—

♡

Misunderstandings may arise when communication isn't present. Be careful.

Being sick was never pleasant, but Y/n had gotten used to it. Admittedly, when he was a kid, he didn't want to be sick — he remembered all the parties he couldn't attend because medicine was being shoved down his throat, all the you'll get better soon, I promise — that his parents frequently told him, all the feelings of being left out when he saw his brothers come back to the manor with awards and prizes. Nineteen years later, and still Y/n's immune system was embarrassingly horrible, but he had grown out of that jealous phase — and had plunged right into the hibernating phase.

Y/n L/n had gotten relatively lucky with his childhood — while sick, his parents doted on him, and so did his brothers. They cheered him up by showering him with gifts, albeit needlessly expensive, and made sure he was always included in familial events. If he got terribly sick on an eventful day, one family member would stay back to aid him. Y/n was grateful, truly — he had expected to be the brunt of unwitting, mean remarks from other noble children from his perceived lack of strength, for his vulnerability, for his inability to use mana, but it hadn't happened. But Isidor — there was where he struck the jackpot — had always stayed by his side and comforted him.

Y/n closed his eyes. It was night now, and he could hear birds tweeting from afar. He fidgeted on the bed, his hands curling around the sheets — the weather was cold, as controlled by Isidor's mana — but Y/n felt buoyant, floaty, almost — as he drifted from sluggishness to restlessness. Sometimes; if he slept too much, all the energy would be drained out of him and his brain simply would not shut down. It was at these moments he placed a hand over his chest and listened to his thudding heartbeat.

Years ago Y/n believed he wouldn't make it past his debutante age. Women typically debuted at fourteen, while men debuted at a later age, at nineteen. This meant that when Y/n's birthday rolled by, he would have to officially be presented to society. And this meant finding a wife, of course...

A nagging feeling tugged at Y/n's stomach. He couldn't even think of the possibility of courting a woman — much less anyone... He hadn't even believed he would survive through all those terrible bouts of illnesses, all that curling up in his bed where pain was the only thing that could be registered in his head. There were nights, Y/n remembered, where he couldn't help but release a few broken sobs, clutching his stomach. He just wanted to rest. The nightmares along with the sharp, burning pain tormented him, plagued him, strangled him. His breaths would grow erratic, fast, cut off — then the comforting hands of either his family or Isidor would reach out and...touch his wrist. His heartbeat could be felt from there, and it thudded faintly.

("You're safe," his dear mother would whisper. "You're safe; my darling child.")

Now the years had eclipsed him and the pain had simmered to a steady brew. Y/n wondered if the pain had lessened, or he had just gotten used to it. Would there be a huge change — would his limbs become lighter, quicker, more agile — if he were to burrow into the body of another? If...

Y/n peeked at Isidor. From the rise and falls of his chest, Y/n could see clearly that the prince was in deep sleep. He must have been exhausted, Y/n thought, ignoring the headache that was throbbing in the recesses of his mind. He must have been... caring for me.

Y/n caught the medicine by the side of the drawer. Of course. The prince must have been nursing him back to health (or at least, allowing his temperature to drop)— how sweet of him. Y/n's chest felt tight and taut all of a sudden — his mind returned back to the words he had thought of when he was with Isidor. (You give me warmth.) Did that hold any sort of unconscious — loving — sentiments? Isidor had done so much for him, and it was natural for Y/n to be grateful.

Y/n found his body slowly moving towards Isidor —uncharacteristic of him, for he hated moving about — and soon, he was staring at the prince, in all his beauty. Isidor looked serene as he slept; his hair tresses messy and looking so soft Y/n wanted to run his fingers through it — his lashes so pretty that they curved down to meet his smooth, supple skin — the muscles that relaxed when he was in deep rest. Y/n frowned as he pinched his own skin. Y/n wasn't...he wasn't unfit, necessarily — he ate healthy foods (this wasn't his choice, but his family was adamant. Isidor tended to be a lot more lenient.) — but his stamina was alarmingly poor and so was his lack of sport abilities.

Y/n gently touched Isidor's wrist. Thud, thud, thud, the sound of his heartbeat told him that blood was pulsing through his veins. Y/n touched his own. It was slower, softer, more...

He couldn't sleep. Funny how even his favourite activity now was taken away from him because of his illness. Y/n didn't have a particular terminal illness to fault — he supposed it was his terrifyingly weak body and aversion to mana that caused him to be so prone to injuries and brushes of death.

I wonder, Y/n thought, would they have much reason to care for me if I wasn't this...defective?

"Defective" was an ugly word. Someone called him that when he was young, and he hadn't been hurt, more confused than anything. ("What's defective?" Y/n asked at the dinner table once, perplexed. "Someone called me that." Then there was the abrupt pause of cutlery clanking against plates, and his father's expression had grown dark. "Who told you that?") The person had disappeared later.

Y/n cared about very little things in life. People called him lazy — he couldn't refute that. He even enjoyed that title, almost, for it labeled him as something other than being defective — but he did not care about that, either. Perhaps it was because he had been constantly living life like every day was his last, and that he saw no future for himself. And it wasn't that he was depressed — he really wasn't, but Y/n was saddened by the prospect and possibility of nearly reaching a goal, before being crippled by his inability. To completely wipe out the chances of being disappointed, Y/n never attempted or tried anything. And soon, that very lazy habits became his lifestyle.

"...It hurts," Y/n murmured absentmindedly, resting his head on the blankets of Isidor's bed. He was crouched down, watching Isidor sleep (he knew that the prince did this to him sometimes, too, and Y/n could feel his touch tickling his cheek, for the prince was so tender — so — he treated him like he was fragile — that every touch felt like butterflies flying off his skin.) "This stupid headache. I just want to rest."

He allowed the silence to stretch on. His eyelids drooped, but the headache persisted.

Tell me instantly, Y/n, Isidor had told him once, if you feel ill. It doesn't matter what I'm doing.

Even if you're getting married? Even if you're away? Y/n had joked.

But Isidor had been dead serious in his answer. I will not be away from you; not even for a second. So yes, Y/n, Tell me whenever.

Y/n paused. His headache was bad, but did that really warrant him waking Isidor up? The future Emperor was bound to be tired — for unlike Y/n, he had lists and lists of activities lined up for him to do. So...

Tell me whenever.

Never mind. Y/n hesitated, before he tapped Isidor's shoulder tentatively. The prince stirred, and his eyes were gentle as he looked up blearily at Y/n. Y/n scratched the back of his neck, immediately regretting his decision.

"Accident," he said at last, "Sorry. I didn't mean — to touch you. Sorry I woke you up." There. That was fine.

But Isidor did not close his eyes. He reached out to press Y/n's forehead, frowning at how tight it seemed — almost like all his vessels were knotted together. Then he saw the perspiration that had fallen from Y/n's skin (yet his touch was so cold), caught the uncomfortable uplift of his lips, then the lack of usual, apparent sluggishness that he had when he was fine.

"What's wrong?" Isidor immediately sat up, softly inquiring. Y/n found himself getting pulled towards the prince's chest — warmth enveloping him. He relaxed. "Can't sleep?"

"Think I slept too much," Y/n said, his voice muffled. "My limbs feel so heavy. Consequences of sleeping all day, I suppose."

"You were sick," Isidor reasoned. "How do you feel now, though?"

"Woozy," Y/n said after a small pause, finding it difficult to speak, "like I'm on a tight line and I'm going to fall. Like I'm going to sleep but there's an obstacle...I don't know," he said at last. "I don't...I thought I would die by my fifteenth birthday...four years later, and I am alive."

Y/n could not see Isidor's expression. Perhaps it was better he couldn't, actually. The prince did everything almost automatically — he had been almost "conditioned" to do it since birth, and there was no doubt that over time the feelings of friendship had waned and now came almost apathy, disinterest — and all Isidor did now was to perform the same acts mechanically. Perhaps Y/n was nothing but a stupid burden to him.

"Do not say that." Isidor's voice was soft.

"I don't know," Y/n murmured, his words stringing together into an incoherent mess. "It's the same feeling again."

Like I'm dying.

"Come," Isidor pushed Y/n back a little, before he pressed their foreheads together. Then he reached out to press the left side of Y/n's chest. Now this was directly where the heart lay — and there were the sounds of a confident heartbeat that resonated with Isidor's skin. The prince lifted his hand, before he brought it to cup Y/n's cheek. "You're here, Y/n."

Y/n averted his eyes.

Isidor continued to hold him, their breaths mingling with one another — Y/n's short, shallow breaths — along with Isidor's steady, moderate ones.

"Sorry." Y/n said.

"Don't be. Never be."

Y/n had had the same emotions swirling within him for the past hour where he had been staring at the ceiling, targeted towards Isidor — but what was it, really? Just what was it?

A sense of gratefulness. Debt. And in return, Isidor would continue to do what he always did. A childhood obligation, if you will — just another cog in the cycle, another thing to do in the day.

Y/n was fine with that. He didn't care. He didn't care. He never cared. It was too tiring to.

This was the way everything should be. Everything was in place.

—

Isidor wanted Y/n desperately. It was horrific of him, really, to allow his mind to wander to different territories when he saw Y/n in front of him, putty in his arms, so gentle — so open — but of course, he curbed and restrained those primal desires, and allowed the worry to swallow him.

Y/n had his frequent headaches. His laziness wasn't something he was born with, but rather something he adjusted to, with time. He had always been soft as a child, always been rather nonchalant to the things around him, seemingly uncaring — but oh, Isidor had seen the way the (h/c)-haired male had cried during the days of his turbulent sickness where he couldn't even keep down solid food, where blood streamed from his mouth, nose. It was enough to tear that energy away from him, and to leave him almost — fearful — of pouring energy and time into things, should his sickness rip it away from him.

Isidor wanted to love Y/n fully (he already did, but he wanted Y/n to be made aware of his unbridled affections) — he wanted to comfort Y/n, touch Y/n, caress him, feel him...fuck him.

Isidor swallowed. Slowly. Slowly...

Y/n was indifferent to him. Isidor even doubted that Y/n knew of his feelings, though he had made it so glaringly obvious. So he needed to be patient — but that string of patience was near impossible to control now. Sometimes he felt that Y/n was the only person (besides Annie) to truly understand him. And it was Y/n who he wanted to share that intensity with; Y/n who he had grown up loving, Y/n who he would continue to love. Y/n who had given him something to protect, to hold, to withstand the tough times.

Isidor forcibly held back his desires. Patience. He had to be so, so, very patient — he did not want to pressure the (h/c)-haired male in any way.

Hold my heart, he wanted to voice out. It's beating for you anyways.

♡

he wants that effing cookie so bad ... sorry but Isidor will be horny as fuck lol  (and a lot of tension will be written here)

hope you liked it! I love this fic because there's no plot but just relationships which is something I really missed doing :) thus it will be my main focus!! and I'll be updating it at least once every three days! lowkey feels like the Avert and Trapped era haha

wasn't beta read and may contain typos. commenting when you see one will be helpful for me to change it later! :)

how was it? comment or you hate me 🫵 (joking but I am a whore for comments)