phan one shots

feverish

Summary: Phil comes down with a fever.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: none

"Oh my god..." Dan sighed, wrinkling his nose as a puff of hot breath fanned out over his cheeks. He sat up quickly, propping himself against his mound of checkered pillows, and rubbing at his tired eyes with sleepy fingers. He basked in the golden shadow of the yawning sun, peeking at the yellow light through his dipping lashes. His limbs were twisted haphazardly in his dark sheets, which wouldn't have been a problem if not for the clammy, burning legs hooked around his, and the cherry red cheek squished against his rising stomach. He kicked off the blankets, embracing the slight chill in the air. He glanced down at the man sleeping beside him.

Throughout the night, Dan's dreamless sleep had been consistently interrupted by distressed murmurs mouthed into his collarbones and restless heat tossing and turning against him. But, exhausted from his consecutive all nighters spent watching anime and looking at memes until four in the morning, he'd simply fallen back into the tempting and inviting arms of unconsciousness, whisked away into peaceful silence. Upon waking up, he had become painfully aware of the concerning warmth pressed flush against his body.

Phil was sick.

He could tell instantly. He smelled ill. He remembered trying to explain this to the older man once, and he hadn't understood, but he just had this certain scent about him.

It wasn't bad at all. But he just smelled...unhealthy. And his appearance only confirmed the fact.

He was burning up, his sugar white skin terribly hot beneath his worried touch. And even in delirious sleep, a crinkle had formed between his brows, a frown on his soft, parted lips. His breath was too warm between them, and slightly ragged, as though his sinuses were backed up with mucus. He was congested. His pajamas stuck to his body, his shirt riding up, and he shivered and trembled even underneath several layers of blankets. His ebony hair was matted to his forehead and flushed cheeks, and damp with cold sweat. Small mumbles escaped him in slurs, drawled and nonsensical.

Dan huffed quietly, brushing his soft locks away from his drooping eyes.

"Oh dear," He hummed, brows furrowing. He was really hot...his temperature had to be high, really high...

High enough for the hospital...?

Dan shook his head. He hadn't even taken his temperature yet, or given him medicine, and he knew how tiresome Phil found trips to the hospital. And knowing him and his hypochondria, suggesting it before knowing anything would send him into an anxious frenzy.

But he was sick, sick enough to be confined to bed and rewarded cuddles and soup. He could only imagine the discomfort he would be in once he woke up.

Gently, he lifted his head from his stomach and laid him down on the mattress. He slowly crawled out of bed as discreetly as possible without rousing him.

He stumbled to his feet, stretching his arms above him. He padded across the room, shooting his unconscious boyfriend one last concerned glance before walking off to grab a cup of tea for him from the kitchen.

He hovered uncertainly in front of the cabinet, trying to remember which type of tea was the best to give a sick person.

He vaguely recalled reading an article about lemon ginger mixed with honey was good, but double checked just in case. He nodded to himself once the theory was confirmed, and got to work on preparing the warm beverage.

But he was only half way through, the spoon tipped over the steaming liquid, golden brown honey drizzling into the cup, when a pair of arms attached themselves to him in a clingy koala hug, familiar warm lips skimming the crook of his neck and blowing another burst of hot air over his skin. Dan rolled his eyes fondly, and paused his movements.