When they finally made it to the bed, Tauran sank onto it like a drowning man pulled ashore. The front of his shirt stuck to his chest, shivers rolling through him at intervals. Kalai lingered at the foot of the bed, feeling absolutely useless. He wondered if this was how Tauran had felt when he fainted downstairs, and he felt a sting of guilt for not warning him beforehand.
“Should... should I call for a physician?” Kalai asked.
Tauran shook his head. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling shallowly. “No.” Even speaking sounded like a chore for him. “They can’t do anything. They’ll just give me drakeroot and I don’t want it. It makes me sick.” Tauran rested a trembling hand against his brow.
“Okay.” Kalai bit his lip. “I’ll be right back.”
Going to the kitchen, Kalai placed a glass of water, hand towels and a bowl of lukewarm water on a tray, then paused. The small bottle of flower oil caught his eye. It was made for adding flavor to tea, but maybe he could find a second use for it. Adding it to the tray, he balanced it carefully up the stairs and placed it by the bed. Tauran hadn’t moved since Kalai had left him.
Settling by Tauran’s head, Kalai wet a cloth and gently moved Tauran’s hand away from his face. He rubbed the sweat from his brow and let the moisture cool against his skin. Tauran exhaled deeply, letting Kalai slip a hand under his head. Kalai held the glass to Tauran’s lips.
Swallowing, Tauran dropped his head back on the pillow and gazed up at Kalai. His eyes were glassy, but he at least no longer looked seconds from passing out like he had when he arrived.
“Thank you,” Tauran murmured. He rested the back of his hand against Kalai’s leg. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Kalai rubbed Tauran’s forearm. “Do you mind if I try something? I’ll need your help taking off your trousers.”
Tauran’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?”
Kalai took the flower oil from the tray and held it up. He had no clue if it would work, but it was worth a try. “Arrow used to get terrible cramps in his wings when he was younger. Massages can do wonders. Trust me. I’ve gotten really good at this.”
Tauran looked unsure, which Kalai couldn’t blame him for. Kalai would certainly have preferred taking off Tauran’s trousers for the first time in a scenario where they were both in a vastly better mood, but if there was anything at all he could do to help ease Tauran’s pain, he had to at least try.
Kalai saw the shift in Tauran’s expression the moment Tauran decided to trust him, just like he had in the tower ruin. It filled Kalai with a fondness he didn’t think he’d ever be able to put into words.
Kalai worked the laces of Tauran’s boots, careful when he slipped off the left one and placed them both by the side of the bed.
Tauran’s fingers were clumsy on the buckle of his weapons belt, then on the buttons of his trousers. He wiggled them down a little, then winced. Kalai helped him tug them off the rest of the way, pretending not to notice the flush of embarrassment in Tauran’s cheeks.
Kalai tried not to stare, but presented with the view of a physique as nice as Tauran’s, it was hard not to. Tauran’s legs were as toned as the rest of him, his sculpted thigh muscles sending a particularly pleasant shiver down Kalai’s spine. An uneven scar broke the smooth curves of his left leg, two inches wide in places. It jaggedly snaked all the way from his hip, under the edge of his underwear, along the thigh, around the kneecap and down his shin, all the way to his ankle. Smaller, uneven, circular scars where rods had kept the healing bones straight fringed the twisting scar. Despite it, there was a faint curve to Tauran’s lower leg that Kalai hadn’t noticed when he’d been dressed.
When Kalai raised his head, Tauran’s gaze was directed firmly at the opposite wall, a tight set to his jaw. Kalai placed a hand on his good leg. Tauran’s gaze flicked back to him, and when Kalai smiled, some of the tension in Tauran’s jaw eased.
“You’ve got to tell me if I’m hurting you more,” Kalai said. He grabbed the bottle of flower oil and poured a generous amount into his palm, rubbing his hands together. “That’s the opposite of my intention.”