“ I TOLD YOU SO ”
SICK FREMINET — a boy who belongs to the sea, and the warmth that anchors him to shore . . .
requested / gender neutral reader / soft established relationship / hurt-comfort / dragonspine vacation / gentlest love ever / freminet gets sick and reader takes care of him
masterlist | intro post | carrd a/n: this one is really just pure softness… I wrote it for a request and got carried away with the snowy metaphors but oh well!
The cold in Dragonspine was not cruel, not violent. It did not claw or howl, it breathed. A hush made of frost and silvered wind, whispering lullabies through the trees in a tongue older than language. Snow curled from the sky in delicate spirals, brushing against your lashes and pooling softly on the earth, until even the jagged cliffs looked like remnants of a forgotten dream. It was a silence that blanketed, not buried.
Freminet adjusted the scarf around his neck, the wool catching slightly on the curve of his cheek. It was sky blue, clumsily stitched, the yarn uneven where your fingers had slipped or fumbled, yet he wore it every time the season turned cold. He never said much about it, but he didn’t need to. The way he touched it, like something precious, said enough.
You watched him from your place beside the fire, its light flickering amber against the blank canvas of the world. His coat hung open despite the cold, and the mug in your hands pulsed with warmth, fragrant steam unfurling like ghosts in the still air. Freminet stood a little distance away, eyes drawn once again to the frozen lake.
You recognized that gaze. It had a weight to it, a quiet ache that settled in his bones—not longing, not exactly, but something older. Something like surrender. As if the water had called his name and he, helpless to resist, had turned to answer.
“Thinking of diving?” you asked, voice soft and laced with affection, shaped to match the snowfall.
His eyes did not leave the glassy surface, but he gave a slow nod. “Mm. I miss the way it sounds… when I’m underneath.”
Your eyes drifted to the water with him. It barely moved, a glassy mirror to the sky, frozen at the edges where ice crept in threads like veins. But below it, another world waited, one only he could touch. A place that didn't expect him to speak louder than his heartbeat.
“It’s freezing,” you warned gently, bundling your coat tighter.
“I’ll be okay,” he said, glancing at you with that delicate sincerity that always made your breath catch. “I won’t be long. I just… I want to remember what it feels like.”
You could have stopped him. Could have reminded him of the dangers, of the way Dragonspine’s waters gripped like ice laced chains. But Freminet had always belonged more to the sea than to the shore. And when he looked at it like that, as if it were a memory half lost, calling him home in a voice only he could hear, how could you say no?
He knelt at the water’s edge, securing his helmet with quiet, practiced care. Each motion was reverent, like he feared disturbing the sacred hush around him. And then, with no hesitation, he stepped into the water.
The lake rippled like silk around him. You expected him to flinch, to gasp at the cold, but he didn’t. He slipped beneath the surface like a soul returning to its element. As though the water welcomed him. As though it recognized him.
You remained on the shore, tea cooling in your hands, watching him through the veils. His form moved beneath the surface like a figure in a dream; graceful, slow, light refracting in scattered halos across his pale skin. He looked like a myth, like the spirit of winter’s heart made flesh.
When he resurfaced, the world held its breath. Your own exhale is still.
“Come here,” you called softly, already rising to grab the towel from your pack. “You’re going to freeze into an icicle.”
He padded towards you, water beading on his sleeves, trailing down his arms like glass threads. You took his helmet first, setting it aside before wrapping the towel around his shoulders, pressing warmth into his chilled skin through the thick fabric.
“I told you I’d be okay,” he said, voice quiet and breathless.
“You’re shivering.”
“...A little,” he admitted, looking away.
You laughed in return, breath fogging between you, and leaned in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. He startled, not from the cold, but from the sudden, quiet affection. You draped your coat around his shoulders and sat beside him again, close enough that your knees brushed.
“Why do you love the water so much?” you asked after a moment, voice barely above a murmur, a secret passed between frost and flame.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared into the flames, lashes damp, steam rising like smoke around his face. “It doesn’t ask questions,” he said at last.
“In the water… it’s quiet. But not the kind of quiet that’s empty. It’s full. I can hear everything, my pulse, my thoughts, the way the current shifts around me. I don’t have to speak. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to be anything.”
You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “You don’t have to be anything with me either.”
His eyes lifted to yours. There was something raw in them and then, something softer blooming underneath. Blinking as though the words had caught him off guard.
“I know,” he whispered.
You reached over and fixed his scarf again, fingers brushing his cheek as you pulled it snug. He froze under your touch, then leaned into it just slightly. There was a silence then, warm and full, stretching between you like a held breath.
“You make the cold feel warmer,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
You smiled. “I think that’s just the fire.”
“No,” he said, looking at you now with something unspoken flickering in his gaze. “It’s not.”
You rested your head on his shoulder, both of you tucked in against the cold, wrapped in mismatched fabrics and the hush of snowfall. And for once, Freminet didn’t feel like he was drifting, like he belonged only to the deep.
Here, with you, he felt anchored.
The cave was carved into the mountain like a secret, tucked behind frostbitten pines and veils of icicle threaded mist, its entrance cloaked by snow heavy stone. Within, warmth pulsed like a living thing: a fire crackling in its hollowed heart, low flames licking the air with saffron light. Shadows danced along the walls, soft and flickering, as though the stone itself breathed in time with the world outside.
You laid another thick blanket over Freminet’s slouched form, the wool catching on the threads of his scarf. His cheeks were pale, tinged with rose not from the cold, but from the fever that now nestled behind his bones. He laid curled on one side atop the bedrolls, tangled in warmth, the tips of his fingers peeking out from the folds like frostbitten petals.
He hadn’t said much since waking, only blinked at you with glassy eyes and offered a sheepish look, as if his body had failed him in a moment of childish rebellion.
“I told you so,” you murmured, fingers ghosting across his forehead as you checked his temperature again. The heat beneath his skin throbbed like smoldering embers. You meant it gently, not as scolding, but as a reminder wrapped in fondness. The kind of I told you so that held no real weight, only the softness of worry woven into affection.
He gave a low hum in response, barely audible over the crackle of firewood. “Didn’t think I’d get sick,” he mumbled, voice hoarse and blurred at the edges.
“You dove into a glacial lake,” you replied, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “What else did you think would happen?”
Though you had expected at least a little protest, he only tucked his face deeper into the blanket, like a guilty child hiding from consequence. You let the silence linger for a moment, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from his temple. His skin was far too warm, even beneath layers of cloth.
“I’ll make you something,” you said softly, rising from the bedroll and moving toward the firepit.
The stew had already begun to simmer, herbs floating in slow circles atop the broth, smoke rising in twisting curls that smelled of garlic, ginseng, and mountain thyme. The pot crackled, releasing the scent of warmth into the cave. You stirred it gently, watching the ingredients melt together like snow in sun.
Behind you, Freminet let out a soft sigh, the kind that came not from pain but from surrender, the letting go that only came when one knew they were safe. You brought the bowl to him when it was ready, kneeling beside his makeshift nest of blankets. “Sit up, just a little,” you coaxed.
He did, slow and drowsy, blinking blearily as you helped him hold the bowl. The steam kissed his face, and he shivered faintly, the heat seeming to sting against his cold prickled skin.
You blew on each spoonful before lifting it to his lips. He opened his mouth without protest, trusting. “It’s good,” the boy whispered, somewhere between surprise and gratitude.
“You sound surprised.”
“I just…” he hesitated, lashes fluttering. “You’re always good at taking care of people.”
“Not people.” You gently tapped the edge of the bowl against his lip so he’d take another bite. “Just you.”
After, you wiped the corner of his mouth with your sleeve, cradled his cheek as he finished. He leaned into your touch as if it grounded him, tethered him. His body, still damp in places from when you’d washed him earlier with a warm cloth, now radiated heat like a hearth too full of flame. You pressed the back of your fingers to his neck once more, measuring the fever’s slow retreat.
He’d be okay. You were sure of it now.
When he laid back down, you tucked him in carefully—every fold of the blanket, every curl of your hand around his wrist was deliberate, delicate, sacred. You gave him the medicine next, whispering encouragements between each swallow, brushing his hair from his eyes when he coughed, pressing a kiss to his temple when he whimpered in his sleep. You became something softer than a healer, something older than a lover. Something like a promise, wrapped in breath and skin.
And when he stirred again, eyes fluttering open in the low firelight, you were still beside him, caressing his face with your hands. Asking without any sound for a kiss.
“You shouldn’t…” he murmured. “You’ll get sick too.”
You smiled, heart aching at his worry. “I don’t care.”
Before he could protest, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his fever warm mouth. It was a kiss made of quiet things, of breath shared beneath a hollowed mountain. Not rushed, not fiery, just the steady thrum of love that had no need to shout.
He blinked up at you, stunned, eyes wide in a way that made your chest tighten.
“Even when I’m gross and sick…?”
“Especially then,” you replied, curling beside him beneath the blankets, your body a soft shield against the cold.
a/n2: I hope this was something close to what you were expecting!! I feel like freminet is someone who needs patient love, so that's exactly what I wrote. I think my writing skills are deteriorating though... sos
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