Heart's Done Time (Aerosmith Fanfiction)

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-one
Sesame's POV
I woke up in Steven's bed with his head on my shoulder and the sound of his rattling breaths escaping through his parted lips. His eyes were closed, and he looked peaceful, even with the horrid sound of labored breathing and the bright flush of fever high upon his cheeks, and I was very reluctant to wake him when I myself couldn't remember what time we'd fallen asleep last night. I needed to shift, though, and doing so proved to be enough to shake him out of his dreams.
His face lit up at the sight of my own, though; a smile cracking his sickly features and his eyes brightening with no help from the fever.
"Good morning," I said, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead and frowning a bit when I realized his temperature had risen.
"Morning, love," he said, looking so happy to see me that I felt a pang in my heart. "God, you're so beautiful." He sounded awed. "You must be the absolute prettiest girl in the entire universe."
I blushed and shoved his shoulder playfully, sitting up despite the headache pounding between my temples. Damn, I was hungover. "You're feverish, dear."
"That doesn't mean you aren't beautiful," he said, looking genuinely confused to learn I didn't see it. "You should be a model."
I actually laughed at that, climbing onto the cold floor and stretching the kinks out of my neck and back. "Who would want to photograph me?" I asked, bending down to touch my toes. He was still lying in bed, eyes glued to me as I moved around to try and stretch the stiff feeling of sleep from my body.
"I would," he said point blank, watching me seriously as I moved to grab my eyeliner and lipstick from my purse. I paused to look at him, smiling and shaking my head.
"Is that so?" I asked, moving to his lone mirror to apply eyeliner over yesterday's smudges. "Thinking of becoming a photographer?" I glanced at his reflection.
He shook his head. "Only your photographer," he said, watching with intense interest as I put lipstick on and rubbed my lips together before putting up my makeup with one last kissy-face thrown at the mirror. "I just think your beauty needs to be caught on film."
I smiled, shaking my head and taking a seat at the end of the bed. "You flirt," I said, patting his leg. "Want to go for a walk?"
"A walk?" he asked, brow creasing in puzzlement. "A walk where?"
"Anywhere," I replied, retrieving spare clothes from my huge purse and shamelessly undressing while he continued to stare at me. I paused, standing at the end of his bed with my pink hair hanging loose and wavy and my body covered only by my bra and panties. "Let's just walk around town while we have a chance," I said, watching him play with the camera he'd had lying on the bedside table.
"Why?" he asked, snapping a picture of me naked and hungover. I didn't object, only raised my eyebrows curiously.
"We're young and in love, Steven," I said, eyes wide and imploring. "Does there have to be a reason?"
He paused to think about that, then stole another quick photo of me, now seated in my underwear at the end of the bed, braiding my hair loosely down my back. "Only if I can take more pictures of you," he said at last, quickly capturing the moment I turned to give him a smile.
"Take all the pictures you want, sweetie," I told him. "But get dressed first."
---
We took off fifteen minutes later, bundled up, hungover, and shivering, with a thermos of hot tea in my hand and a camera in Steven's.
We started out heading towards the park--which was thankfully only a short walk from the Tallarico residence--humming a Bob Dylan song and passing the thermos back and forth to warm our cold bodies and to ward off our headaches while Steven occasionally moved his attention to the camera to take quick photographs of me while smiling proudly. I felt both amused and touched.
"Dear god," said Steven, trembling with cold and fever but looking worlds better now that he'd gotten some fresh air. "These are the sorts of things people write love songs about."
"What are?" I asked curiously, kicking rocks as I walked leisurely with my lover by my side.
Steven smiled, snapping a photo of me with my eyes fixed on the ground. "Hungover field trips with tea and Dylan songs," he said, taking photo after photo of me looking between him and the pavement as he talked. "Photographing pink-haired beauties, kicking rocks and freezing our asses off." He laughed. "Drinking sake in lemonade."
"Holding rockstars' hair back while they puke up their stomach linings?" I asked with a chuckle. "Only you would write love songs about our relationship."
"And I fully intend to," he said, sticking his tongue out and catching my look of disbelief on his camera film.
"You stupid romantic," I joked, pushing him lightly with my elbow. "I love you."
"And I love you," he said, just as we reached a snow-covered park and it's monotonous landscape. "But there are no friends when there are snowball fights to be had."
Just then, I was hit right in the head with a snowball, getting covered immediately in the cold, wet stuff while Steven ducked for cover with a wide smile that made my heart melt.
"You're a child," I said, pulling off my fuzzy hat and shaking off the snow. "No way I'm sinking to your level."
"No way? Really?" he asked throwing a huge snowball right at the tiny bit of skin my skirt and socks didn't cover. I shrieked, glaring when Steven added insult to injury by grabbing a photo of my moment of rage.
"You bitch!" I yelled, rolling my own snowball and hitting him square in the chest.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, bending over a little and pressing his fingers against the spot and massaging gently, breaths growing noticeably shallower.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" I asked in alarm, rushing to his side and blinking excessively when he smashed a handful of snow against my face. "Okay, I deserved that. Now tell me what's wrong."
He coughed, covering his mouth with the hand not pressed beneath his collarbones. "Nothing," he wheezed, stumbling a bit. "M'fine."
"Oh fuck," I said when his legs suddenly gave out, leaving me little time to catch him and gently lower him onto the snowy ground. "Steven, honey, deep breaths."
"Can't," he gasped, both hands now on his chest. "Hurts."
"It hurts to breathe?" I asked, horrified when he nodded. "Steven, oh my god."
He started coughing again, then, too preoccupied with his aching chest to cover his mouth. He doubled over, head hovering mere inches above the snow while I rubbed his back gently, considering taking him to the emergency room.
And when he sat back up and allowed me a decent view of the snow, my decision was made; for there, splattered in the snow and interrupting the otherwise-undisturbed white, was blood. And Steven had just coughed it up.