hurt / comfort

“You are going to work yourself to death.”

Lance looked up at the growled words, frowning as he saw Will leaning against his open door frame. He was just about to reach for the bandages on the bedside table – intent on getting his tender-feeling ribs wrapped – when he felt his joints lock up. An exasperated noise escaped his lips. “Would you mind letting go of my hands?” His question sounded more tired than he wanted it to be, but Lance had an excuse – dealing with rabid gyardos in the Lake of Rage would sap anyone of their energy, even League Champions.

The psychic hold on his body ceased, but the roll of bandages floated away and towards Will as the purple haired man walked further into the Dragon Master’s room. He clicked his tongue under his breath, even as the psychic sat down behind Lance, gingerly pressing his fingers over the large bruises painting his lover’s back. “I wish you would have let one of us deal with it, Lance,” he muttered, even as he gently began the process of wrapping the injuries in front of him firmly with care. “One of these days, you’re going to get hurt and I won’t be here to take the pain away…” With medication of course – it was a pity, Will always thought, that the healing arts were outside the realm of his psychic abilities.

Lance took one of Will’s hands in his, giving it a small squeeze. “Knowing that you’re here, waiting for me, is more than enough to get me through whatever trouble I find.”

“You’re a sap,” the gentle hug belied the sharpness of Will’s words. “Thanks.”