Caressing his thumb along his damp, heated patches of skin, Feyrík's lips dropped into a frown. The ragged, hoarse, shallow breathing that emanated from his brother, Anweyn, filled his ears; filled his heart with an early case of survivor's guilt.
Having no choice but to quarantine themselves inside their home so that the disease that infected his sibling did not pounce from person to person, Feyrík felt useless; hopeless; on the verge of giving up. Their mother and father were gone, passed on from being bedridden for long. Feyrík was of the lucky few who was not ailing-but he had a wave of doubt that he was healthy. A plaguing cough would harshly wrack his lungs time and again.
Gently did he lift his hand from Anweyn's face-only for him to halt, freeze in place when his siblings' near-lifeless, bloodshot eyes met his own. Lacking a strong voice, Anweyn gave a weak shake of his head.
Although he did not yearn for his elder brother to suffer the same fate, he wanted his hand placed where it had been, on his cheek. It was cool; comforting; a way for him to know that Feyrík himself was alive.
"I will be back in a moment." Feyrík's hand eased itself onto the bed, gliding across the stained sheets that reeked of dried blood, sweat, and an abundance of bitter tears. His fingers brushed against Anweyn's own-calloused; cracking; unsettlingly warm-a reminder that fever was ravaging his body. "The broth is ready, brother," spoke the man in a gentle voice. He could hear the bubbling of the liquid in the pot which rested casually just above the burning fire in the sitting room; it was connected to Anweyn's bedroom. "You must eat. I will not allow you to starve."
Anweyn's gaze fixed with Feyrík's in that instant. He could see fear written in his baby blues-if he hadn't such eyes, Feyrík had a deep feeling that he wouldn't have recognized his own sibling. The Anweyn he knew was full of life; he was exuberant, carefree, but a hard worker. The young man of nineteen, motionlessly draped along the bed, appeared a corpse. Greying skin; eyes almost lifeless yet holding a bright shade of familiar indigo; visible beads of sweat raking down his forehead, neck, and bare chest.
Sending Anweyn a reassuring smile, which even his sibling knew was forced, Feyrík pulled his hand back. Rising, Feyrík inched just a bit closer-he pressed the most delicate kiss he could muster to his forehead that was sleek with sweat. But he did not mind; they were brothers, flesh and blood. They lived together. And Feyrík vowed that they would die together-not to be separated, even during the afterlife.
Gliding a step away, Feyrík turned his back and strode out of the room, the smile falling off of his lips. Anweyn watched as Feyrík's form retreated. He had much to say, but he could not release a word-his throat was dry. It always felt as if he was being strangled, ridden of breath; an ache resided. A foul taste lingered on his tongue, flavored of blood that would rise from the depths of his dying lungs.
Smoothing his hands down the rumpled fabric of his loose cotton shirt, Feyrík strolled over to the blazing hearth whose logs crackled and popped. They were delivered to the brother's by their neighbor, a middle-aged woman dubbed Agatha Harvey. She was kind; a grandmother, or perhaps an aunt to the two, when she was able to speak to them face-to-face. She was one of the very little that would not whisper; that would not say that the Cromwell family was cursed with misfortune.
Peeking into the cast iron pot that hung lazily over the crackling flames, Feyrík's eyes settled on the bursting bubbles that rose to the very top. The bone broth smelt delectable, but it was not for Feyrík. It was for Anweyn; barely would he eat. Feyrík was surprised that his brother was still clinging to life, with the condition that he was in. But he was proud. Relieved.
Retrieving the ladle from where it sat on the mantle, along with the simple wooden bowl carved from imported mahogany wood, Feyrík took his time with dipping the ladle into the broth. Pouring the steaming liquid into the bowl, he did it easily two more times before breathing out a sigh. He did not want to give Anweyn too much, but he could not let him starve, either. Feyrík was his caretaker-the only person, aside from Agatha, that he had left.
"Perhaps this will be enough." Setting the ladle aside, Feyrík gazed at the honey-golden broth. His stomach rumbled. He was famished. But if there was a lasting serving, he would feed himself later. He could not be wasteful with what little they had.
Though, he could not help himself. Glancing to the left and then the right, even above him as if checking for anyone around, Feyrík rose the bowl of bone broth to his lips. Diligently did he sip at it. It was warm, soothing, and flavorful. He could hear himself humming with delight at the taste. Then, he lowered it-it was for his brother, not for his own empty belly.
Spinning on his heel, Feyrík turned his back to the broth. He would allow it to continue simmering, bringing out the depth of flavor. It was his fathers' recipe, and after years of practice, Feyrík felt as if he mastered it. Seasoned with herbs, it was-their favorite; rosemary, thyme, cumin, and the smallest pinch of cinnamon. It worked.
Trailing back towards Anweyn's bedroom, Feyrík slowed his steps so that he did not make too much noise. Anweyn was prone to falling asleep quickly. Peering into the small space, Feyrík spotted his brother sitting upright-he appeared as if he were ready to stand. "Anweyn," Feyrík pressed, strolling into his brothers' bedroom. "You must lie down. Please. You are too weak to be up and about."
Anweyn cast Feyrík a glance; it was the look that told his elder sibling that he wanted to try to walk. Anweyn knew that he had to keep his muscles working. Laying around all day made his already aching form feel stiff and rigid. Anweyn rose a trembling hand and carefully swiped a strand of his shoulder-length blond hair out of his eyes. Loose pieces remained glued to his damp skin.
Feyrík frowned while Anweyn cracked the faintest of grins. Releasing a dainty huff, Feyrík continued his way. Meeting Anweyn at his side, Feyrík pressed the hand that was not holding the wooden bowl of bone broth to his brother's warm, bare chest-gently, he guided him back down to the bed. Anweyn's expression became a blank sheet; appearing unamused, a broken, gutteral sound left his chapped lips. A grunt of refusal.
"You may sit up when the broth has cooled." Feyrík laid it onto the bedside table, his focus fixing on his younger brother. They stared at one another for a long moment-Feyrík could tell that Anweyn was silently cursing him. "I know that you want to walk, but the last time you tried, you fell and almost cracked your damn skull. I do not want to see that happen again; you're lucky that I was in the room with you."
Although somewhat painful, Anweyn successfully rolled his eyes. Feyrík pressed both of his hands to his hips. The sass-he did not use words, but faint motions. Anweyn was always one who backtalked, even when silent. He had his ways. Sitting on the edge of the bed yet again, Feyrík rested his hands on his lap. He felt tempted to lay next to his sibling, but he did not want to worsen the fever that ailed him by sharing his natural body heat; Feyrík merely wanted to comfort Anweyn in any way possible, even if it meant him catching whatever it was that was stealing his brother from him.
Lifting a hand, Feyrík inched it close to Anweyn's face. He gently settled his palm against his warm cheek, cooling touch caressing Anweyn's placid skin. At such, Anweyn shut his eyes; a slow, calming breath slipped through his slightly parted lips. "I love you," Feyrík softly murmured beneath his breath, loud enough for both he and Anweyn to hear. Anweyn's eyes carefully opened-his attention settled on his elder brother.
A smile crossed over his face. Although on the verge of faltering, it was broad, displaying his whitened teeth. Feyrík could not fight the brightening of his own expression. Leaning forward, having not a care in the world, Feyrík planted a soft kiss to Anweyn's cheek as a way to show his affection; his love. He cared for his brother more than anything-more than himself. Anweyn was all Feyrík had. He was his life. His reason for waking up every morning.
Feyrík could only pray that they would have one more day together. And then another. And then one more. Never did he wish for the continuous cycle to cease. When they lost their mother, Diedra, and their father, Hansel, from the same illness that plagued Anweyn, their world crumpled. Their reasons for continuing on went with it until Anweyn, too, became bedridden. They were not as close then, but they were now.
"Will you try to eat?" Feyrík moved, a good distance between their faces. Anweyn, who was still staring up at his brother, weakly nodded his head. Turning then, reaching over, Feyrík pried the bowl of bone broth from where he set it onto the bedside table. "Let's get you sitting up, hm?"
Standing, keeping a steady grasp on the serving of broth, Feyrík inched just a bit closer and fixed his left arm around Anweyn's shoulders, supporting him; working with him as Anweyn used his strength to force himself upright. Anweyn released a sigh of what seemed to have been relieve. His focus floated to Feyrík. He soon mouthed a silent 'thank you.'
"There is no need for that." Feyrík held onto the bowl with both hands, coaxing it towards Anweyn. "Open; drink slow." Guiding it to Anweyn's lips, Feyrík went to tilt it, though he was caught off-guard when Anweyn reached up, pressing his own hands to it. He turned away from Feyrík, quickly downing the broth in a manner that Feyrík could only label as greedy. But, he did not blame Anweyn, as it had been two days since he was able to properly hold something-even water-within his stomach.
Feyrík was ecstatic due to the fact that Anweyn appeared famished, but he also grew more than concerned when his brother began to cough and sputter in the middle of guzzling down the broth. He did not want to watch him choke! Before he could even stop himself, Feyrík snatched the near-empty bowl from Anweyn's trembling hands.
"I said, drink slow," Feyrík stated as Anweyn carefully patted at his own bare chest, clearing his throat. "Do you think I want to see you choke yourself to death, brother? I've been keeping you alive for this long-weeks-and I'm not about to witness your demise caused by you unable to breathe from hurriedly shoving food down your throat. I know that you are hungry, it has been two days since you have last eaten, but please, for your health and my sanity, go easy, okay?"
Anweyn did not give a mere nod of his head that time. He only flashed Feyrík a gentle, worn smile. Feyrík set the bowl aside, crossing his arms over his chest. Sometimes, he yearned for Anweyn to take such more seriously, just as he had before-his carefree nature was seeping through the cracks. Occasionally he thought that Anweyn wished for Death, due to how calm he appeared in some instances. He would ask, but Feyrík never did-perhaps it was best that he did not know the truth.