The Reciprocity Principle

cashmere

A/N      First time writing for this fandom, please let me know what you think!

There was a sharp rustle and an exasperated sigh as yet another crumpled up paper joined its fellow failures in the mesh basket by Black's desk. Truth be told, they were all rather wonderful. But wonderful wasn't what he was going for, and wonderful wasn't something he could see right now. Just lines that didn't quite look the way he wanted them to. They were the wrong colour, for one. He flicked away his pencil and fumbled with the razorblade around his neck, noting how the rubber bumper around it had become discoloured from the oil and the graphite on his fingers. The pile of croquis templates on his desk had dwindled over the course of the night, with only four remaining. He'd have to retrieve more from his cabinet in the living room, which happened to be the same room that held the couch where White was currently passed out.

Black let go of his necklace and hoisted himself up and to his bathroom, where he ditched all his clothes and deposited himself on the floor of the shower until the water ran cold. He shivered, shampooed his hair and brushed his teeth as his core temperature slowly dropped and his limbs grew numb. Black used the last bit of strength he had to shut off the water, but fell back down on his ass. Again he sat, his head against the tile. It was getting even colder. He was fairly certain the last time he ate was a minimum of two days ago. Time ticked by and the faucet dripped icily onto his ankle, he could feel tremors starting to climb up his body until he was shivering properly. He finally got up and leaned heavily on the wall as he wrenched aside the shower curtain.

White was pulling a towel off the heated rail with a dour look on his face, and when he saw Black all soaking wet and trembling his eyebrows did this sad thing, and Black could have sworn someone had reached between his ribs and ripped out his heart. White unfolded the towel and held his arms out and shuddering, Black stumbled toward him. Wiry arms wrapped around him and took his weight as he shook violently at the introduction of heat. His fingers stung and ached, and White ran his hands up and down his back through the towel, in an effort to warm him up.

"God, you're freezing..." he muttered. "C'mon."

He guided him into the bedroom and sat him down, tossing over the lounge pants and shirt he'd already pulled out for him. White left him to change and went to his own room and opened up his closet, where he grabbed a black cashmere cardigan. He knew it would smell the most like him since he hadn't washed it the last time he did all his cashmere, but he'd only worn it out of the house once, so it wouldn't be too dirty. He would never admit it, but White intentionally didn't wear it out of the house much for this specific purpose. He gave it a small smile and carried it to Black's room, where he stopped in the doorway. The guy had his sweatpants cinched as tight as possible, excess material bunched up around his waist. He was pulling on his shirt and White could see that little bit of fuzz his body had grown over the past few weeks in a last ditch attempt to conserve heat in the absence of subcu fat. There were the usual scars, the ones they'd both grown accustomed to over the years. A bruise by his hip where he'd bumped into the table last week. Nothing was amiss, they were all the same marks he was used to. But it just didn't look right. White supposed he was so used to worrying about the bruised ribs and the sprained and bleeding wrists and all the concussions that the blankness revealed how sickly he was. He walked in just as Black was straightening out his hem, and he held up the cardigan. Black's smile nearly erased all his worries from before. That was the problem, with the two of them. Worry about something for long enough and eventually, you have to address the situation. But he kept letting go, every time Black smiled or sang along to some shitty song he swore he hated just days ago, every time he wolfed down a plate of pancakes at their favourite restaurant. And then he got them back when he had to listen to Black puking them up from the other side of the bathroom stall door, and he got them back when he heard that song playing from somewhere down the hall in the TICU.

Black was feverishly pulling his arms into the cardigan and White handed him the warm mug of tea he had waiting. He took it gratefully and burrowed under the covers, hands still shaking.

"Careful, don't spill."

"Yeah White, I know."

He tossed over the TV remote, kicked off his shoes and sat down on the other side of the bed.

"Black."

Black sipped his tea.

"Black-"

He sipped even louder.

White heaved a sigh and sat back as the sipping ceased and the TV screen lit up the room.

"Can you get the-"

"Light, yeah." White ran around the bed to hit the light switch and by the time he settled back down, season four of The West Wing was playing. It was one of his favourite shows, and Black found it incredibly dull. Only now, he just drank his tea and lifted up the quilt for them to share.

"C'mon, don't be a weirdo. Get in here."

White smiled and took his offer, well aware that it was also an excuse for Black to cuddle up to him. To be fair he was borderline hypothermic, but White was acutely conscious of the fact that he needed to be bigger and stronger and protective, because nobody in Black's life ever was. That was his role. And White realised when he looked down at him, curled against his side with drips of hot tea spilt down his chin, that he was okay with that. 

A/N

Hope you enjoyed!