Sickbed Trade

One sailor tends to another in his sickbed.

Just a little M/M piece with some love and intimacy. 500w.

The air is cold and wet and dank, the chill sinking in through the ship’s hull from the rolling rainstorm outside, but Hamish is still sweating buckets, feeling as though there’s a burn under his skin, his blood feeling as though it’s bubbling in his veins.

He tosses and turns, constantly shifting in his bunk — he’s been shifting and fidgeting for hours, unable to relax and really sleep, and the surgeon has been in and out of the infirmary to check on him, make sure he’s drinking.

Ethan Latimer comes in with fresh sheets, and Hamish shivers as Ethan strips the ones from on top of him, tangled damp with sweat around his waist and knees, and sets a new one on top of him.

“God above, I don’t want this,” Hamish groans, although it comes out as more of a cough. “It’s too hot.”

“Don’t know that God’s above us right now, lad,” says the carpenter dryly, and then puts a cold compress on his head. Hamish groans in desperate relief at the cool moisture of it, the weight of the cloth folded over and settled on his brow. His eyes flutter closed. “Bit windy for all that.”

“Am I gonna die?” asks Hamish, and Ethan looks down at him with his cool, blank features, one of his hands coming to settle over Hamish’s throat. He’s doing it to check Hamish’s pulse, two fingers pressing at the point under his jaw, but his hand is incredibly cool against his skin, and Hamish sighs at the relief of it, at the soothing temperature against his sore, aching throat.

“Surgeon doesn’t think so,” Ethan tells him. “I know this fever’s a nasty cunt and that the sore throat’s no pleasure, but your heart isn’t racing, your breathing’s pretty even, no nausea, your skin looks good except for the sweat and a bit of pallor. You’re not hot enough to die from it, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” says Ethan, drawing his hand back and reaching for a flask. Hamish lets out a noise of complaint when the mug is brought to his mouth and he finds it’s warm instead of cold, but Ethan doesn’t pull back from him, makes him drink the soup. “I’m no psychic, am I? But this looks mild enough to me — and more importantly, mild enough to the surgeon.”

Hamish reaches for Ethan’s free hand, sliding his hand around his wrist and feeling how cool his hand is, interlinking their fingers. He squeezes; Ethan squeezes back.

He draws his hand back.

“Ethan — “

“More soup,” the carpenter orders. “Then I’ll put my hands back on you.”

Hamish groans, sinking his head back into the pillows and feeling as if he’s roasting in them, and then he gestures for Ethan to push the flask back toward him.

As he drinks, he looks up at the other man as dourly as he can manage.

Ethan’s an unsmiling man, but now his lips shift into the slightest of crescent smiles, and he makes Hamish drink another full cup of the stuff before he relents.