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we are about to be in the fucking trenches

Prompt: Breathe | words: 632 | pairing: merleon

He's always assumed that death would find him on the battlefield.

One could call that a grim conclusion, but he was a knight-of Camelot at that. He was sure it would eventually be his end.

This illness may prove him wrong, though.

He'd never really gotten sick as a child, a stomach flu once, he'd mostly been irritated he couldn't go outside to play.

This, however, was far from a stomach flu.

A few other knights had contracted it, from what he heard. Or-more accurately-from what Merlin had told him.

A heavy pain swelled in his chest as he broke into another coughing fit. In many ways, he felt disgusting. The sweat that had culminated on his brow, the bile that threatened his throat closed, the stiff heat of his bed.

The door to his room opened, and as much as he'd love to be aware and alert, moving his head was akin to bashing it against a tree.

"Oh you're awake, that's good," a familiar voice sounded not too far from him. His eyes searched around for the face he knew it belonged to, but ultimately Merlin came to him. The servant leaned over him carefully, a hand pressing against his forehead in a sensation Leon believed to be heavenly.

A frown etched itself onto Merlin's picturesque features, "hm."

That didn't sound good.

Merlin disappeared, his hands no longer carefully arranged about Leon's person, his voice no longer a sweet song in Leon's ears. He decided to will death upon himself if he could not have these simple comforts.

Only for Merlin to return to his side, and he asked death to hold off just a little longer.

His blankets were tossed aside, and he could breathe easier. Had he known it was that simple he'd of done it hours ago. Merlin took his hands and urged him to sit up.

The motion felt familiar, though he wasn't sure he had the stomach for food. Yet, Merlin continued to urge him upright, and helped him plant his feet on the floor.

Slowly, his sweat soaked clothes found themselves on the floor, and he found himself in a bath.

He's not sure how Merlin had known he'd desperately needed one, but he thanked heavens above for the servant's forethought.

As some of he sense returned he began sifting through the mess of questions he'd been sitting on for who knows how long.

"How are the others?" He rasped.

"You don't need to worry about that right now," Merlin answered a little too sharply for his comfort.

He watched as the prince's personal manservant made quick work of his sheets, his clothes, and the medicine he'd been prescribed by Gaius-reminded of all the complaining Arthur had the audacity to do.

"Here," Merlin walked over to him as he finished grinding whatever salve it was Gaius made to help with the chest pain.

He was suddenly very aware that Merlin's hand was on his chest, and that he was not clothed. And he's sure, in some minuscule way, that did not help his fever.

The salve did help the pain in his chest though, so maybe it all balanced out somehow.

Merlin took off his usual jacket, placing it on the bed, and rolled up his tunic's sleeves. Leon felt his heart do something heart's don't typically do when seeing a man's forearms.

Finally, Merlin pulled a stool to the side of the tub, and lathered his hands in soap.

Before Leon could ask or make out what he was doing, hands brushed through his hair.

Fingers worked dutifully into his scalp, easing the pain he'd been forcing himself to ignore. And his heart does something heart's do not typically do when a servant is kind enough to wash your hair when you're ill.

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