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His head throbs. The pain throbs with it. The pain beats with his heart. He curls himself under his pillow, crushing himself with pressure in futile attempts to find relief.

This throat is raw with coughing. Scraped to nothing. Swallowing is painful. Breathing is painful. He wakes himself up with coughing, unable to escape from the pain with sleep.

Sleep itself is its own challenge, in that his dreams are increasingly stressful. He curls in on himself in his nightmares, tightening his muscles as he sweats into his sheets—which does not help with:

The full body aches. His muscles in his back may be the worst, but his arms and legs also feel heavy as lead and impossible to move. His lymph nodes are swollen under his arms, making moving a hideously uncomfortable endeavor. The lymph nodes under his jaw are swollen as well. He keeps digging his thumb into them, trying to rub out the shape, but this too is unsuccessful.

His stomach muscles, already sore, only strain themselves further whenever he vomits into the trash can next to his bed. The retching inflames his already painful throat.

When he is not dealing with pain from all parts of his body—at every layer, from the muscles of all his limbs and chest and stomach to his inner throat to his own fucking brain, especially behind his left eye—he is still left with this discomfort. If he is not so hot he is stripping his clothes from his body and pushing all fabric to the floor, he is so cold he can feel the chill in his bones. When he is not feeling a pain so excruciating he cannot think, he is itchy—over his chest where a rash has formed and in the back of his throat.

And the true set piece of this misery, of course, is that he had missed a date with Raylan, and an important one at that. It’s their one-year anniversary, and Raylan seems to give a shit about it. Boyd doesn’t get it, but gets that it’s important to Raylan. He had made a big deal in getting Boyd a gift for his seventeenth birthday, as well.

Conclusion: Strep Throat is whupping Boyd’s ass but good.

He currently lives in the “I am so cold, it feels as if my bones will shatter” layer of hell—the icy bottom layer in which only Satan himself resides. When breeze blows through his covers, his three throw blankets, his two sweat shirts, and his flannel sleep pants, he is so cold he thinks he has entered a hell even more frozen than that. His full body seizes, attempting to curl himself away from the bitter, cutting wind. His shivers are painful, straining his aching muscles. He wants to throw himself to the ground and beat his head against floor, just to distract for the cold, the pain, the cold, the pain.

His covers are ripped from his body, and although he wants nothing more than to grab it back, he cannot—he simply cannot.

He squeezes his eyes tight, wishing for this hell to end, as a coughing fit wracks his chest with enough force he feels as if he is being bisected from the inside out. Even the sharp pain at his neck cannot distract him from the way his muscles crack him open and leave him writhing on his mattress, as his body contorts around the pain.

A small shushing barely registers his attention. He thinks he hears the clattering of metal against his floor. Boyd forces his eyes open. He sluggishly reaches for the knife under his pillow, to fight back, but he barely sits himself, before a hand presses against his neck, softly, at first. He can’t focus the sight before him. A figure swirls before him in the dark. Boyd swings wildly before him. The gentle laughter grows louder. The hand on his neck forces him back down against his bed.

His breathing labors, intensifying the pain with each intake. He drops his knife. He hears it clatter against his floor as well, landing sharply against the other piece of metal.

He reaches up to the hand at his throat. He weakly hits the fingers holding him. He likely hurts himself more by straining his arm than he hurts the hand gripping him.

“I’ll take care of you, Boyd,” Raylan whispers in his ear. “Relax, my love. Relax.”

Raylan’s coos allow Boyd to melt into the bed. He feels his adrenaline dropping, leaving him sleepier than before. He passes out to Raylan pressing a kiss to his forehead. Boyd thinks he dreams, feeling Raylan’s tongue against the sweat on his brow and in the hollows of his neck.

He fades in and out of consciousness. He blearily opens his eyes, blinking back the heavy weight of his lids, catching a glimpse of Raylan’s back, sitting at the side of his bed. He’s doing something with Boyd’s garbage can. Boyd hopes he’s changing it out. God, he hates that Raylan has to witness Boyd’s filth like this. He feels disgusting, and he cannot imagine he looks much better. His clammy skin must be just as awful to touch.

He falls asleep and wakes once more to Raylan shuffling around him. A cool washcloth feels so nice against his forehead. Everything feels hot. He feels so good.

Boyd wants to see Raylan. Tell him he didn’t want to miss their date. He opens his mouth. Everything is dry. He swallows, and this, too, is so, so painful. He opens his eyes. He’s gotta stop closing them.

Raylan is by his desk, picking hair out of Boyd’s comb. Boyd doesn’t know what he’s doing. He tries to get Raylan’s attention, but he’s already asleep once more.

When he wakes next, it is because he is so hot, he feels as if he is melting. He thinks he’s being cooked. In this moment, he is a child being fed to an oven by a witch living in a gingerbread house.

He tries pushing off his covers, but Raylan pulls them back up. Boyd has known his Raylan to have a mean streak, but such an act is unfathomably cruel to him in this moment. Raylan tuts at him. “It’s too cold, honey,” he murmurs. “You’ll make yourself cold.”

“Raylan,” Boyd says. He thinks he might be crying. How humiliating.

Raylan leans down to kiss his cheek. Boyd is dizzy. He thinks he closes his eyes. He thinks Raylan kisses him again.

“Just go back to sleep, hon,” Raylan tells him, “You need your rest.” He rests his head down on Boyd’s chest, even below the covers. Boyd’s heart thuds under his ear.

Boyd falls from a great height. He jolts, attempting to catch himself, only to wake once more. He coughs and coughs, curling in on himself tight. The cool washcloth falls from his forehead.

Raylan fusses over him, hushing him as he rubs his hand over Boyd’s chest. Boyd leans over Raylan, vomiting in the trashcan by his bed. “I’m sorry,” he tries saying, but his throat hurts so much.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Raylan whispers. He picks up the washcloth and wipes sweat off Boyd’s forehead and from his neck.

Boyd heaves again. Not much more comes out. He hasn’t been able to feed himself much since becoming ill, and he’s already emptied most of his stomach with previous expulsions.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, trying to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. His stomach hurts, twisted into something Gordian. The pain clears out all other thought—it grips Boyd’s full attention and squeezes.

“It’s okay,” Raylan comforts. “It’s okay, get it out, let it out.”

Boyd dry heaves, but nothing comes out of his empty stomach, save for maybe acid that only damages his throat further.

Raylan rubs circles into Boyd’s back as he spits bile into the trash can. He wants it all out. He heaves again. He feels like a knot in a rope that will snap before it loosens.

The vomiting wears Boyd out. He pants into the cold air, raspy and broken. Raylan settles him back against his pillows. “I’m getting you water, sweetheart, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Boyd closes his eyes, fuzzy and exhausted.

Raylan comes back to him, leaning his head up so he can drink cool water, helping with the burn that’s tearing him apart. The water also flushes out the disgusting film in his mouth.

He falls back against the bed. Raylan kisses his chest. “Go back to sleep, love.”

Boyd thinks he does, thinks the fever effects his dreams, still. He sees Raylan on his knees by the bed. He scoops his hands in the garbage and eats out of his palm.

He scoops another hand to his mouth, and another. Again and again, until Raylan stick his head into the can itself. Boyd can hear some slurping, licking, as if Raylan were sucking Boyd’s cock.

“Raylan?” Boyd calls, wishing Raylan could comfort him from this strange dream he’s having.

Raylan pulls his head up and smiles at Boyd. His mouth is slicked with something. “Sleep, lovey. Sleep.”

Boyd does sleep. He dreams he wakes up, as Raylan rifles around his laundry basket. Raylan lifts up a pair of Boyd’s boxers and sniffs it deeply. Boyd watches as he licks at the crotch. The scene blurs a bit. Boyd doesn’t know when Raylan had found himself one of the shirts Boyd uses for gym class. Raylan licks at the pit stains, and then he shoves the neck of the shirt into his mouth and he sucks. Boyd feels as if he blinks, but when he opens his eyes, Raylan is pawing through his bedside table.

Boyd coughs again, pain ripping through his chest. He closes his eyes to do so, and Raylan is back to his side again, adjusting the cold washcloth, kissing his neck, and rubbing circles over his chest. “I’m cold,” Boyd tells him. He’s shivering. “Raylan, I’m so cold.”

“I got you, I have you,” Raylan says. He crawls under the covers, next to Boyd. He wraps himself around Boyd, sharing his warmth. Raylan holds Boyd tight. He presses his ear over Boyd’s heart once more. Boyd feels his pulse thud under his skin, and he knows Raylan can hear it loud in his chest. Boyd dozes off once more, to Raylan’s breath evening out as he falls asleep himself.

Boyd’s finally restful sleep is interrupted by a knock on his door. Raylan wouldn’t knock—Boyd’s confused.

He feels a calming heat at his side. He looks down, and Raylan stares back up at him, under the covers. A kitchen knife is tucked up to his chest. He holds his index finger to his lips. The whites of his eyes shine eerily in the dark.

“Boyd!” Bowman calls from the other side of the door. The force strains his throat, Boyd can tell. He breaks into a series of coughs, sounding as painful as Boyd’s feel. Boyd doesn’t mean to feel so petty about this, but he is a bit glad for it. Bowman is the one to have passed on this nasty infection to begin with. Their Daddy was smart to take up at one of his girlfriends’ places while the two of them ride this out.

“Bowman?” Boyd asks. He coughs as well. Too loud.

“Boyd, can I come in?” he asks.

Raylan shakes his head no under the covers, but Boyd’s instincts already have him inviting Bowman in.

“What is it?” Boyd asks.

Bowman stands in the doorway. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I keep hearing things. Strange things.”

Boyd attempts to sit himself up, but he’s not strong enough to get the whole way. He mostly shifts up higher on the pillows. “What are you hearing? Strange how?”

“I don’t know,” Bowman says. He’s sweating hard. He leans on the doorframe to hold himself up. “In the kitchen. By the bathroom. In the attic.”

What in the world is Raylan doing in the attic? Jesus. “Don’t worry about it,” Boyd tells him. “Go back to bed. You need your rest,” he says, echoing Raylan.

“Boyd—” Bowman tries.

“Bowman,” Boyd starts, “You’re having fever dreams.”

Bowman stares at him, for a moment. “Okay…” he says slowly, closing the door behind him as he moves back to his room.

Boyd feels more awake, after his brother leaves. He’s a little envious, to be honest. He can barely raise his arm above his body, and yet the kid is able to walk? Stand? Asshole.

“Do you think you’re up for tea?” Raylan asks, crawling up from under the covers.

Boyd nods.

Raylan helps him to sitting. He kisses Boyd’s forehead and heads toward the kitchen. Boyd watches him look around the hallway, before stepping out.

Boyd’s whole body aches. His stomach hurts, his back hurts. His arms and legs hurt. He has a hard time keeping his head up. He isn’t coughing again, but his throat hurts the worst. The pain burns, hot and overwhelming.

Raylan comes back and crawls into the bed. He sits down next to Boyd, allowing Boyd to lean his weight on him. He holds out a mug for Boyd. “Lemon and honey. This’ll help, sweetheart.”

Boyd grabs the cup. It’s heavier than it ought to be in his leaden arms. Raylan helps him get the cup to his lips. The lemon is sour, the honey sweet, and underneath is a taste or texture he can’t quite place, almost salty and almost thick.

“What’s in this?” Boyd asks, after half the cup is gone.

“Lemon and honey, my love,” Raylan repeats. He laughs a little.

“No, I mean—is there something else?” Boyd asks.

Raylan smiles down at him. He kisses the crown of Boyd’s head. “It’s part of the tea, my love.”

Boyd takes another sip. Something nags in the back of the head that he’s missing something. Alarm bells ring, but the pounding in his head is louder, and the tea does soothe the raw pain in his throat.

Boyd finishes the cup. He rests more of his weight against Raylan’s shoulder. He’s so tired, but after sleeping for so long, he is unsure if he can sleep longer.

“Can I give you a bath, baby?” Raylan asks.

It takes all of Boyd’s strength to tilt his head to Raylan’s face. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

Raylan kisses his temple. “Can I carry you?”

Boyd’s dick twitches in his flannel, but he is far too exhausted for the interest to linger. “Can you?” he asks, grinning up at him, the first real distraction from his symptoms since he had fallen ill.

Raylan lifts Boyd up in a bridal carry. Boyd rests his head against Raylan’s chest. He wishes he could enjoy Raylan’s strength and tits more than he can now, but he contents himself with the soft heat protecting him from the chills that keep shaking him to his bones.

Raylan sets him on the toilet seat while he starts the water. While the water runs, Raylan lays his head in Boyd’s lap and wraps his arms around Boyd’s waist. Boyd combs his fingers through Raylan’s hair.

He reaches over to the sink to grab his toothbrush. His mouth is disgusting. He feels disgusting. He doesn’t know how Raylan could hold him so closely like this. He pauses, for a moment. The bristles are wet. He hasn’t used it in—oof, far too long. He rewets it and brushes. He cannot think about it right now. He rinses his mouth and spits into the small garbage next to the toilet.

Raylan watches him the whole time, his face looking up from where it rests in Boyd’s thighs. When Boyd is done, Raylan buries his face deeper into Boyd’s belly.

“When you had stood me up… I was so angry…” Raylan tells him. “I snuck in through your window, prepared to do my worst…”

“I am mighty sorry to have been kept from our date,” Boyd tells him. “I would have loved to go out, go on a hike, have ourselves a picnic,” he says, though the idea of a hike makes his muscles ache in protest at the thought alone.

Raylan snuffles his face under Boyd’s sweatshirts, until his nose is pressed against Boyd’s skin. He begins chewing on Boyd’s belly.

Boyd hunches over him, unable to do much to hold himself up, let alone respond to Raylan’s nibbles with anything more positive or negative than a grunt.

When the bath is mostly full, Raylan pulls back and begins helping Boyd out of his clothes. Boyd wishes this were for sex, but he cannot manage more than allowing Raylan to gently guide him to the water. Water splashes against Raylan's white tee, sticking to his skin.

The heat helps relax Boyd's muscles, unwinding them from their pained knots.

Raylan grabs a washcloth from the shelf. He lathers it with soap, before softly sponging it across Boyd’s chest. Boyd groans.

Raylan coos at Boyd, pressing his washcloth across his collar bones and shoulders. “My poor sick baby,” he hums. “So weak… so helpless…”

He continues washing Boyd, removing the grime Boyd’s accumulated in his extended bed rest. He passes the washcloth over Boyd’s arms, and then legs, coming from the feet up.

When he gets to Boyd’s cock, he grins. Boyd huffs. “Raylan, I can’t…”

Raylan kisses his neck. “Let me do all the work, baby. You don’t have to do a thing.”

He jacks Boyd’s cock with the washcloth in between them. Boyd groans. He slips further down the wall into the water.

Raylan leans over, holding his weight on the tub’s ledge. He licks into Boyd’s mouth. It’s almost painful, the way his tongue digs into the sores at the roof of his mouth and into his swollen tonsils. Boyd grunts in pain. His stomach twists. He tries pulling away, but Raylan follows him, licking at Boyd’s tonsils once more. He coughs into Raylan’s mouth, and Raylan pulls back.

“Oh, poor thing,” he says, but his voice is thick and heavy. Raylan begins panting heavily, and Boyd almost has a moment to wonder if he is showing signs of Strep himself. “Poor, dear thing.”

Raylan presses his forehead to Boyd’s. He sets the washcloth down, before he pulls back to rest on his heels. He strips off his wet white tee and undoes the button of his jeans. Boyd swallows as Raylan’s cock pops out of his underwear as Raylan drags the damp denim down his thighs, on his knees. He wishes to badly to put this cock in his mouth, but Raylan’s cock is larger than his tongue, already prodding once more against Boyd’s sore throat.

Raylan pulls back to climb into the tub. He sits himself on Boyd’s lap, forcing water to slosh out over the edges. He lies his body down against Boyd’s, wrapping his arms around Boyd’s neck.

“My sweet lover is too ill to play with me,” Raylan whines, sliding down Boyd’s chest. He bites into Boyd’s neck. Boyd cannot focus on the pain from Raylan’s love bite, startled by the ache in his throat and back.

Raylan lies his naked skin against Boyd’s. Boyd’s cock stirs, but he once again does not think he can please his Raylan in his weakened state. Raylan presses his tongue back into Boyd’s mouth, licking once again at Boyd’s scraping throat.

Boyd moans. He’s so dizzy. The water is hot and his head is clouded. He feels so good from Raylan’s attention, but he’s so tired.

Raylan pull back to lick over his lovebite. He bites down just so over the bruising skin.

“Raylan…” Boyd tries. “Raylan, I’m… I…”

Raylan pushes himself up. He holds Boyd’s face in his palms. “Will you let me take care of you? Can I hold you?”

Boyd nods into Raylan’s hands.

Raylan leans down and kisses him. He bites Boyd’s bottom lip and pull it with him as he leans back. Boyd grunts.

Raylan gives Boyd’s jaw a quick nip. He kisses down Boyd’s neck, kisses his chest. Boyd squirms. “Ah—Raylan, ow—!”

Raylan nuzzles his cheek against Boyd’s sternum. “Is your rash bothering you, baby? I’ll whip you up a salve for it when we’re done, I promise.”

Boyd whines again.

Raylan tilts his head up to kiss the underside of Boyd’s chin. Boyd cricks his neck so he can catch Raylan’s lips.

Raylan kisses him again and again. He crawls up to kiss Boyd’s cheeks and ears. He takes Boyd’s earlobe into his mouth and sucks. Boyd groans so hard he strains his stomach muscles and wrecks his throat.

Raylan bites his earlobe, before licking up and around the shell of Boyd’s ear.

Boyd flinches when Raylan’s fingers press against his asshole.

Raylan giggles into his ear as he bites the lobe again. Two fingers slowly push their way past Boyd’s rim. Boyd feels himself slip deeper into the water, impaling himself further on Raylan’s fingers.

Raylan gasps against Boyd’s neck, his hot breath ghosting against Boyd’s skin. Raylan rubs his fingers against Boyd’s prostrate, causing Boyd to choke. He begins coughing, the pain of it catching him off guard. His muscles tighten around Raylan’s hand, preventing him from removing his fingers as they brush against Boyd’s prostrate with each cough.

Boyd feels insane. His coughs cause him even more pleasure, which causes him to cough harder.

Raylan stares down at him. His eyes are bright with almost frightening amusement. His lips curl into a sharp, toothy grin. He presses down on Boyd’s perineum with his thumb, startling a raspy gasp from Boyd’s chest.

Boyd reaches for Raylan’s shoulders. He’s too weak to push Raylan away or pull him closer. All he can do is hold him.

Raylan licks up Boyd’s neck, lapping over the swelling in Boyd’s lymphatic system. He presses a third finger past Boyd’s rim, and Boyd chokes once more. He feels drool drip down his chin and onto Raylan’s cheek. Raylan licks it off his lip with a feral grin, before biting down on the swelling.

Boyd jolts—“Jesus!”

Raylan bites deeper. Boyd’s stomach twists. He almost throws up. He definitely heaves a bit.

Raylan pulls back, taking his fingers out with the movement.

“Raylan—” Boyd begs.

Raylan grips Boyd by his ass, his fingers digging into Boyd’s cheeks. “I got you, I have you. Don’t worry, my love,” he murmurs. He lifts Boyd up just enough to slide himself underneath Boyd. He maneuvers them so Boyd’s back lies against his chest. Boyd turns his head back tucking himself into Raylan’s neck. Raylan lifts him by his ass, before settling him back down on his cock. He wraps his arms around Boyd’s stomach and holds him.

“Raylan,” Boyd pants. He feels boneless. He can’t ride Raylan how he wants to. He can’t grab Raylan and kiss him with fervor Raylan deserves.

Raylan shushes him once more, pressing a firm kiss to Boyd’s hair. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Relax, okay, darling? Just relax.”

Boyd melts against Raylan’s skin. He feels Raylan’s thick cock stretch him out, as warm as the water around them. Boyd rests, as Raylan fills him up. He doesn’t thrust, doesn’t move at all, just parks himself inside Boyd as they unwind.

“I just had to get in you, baby,” Raylan murmurs, flattening his hand out against Boyd’s stomach. “I just wanted to be inside you so much.” He peppers Boyd’s cheek with wet and sloppy kisses. “I just wanted to hold you so close,” he says. He bites into Boyd’s cheek as if it’s dough.

Boyd would fall under the water if it weren’t for Raylan’s arms holding his waist up.

They soak in the heat, while the steam helps relieve the pressure of Boyd’s headache.

“You’re so warm,” Raylan whispers, kissing Boyd’s cheek, and then kissing down his neck. “So hot for me.”

“That would be the fever,” Boyd tells him.

Raylan snorts into his neck. He jerks his hips up as a punishment, causing Boyd to groan. Boyd feels himself fall forward as Raylan shifts them once more.

Raylan hunches them over, allowing his cock to sink deeper into Boyd. He props his legs up, and wraps kicks his ankles into Boyd’s own. He curls around Boyd fully. He holds Boyd’s chest with his hands. He kneads into one of Boyd’s tits with knuckles, while his other hand gropes and fondles.

“So helpless, so pliant,” Raylan says. He nuzzles his nose down Boyd’s spine. He nips at Boyd’s raised spinal column. “You’re just too weak to stop me, arntcha?”

Boyd groans as Raylan pinches his nipple, rubbing it around between his knuckle and thumb.

“I could do anything to you,” Raylan says. He bites into Boyd back, so deep that Boyd jerks himself on Raylan’s cock. Raylan bites into him again, lower, gripping Boyd’s skin between his teeth. “Anything…” Raylan says, hypnotizing himself. He bites at Boyd’s shoulder blade, ducking his head lower, bending Boyd deeper on his cock.

“I don’t even have to tie you up,” Raylan says, as he bites on Boyd’s spine. “I could lie you down…” he says as he bites Boyd again, digging his teeth into the meat of Boyd’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t need rope,” he continues, biting Boyd again on the back of his neck. “Almost wish you were this sick all the time.”

Boyd wants to lift himself up and spear himself on Raylan’s cock. Raylan teases him, massaging one tit, using his fingers to grip and pull and grab. His fingers are so long and strong.

Raylan bites him where his shoulder and neck meet, biting down once more, and sucking deeply. Boyd wiggles his hips, as much as he can manage, trying to produce some friction.

Raylan pulls his mouth back to laugh lightly in Boyd’s ear. “I thought you were too weak for sex, beloved. I thought you were too weak for me to love you how you deserve.”

Boyd whines. Raylan puts his mouth in a soft spot centered among Boyd’s spine, shoulder blade, and collar bone. He chews on the spot, and Boyd feels the muscle tension ease.

“Raylan…” Boyd groans. He coughs again. Raylan’s teeth only sink in deeper as he moves under his mouth.

Raylan keeps prodding Boyd’s chest, keeps biting into Boyd’s skin and flesh. He eats the pain out of Boyd’s upper back, or at least it feels as so, the way he only feels how tender and loved his skin is.

Raylan continues murmuring promises and biting bruises into Boyd’s back. “Oh, how I wish I could keep you,” Raylan tells him, after a bite so deep, Boyd can feel droplets of blood run down his skin. “I wish I could keep you so loose and lovely forever,” he says, before sucking at the spot he had just bitten. “I wish I could keep you in my arms, could stay inside you as long as I want…”

“Love you…” Boyd says stupidly, not sure what else could fit in his brain beside this.

“I’d need a nice, sturdy chain…” Raylan ruminates to himself. He bites at Boyd’s other shoulder, digging his canines in deep and then teething into Boyd’s muscle. He chews on Boyd like Boyd would chew on a pen cap while his mind is occupied with something else.

“And time…” Raylan adds, moving his lips to suck on another bruise he’d left in Boyd’s shoulder. “God—money, security…” he lists, as he lifts Boyd up by his hips to reposition him on Raylan’s lap. Boyd whines, wishing Raylan would fuck him, wishing he could fuck himself.

Raylan pulls them both back, his hands loose and lazy on Boyd’s chest. He kisses Boyd’s cheek before kicking his legs to the end of the tub for leverage as he thrusts up against Boyd’s prostrate. Boyd wheezes, feeling the force of the movement up his throat.

Raylan keeps his feet against the tub all and thrusts up again, bouncing Boyd on his cock. Boyd puts his hands over Raylan’s, still on his chest, unsure how else to brace himself. Raylan slides one hand down to grip at Boyd’s cock.

Boyd coughs, nearly in sync with Raylan’s thrusts. Water spills out of the tub and across the bathroom tile.

Raylan sucks a hickey into Boyd’s neck as he lifts them both up once more with the force of his fucking.

Raylan comes into Boyd’s hole, filling Boyd with a hot, perfect load. His groan is so loud, Boyd is near certain that Bowman will hear it and come knocking at the door in investigation.

Boyd rests back against Raylan’s chest. His body is still limp, but his cock has managed to harden, and he nearly weeps for how strongly he wishes for release. Raylan holds him through his own orgasm. He kisses Boyd’s neck when he has finished, before sucking another kiss into Boyd’s neck, before gently tugging out a stuttering climax from Boyd’s cock.

Raylan catches his come as it floats into the water with a new washcloth. He sets it on the rim of the tub, as he settles them back into the warmth of the water. He keeps his soft cock in Boyd, allowing them to decompress in the last of the heat.

Before the water cools past lukewarm, Raylan helps Boyd out of the tub, holding him up under his arms. Raylan dries Boyd off with a towel, softly rubbing off the water. Come falls out of his ass, sliding along the rivulets of water, and Raylan pads the towel gently over his inner thighs. Boyd feels ever more pliable. The heat and orgasm have helped his muscle aches, but he feels, somehow, even weaker than when he had gone in.

Raylan kisses the top of his head. “I’m gonna get you new pj’s, okay?” he hums. Boyd whines, reaching for Raylan’s hands.

Raylan laughs. He kisses Boyd again, before pulling on Boyd’s outermost sweatshirt, the black one with the hood he’d worn over his other, as well as Boyd’s flannel bottoms.

Boyd tries to keep himself upright, long enough, at least, for Raylan to come back with fabric in hand. Raylan helps Boyd into a new pair of sweat pants, a pair he’s seen Raylan wear himself.

Boyd smiles fondly as Raylan lifts him back into his arms. He carries Boyd back to bed, once again holding Boyd to his chest like a newlywed. Raylan sets Boyd down, so sweetly, and leaves Boyd with only a kiss to his forehead.

Raylan returns soon with oats and water, but he had been gone for so long, Boyd has missed him with a pain in his chest, deeper than the muscle pains but to his bones.

Raylan sets his bowl down on the bedside table and gets up on the bed. He throws his leg over Boyd’s hips to straddle him. Boyd writhes underneath him, his cock too soft and sensitive, for Raylan to press his ass against him.

Raylan smiles above him. He sticks his hand into the mixture—ground oatmeal, water, and a pinch of honey.

Raylan leans down to kiss Boyd on both his cheeks, before pulling back up. He rubs his palms across Boyd’s chest. Boyd thinks he just wanted an opportunity to grope him some more. He laughs, but the oatmeal feels soothing against his chest.

Raylan lowers himself down. He kisses Boyd’s lips, rubbing the concoction over Boyd’s sternum, where the rash is the worst. When he is content with the spread over Boyd’s skin, he kisses Boyd once against, before pulling away from Boyd’s whine.

Raylan uses a rag to wipe his hands, before coming back with a new cold washcloth for Boyd’s forehead. “Do you think you can rest more?”

Boyd sighs. “No, I—I must admit, as weak as I may feel, I do not think I will be able to seek slumber at the moment.”

Raylan brushes Boyd’s hair back and scratches his head. “How about I grab one of your books, huh? I’ll read to you.”

Boyd hums. “How about some Shirley Jackson?”

“That can be arranged,” Raylan says, grabbing a book from Boyd’s stack against the wall. He brings it with him back to bed and snuggles up to Boyd.

He reads until Boyd feels exhaustion consume him. Boyd slumps against Raylan’s shoulder. He apologizes for not being able to host, but Raylan laughs at him. He pulls another book from Boyd’s piles and begins reading, petting Boyd’s hair with his non-dominant hand. Boyd falls asleep to Raylan flipping pages and a soft hand on his head.

He stirs as Raylan straddles him once more, rubbing a warm washcloth over Boyd’s chest, but the sensation is so warm and comfortable and comforting, it does not wake him fully. He dreams of Raylan kissing his neck and pulling him closer to himself. He buries himself further into Raylan’s skin.

“Boyd—” Bowman calls from the hallway, waking Boyd once more.

Boyd groans. Raylan moves to sit behind the bed, blocking his form from the door. “Yes, Bowman?” he asks.

Bowman doesn’t answer right away. He pauses. And then, quietly, “Can I come in?”

Raylan shrugs, when Boyd turns to him.

“You may come in, Bowman,” Boyd tells him.

Bowman steps in. He walks into the room, deep enough to stand between the door and bed. He sets his hand on Boyd’s dresser, tapping his fingers against the wood.

“Boyd, you gotta listen to me,” he begs.

Boyd grabs himself the cold water Raylan had set on the bedside table. He takes a sip, which helps soothe his throat.

Bowman continues. “Listen. I think… I think someone broke into our attic.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow. “You said that earlier.”

Bowman grips his shirt in his hand. It sticks to his skin with sweat, and he tugs it away. “I went up there. Someone or something went rifling through are things.”

Boyd frowns. “Bowman, there ain’t nothing up there worth swiping.”

Bowman narrows his eyes. “I know. Listen,” he pauses. He swallows, likely around the same sore spot in his throat Boyd’s been feeling. “I think someone stole your baby teeth.”

“My—” Boyd cuts himself off. Raylan, what in the world? “My baby teeth,” he repeats.

“I know it sounds crazy!” Bowman protests. “I know! But—”

“But,” Boyd interrupts, “You are still feverish and imagining things.”

“Boyd—!” Bowman hisses.

“C’mere. Lemme feel your forehead,” Boyd orders.

In the corner of his eye, Boyd watches Raylan flip him off, before lying down and rolling under the bed. Bowman steps up to Boyd, and Boyd feels his forehead with the back of his palm.

“Bowman, you are burning up,” he tuts. “Go to sleep. If you wake up in a few hours and something’s still off, I will take a look around, okay? You can’t be impeding your recovery chasing after ghosts like this.”

Bowman bites bottom lip. He breaks into a coughing fit, and Boyd can see him waver.

Boyd twists the knife. “Daddy doesn’t want to be away longer than he has to. Get some rest, or he’ll be pissed that we kept him away so long. Especially if it’s because you’ve been watching too many horror films when you’re supposed to be doing chores.”

This does the trick. Boyd does not know what Bowman is imagining that is going bump in the night, but whatever it is, their Daddy is certainly scarier. Bowman heads out with a promise to rest, extracting a promise in turn from Boyd to check out the attic.

When he is gone, Raylan rolls out from under the bed and crawls back in with Boyd. Boyd leans his head against his shoulder. They lie there, just enjoying each other’s presence, for a few minutes, until Boyd finally asks, “What were you doing with my baby teeth?”

Raylan laughs. He gets out of bed and stretches. “A love spell.”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “I already love you. Try again, my love, my heart.”

Raylan kisses his forehead. “I ate ‘em.”

Boyd sighs. “You do not have to tell me, if you do not wish.”

Raylan kisses Boyd on the lips. “I’m grabbing you food, honey.” Ah, so he has decided to change the subject after all. He is out of the room before Boyd can say anything in response, at least not without a volume that would hurt his throat or alert his brother to his presence or both.

Raylan brings back a bowl and a spoon. “You need to eat,” Raylan says, gently but firmly. “You need something in your stomach if you want to recover.”

“I do not think I will be able to keep much down, Raylan,” Boyd tells him honestly.

Raylan sits down at the edge of the bed. He sets the broth down on the bedside table, and leans over to Boyd. He pecks Boyd on his nose. “Any little bit that you keep down helps…” he trails, noticing Boyd’s skepticism. He switches gears. “For me, honey?” he asks as he bites his bottom lip.

Boyd sighs. It rasps at the back of his throat. “If for you, my love.”

Raylan kisses his cheek again. “Thank you,” he says, pulling back to help Boyd to sitting. He pulls the bowl to him and lifts the spoon out to Boyd’s lips.

“Raylan,” Boyd says. He wants to tell Raylan off, but he turns his head away to cough. The coughs are chest deep and painful. When his fit his done, he has little motivation to argue, let alone use his body more than he has to. Raylan blows on the spoon, before deliver the broth to Boyd’s mouth.

Boyd drinks it down, but the swallow is just as painful as he had expected it to be.

“My poor thing,” Raylan says. He leans down to press his forehead down to Boyd’s. “My sweet thing.”

The soup has a specific taste to it as well. Boyd can’t for the life of him tell what it is. It tastes familiar, though. It’s certainly not his Mama’s recipe.

“There you go,” Raylan encourages him.

He feeds Boyd spoonful after spoonful, and Boyd eats more than he thought he could, but less, it seems, than Raylan had wanted. He feels like the broth slosh around in his stomach, and he has to fight to keep it down.

“You did so good, beloved,” Raylan praises, kissing into Boyd’s hair. “My brave boy.”

Boyd imagines that he sounds disappointed.

Eating has worn Boyd out. He finds himself nodding off once more, as Raylan kisses his ear and rubs his warm hands over Boyd’s chest.

Boyd wakes up to screaming—ragged and panting and broken. As if someone is doing so after they’ve had their throat ripped out.

He feels weight on his hips—it’s Raylan’s. He knows. It’s difficult for his adrenaline to react to the screaming, not when Raylan is here with him.

He fights to open his eyes. He barely sees Raylan above him. He thinks he sees the knife in Raylan’s hand—the kitchen knife that used to be his Mama’s favorite.

Raylan smiles down at him. “Oh, darling, go back to sleep. I’ll take care of everything, okay?” he says as he rubs his palm on Boyd’s cheek. He pats the skin before rolling out from his straddle. His knife glints with the moon light filtering in from the open curtains of his window.

He falls back asleep to nasty dreams. Screaming permeates his nightmares, rough and ruined. He dreams of a long, thick, silver chain wrapping around his neck and pulling. A hand overwhelms him, looming over him, growing larger and larger as its finger nails grow into sharp claws. A thick miasma settles around him, forming a green, poisonous fog.

Boyd wakes up with a sense of dread. His heart is racing. His sweat is cold against the back of his neck. Something is wrong. He doesn’t see Raylan. He doesn’t hear anything. The world is so quiet. He looks out his window, and the night is so black, Boyd almost wonders if the house has been eaten by some beast, and they all sit in its stomach now.

Boyd looks around his room. Signs of Raylan’s presence linger. His laundry basket is knocked to the floor, clothes spilling out. The drawer of his bedside table is ajar. Boyd still wears Raylan’s sweatpants.

Boyd feels, to his gut, that something is wrong. He doesn’t know what. He almost doesn’t want to find out. He grabs another sweater from amidst his blankets and shrugs it on, ignoring the pain in his arms and shoulders.

He pulls himself up to sitting and pushes his torso around. The pads of his feet land on the floor. He takes a deep breath. He girds himself against the pain and exhaustion. He stands up, even as his stomach muscles protest, still strained from his vomiting.

He slowly makes his way out of his room. He pauses, at his doorframe, holding himself up as ragged pants escape from his throat.

Boyd looks around the hallway. He supports himself against the wall, his hand trailing across the wallpaper as he treads down the hall to Bowman’s bedroom. The door is open, but when Boyd peeks in, the bed is empty. The covers are pulled over at the side, as if Bowman had left on his own accord

Boyd coughs, making a heinous noise from his chest. Boyd rests on the doorframe, for a moment, to catch his breath. He breathes in and out. He rests his forehead against the frame—his breathing is still labored. He turns around, toward the kitchen. The attic staircase is still open, the wooden steps leading up into inky shadows. Bowman should have closed it when he was done messing around. Boyd feels his stomach lurch. He catches his weight up against the wall. His fingers dig into the wallpaper as he fights to get his breath back. He pushes himself toward the bathroom, tumbling through the wooden door.

He collapses in front of the toilet, vomiting into the bowl. He flushes it down, before flushing again. Out comes the broth and tea Raylan had fed him. Fuck. Raylan made all this for him, and he’s losing it. He’s leaving another disgusting mess for Raylan to clean.

He rests his forehead on his arm. He pants into the air. His stomach twists again. He opens his eyes, but frowns. A thick splatter of blood paints the tile of the floor next to him and the toilet. Boyd swipes two fingers through the blood and holds it up to his eye to get a better look, even as his vision blurs and the world spins around him.

Boyd is burning up. He feels inflamed. His cheeks are hot. He looks up. An arm hangs over the side of the tub.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Raylan sighs, and Boyd slowly turns to his voice. “You weren’t meant to be here.” He stands in the door, looking down at Boyd with such love and compassion in his eyes. The sweatshirt he is wearing—Boyd’s black sweatshirt that Raylan had put on—has an odd texture to it, an odd coloration in the dim bathroom light.

Boyd does his best to look up at him. His head falls back against his arm, and he collapses to the blood-stained tiles as Raylan comes to him. Raylan kneels at Boyd’s miserable pile by the toilet.

Raylan kisses Boyd’s temple. He brushes Boyd’s hair back, away from his sweat-soaked forehead. Raylan lovingly, slowly collects Boyd into his arms against his chest. Boyd buries himself into Raylan’s sweater. He feels bad. Everything is too hot. His stomach rolls and rolls around inside him.

He feels hot tears drip down his cheeks. He doesn’t mean to cry. He doesn’t want to cry. He’s in so much pain. Everything hurts. Everything hurts so much. He can’t think. He saw—

“Let’s get you back to bed, darling,” Raylan says. He lifts Boyd up in his arms. He wraps Boyd around his front, holding Boyd up by his thighs. Boyd falls against him like a ragdoll. He’s too tired. He’s in so much pain. Nothing makes sense. He’s so confused—

Raylan hefts them both up and starts walking towards the bedroom. Boyd opens his eyes, for just a moment, to see his brother lying in the tub, his eyes glassy and wide. His mouth is open, and his mouth is full of sores and inflammation.

Boyd must make some noise, because Raylan hushes him, soothes him with whispers.

He sets Boyd back in bed, under his covers. He gets under the covers with Boyd, holding him tight, but Boyd is so hot. He squirms. He doesn’t want to leave Raylan’s side, but this heat is too much.

Raylan holds him tighter. He cups Boyd’s cheek in his palm and turns his face to himself. He presses their foreheads together and hums. He breathes in deep and pulls back. “Your fever is at its worst,” he tells him. “You likely won’t remember this.”

Boyd tucks his head under Raylan’s chin. He grips his fingers into Raylan’s shirt. It’s wet. Boyd’s fingers get wet.

Raylan wraps his arms around Boyd’s back and captures him in a tight hug. “I know you don’t understand.” He plays with the hair at Boyd’s neck. “But if you remember anything, my love, remember this: all I do, I do for you.”

Boyd makes a noise—strangled and pained and lost.

“All for you, my love,” Raylan repeats. “So, I could continue to hold you. So that we could have more time.”

Boyd fights against unconsciousness. This seems so important. This seems so vital to understand. His eye lids fall against his cheeks, and he struggles to open just one to keep what little clarity he has.

“I just wanted one of your kidneys…” Raylan says. He dances his fingers along Boyd’s torso. “Just one. I s’pose it’s for the best. Should probably’ve gone to a professional… I just get so excited, Boyd… I just love you so much…”

Raylan kisses his crown. Boyd would have given it to him. He doesn’t know why that’s so wrong. He doesn’t know how that could have gone so wrong. Raylan loves him so much. That could never be wrong.

“The meat wrapped in brown packing paper is groceries I picked up for Helen, okay?” Raylan whispers. “That’s all it is. Don’t worry, my love.”

Sleep finally snatches Boyd up in its hands once more. Boyd can’t fight against Raylan’s warmth and melodic voice and gentle touch any longer. Boyd is pulled under, and he dreams of a small home with a black, wrought-iron gate, surrounded by trees with a pink-petaled tree in the backyard.