ArchivedLogs:Fix You

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Fix You
Dramatis Personae

Lucien, Matt


"{Won't let you.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)


<NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village

Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre.

A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden.

Matt leans on the kitchen counter heavily. He is staring intently at the round, glossy-green teapot before him as though his gaze could cause it to steep faster. He's dressed in the height of just-rolled-out-of-bed chic in a wrinkled white t-shirt with a red filigree heart in the center of the chest, bracketed by ornate capital A's in Ace of Hearts fashion, and black pajama pants dotted with red hearts. His eyes flick to the clock and remain there until the minute ticks over, whereupon he lifts the teapot and pours the clear amber-gold liquid into two waiting mugs, both gaudy and inexpertly glazed. These he brings down the hall to the study, where he shoulders the door open without so much as a knock.

Lucien twitches as the door is open, but not very /much/. Technically less pajama'd than Matt -- green button-down, grey trousers -- he /looks/ just gotten out of bed, too, clothing rumpled, hair disheveled. Though the dual monitors of his desktop are filled with tables and charts and medical scans he is not actually looking at the screen right now. Perhaps at one point he has been seated at his desk; at the moment, though, he is on the floor beside it, arm curled over his eyes. His fingers press against the side of his face when Matt enters.

Matt frowns, pads over to kneel beside the bed, setting the mugs of tea down on the floor. "Luci..." He makes a soft noise of distress as he reaches out for his brother but comes up short. "{I made Yunnan Gold. I...}" His shoulders slump. "{I can't feel you. You need to tell me what's going on in there.}"

Lucien nods, a small shift of movement behind the crook of his arm. "{Thank you.}" His voice comes out in a shaky whisper. "Just -- tired. {Tea will help.}" His other hand reaches for one of the mugs, curling fingers slowly around it though not actually moving it from its position on the floor. Eventually he moves his hand again, tea untouched, feeling out for Matt's hand.

Matt grips Lucien's hand, hard. He shakes his head. "{No.}" Very quietly, his voice trembling. "{You're not just tired. The sickness is getting worse, all the time.}" His hand squeezes tighter. "{You need treatment.}"

A nausea-inducing throb of pain pounds through Matt's head with Lucien's touch. A wash of /actual/ nausea, roiling and uneasy. A twisting jittery mental fog that stretches fraying and unstable across his mind. Lucien squeezes his brother's hand tighter, gritting his teeth as his senses reach out, straining to search through the other man's mind. Tamp down any edges of symptoms starting to curl back up. "{I am treatment.}"

Matt groans, low and miserable, as the nausea rolls over him. "{You can ease the symptoms, but you cannot cure the disease.}" He curls his other arm around Lucien's shoulders. "{But more importantly, you are /stretched too thin./}" His voice grows firmer by degrees. "{This is killing you, and I won't have it. You must try the cure.}"

In Matt's hand, Lucien's is clammy and faintly trembling. He doesn't let go, though, until he has finished his work, painstakingly re-ordering Matt's mind to roll back the effects the illness is trying to have. "{The cure will take me out of commission for days. Every day that we delay --}" His eyes flick up, darting back towards his temporarily abandoned work at the computer. There is an abrupt relief from the nausea as he finishes, drops Matt's hand to rest his own on his brother's knee. "{Two years ago this city was carpeted with bodies. We do not have the luxury of time.}"

"{No, we don't. And yes, you are indispensable.}" Matt gathers his brother closer. "{But you'll be a lot less use to this research effort dead.}" He kisses his forehead, then tips his chin up so their eyes can meet. "{And I can't...I won't let you do this.}"

With the kiss comes another wave of nausea, a splitting headache stabbing through Matt's skull. There are dark circles around Lucien's eyes when Matt's meet his. He tips his head forward, the nausea returning as his forehead rests against Matt's; he curls slightly into his brother's lap, fingers tightening against the older man's knee. "{Won't let me.}" He echoes this with a soft huff of breath. "Matt..."

"{Won't let you.}" Matt closes his eyes. He does not pull away, nausea and headache notwithstanding. "{Now, drink your tea, then we'll get you sorted out.}" The faint tremor in his shoulders doesn't reach his voice. "{Then you can get back to work and sort the city out.}" He presses another kiss to his brother's head. "{But you first.}"