Disclaimer: Don't own. Just love.
Author's Notes: Christopher/Jalil SLASH held within, along with a deadly dose of uncharacteristic fluff.
When Christopher gets a cold, Jalil spends most of his time avoiding him at all costs. Experience reminds him that a sneezing, achy Christopher is a grumpy, irritable and bitter Christopher, and there's nothing worse than a bedridden blonde snapping that you're blocking the sunlight again (despite the fact that the shutters are closed, and have been all day at said blonde's request). 'Perhaps if dwarfs had invented Kleenex,' Jalil thinks silently to himself, and then holes up in the library for the rest of the night.
The guilt usually drives him back to Christopher's side by noon the next day, though.
Really, Jalil wants to be a caring, supportive boyfriend (and he cringes at all three words), but it drives him insane. It's not that constant complaining, although he's getting sick of Christopher sharply telling him that he can't make tea worth shit. (Which he can't, but doesn't the thought count for anything? Tea leaves are hard to find in Daggermouth, you know.) It isn't even the annoying sound of wet, ragged coughing, although it constantly distracts him from whatever work he's trying to do that needs to be done within the hour. In fact, Jalil could even put up with the pillow fluffing that never turns out good enough, the demands for entertainment when the patient is bored, and the fact that Christopher hogs all the blankets and refuses to share a bed if it gets too hot at night for him (even if it's just because he's hogged all the blankets).
Jalil is a patient person. He could live with all of these things.
"I think I'm going to die," Christopher says, mumbling through chapped lips and sniffling a bit. His pale face matches the color of the pillowcases. "Hey. Hey, Jalil- c'mere, you've been gone all day." He doesn't say, 'I've missed you,' but the plaintive, whiny edge to his voice shows it all.
Jalil starts, smiling a tad bit guiltily. He hesitates a moment and gets up from his chair on the other side of the room, crosses over to Christopher, and crawls over the blonde to the edge where the bed meets the wall. Christopher immediately wraps an arm around his stomach and grasps his fingers with a sticky, clammy hand; presses a brief kiss to them.
"Go to sleep," he says, brushing his free fingers through the clumped, unwashed strands of Christopher's hair.
He supposes he can get used to washing his hands seven times a day again- at least it only lasts as long as the cold and sticky hands will. And surely, Jalil considers fondly as Christopher's eyes flutter shut, surely it's worth it.