
Strong tremors wrack his frame, and he curls onto his side and draws his knees to his chest. The tiled floor is icy cold against his bare legs and bare chest, but moving is all but out of the question.
Sleep pulls at him, and seconds later, he’s nodding off.
“He’s not answering his phone.” Grantaire announces, voice thick with worry, as he pulls his phone away from his ear when he’s met with Enjolras’s voicemail.
“This is very unlike him,” Combeferre admits with his arms crossed.
“I’m worried,” Courfeyrac says, and Jehan and Feuilly nod in agreement.
“I’ll go-” Joly begins, only to be cut off by Grantaire holding up a hand.
“No. I’m going.” Grantaire spits out before turning sharply on his heel and breaking out into a sprint toward his car.
Enjolras frowns, but keeps his eyes closed tight.
Grantaire? Enjolras snaps his eyes open and shoots up into a sitting position, but this proves to be a horrible idea because he’s left scrambling on his hands and knees over to the toilet as his stomach lurches.
He pushes up on his knees and dry heaves over the toilet. Nausea wreaks havoc in his stomach, but nothing comes up. His muscles tense with each dry heave, and he spends a solid two minutes gagging with nothing coming up before his stomach settles.
All energy flees from his body, and next thing he knows, he’s falling to the ground, but instead of hitting cold, hard tile, he collapses against something strong and warm.
“Fuck,” Grantaire hisses out. Enjolras’s skin is hot to the touch, and the latter appears to be half out of it. “Are you with me?” He questions, voice trembling almost as hard as Enjolras’s burning frame.
“Mmm,” Enjolras nuzzles his nose against Grantaire’s neck and leans closer to the warmth. “Why’re you here?” He asks, words slurring together.
“I came when you didn’t show up to the rally,” Grantaire answers, and Enjolras tenses against him.
“Rally?” He asks slowly as the cogs turn slowly in his mind. “That’s today?”
Worry spikes in Grantaire’s stomach, and he presses a palm to Enjolras’s forehead, frowning deeply at the alarming heat. “You don’t remember?”
Enjolras shakes his head. To be honest, he doesn’t even know what day it is or what time it is. All he knows is that is muscles ache fiercely, he’s freezing, his head is pounding, and he just wants to sleep.
“Okay,” Grantaire breathes out lowly. “We should get you to bed.” He moves to stand, but when Enjolras tries to stand with him, he stumbles and drops to a knee.
“I can’t,” he rasps out, panting just from the small movement. His vision is swimming, but when he feels himself pitching forward, Grantaire is there to steady him.
“I could carry you,” Grantaire tries, voice laced with worry, but Enjolras quickly shakes his head.
“No. No, I want to stay in here.”
Grantaire gets to his feet and nods. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Enjolras sags back against the bathtub and wraps his arms around his shivering frame. He’s just falling asleep when Grantaire reenters the room with his hands full.
The brunet is carrying three blankets, and he’s got a bag looped through his arm that has water bottles and medicine in it.
Enjolras watches with tired eyes as Grantaire wraps two of the blankets around his shoulders before taking a spot beside him and draping the third over the two.
Grantaire then uncaps a bottle and brings it to Enjolras’s lips. “Just a few, small sips for now, okay?”
Enjolras nods and takes a couple of tiny sips before Grantaire pulls the bottle away.
The water helps greatly with his raw throat, and now all he wants to do is sleep. He curls up closer to Grantaire and drops his head against the brunet’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispers as his eyes flutter closed.
Grantaire cards his fingers slowly through Enjolras’s hair. “Thank me when you are better.”