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They are ambling their way through a quiet forest path when Ezreal trips over a root. This isn’t his usual clumsiness, Kayn notices immediately, because it was triggered by a sudden spate of coughing.
The sound’s already phlegmy and rattles up from his ribs. Kayn reaches out to pat his back, before he thinks better of it and instead picks up the gadget that Ezreal had been showing him, dusting it off.
He waits for Ez to finish and get to his feet before handing it back and questioning him, “Should I be worried about you hacking up a lung?”
“Haha,” Ezreal pries the canister away and continues to play with it, “Glad you got a kick out of me faceplanting.”
“Are you sick?” Kayn asks offhandedly.
“I- don’t know.” Casually, the blonde twists the cap of the pocket-scroll-divider-sub-whatever until it’s working again, walking past Kayn.
“Why not?”
“I never get sick. And there should be symptoms beforehand, whereas this coughing started out of nowhere last night.”
It sounds so reasonable that it immediately clocks as something Ezreal analyzed and then convinced himself of.
“Maybe the inn's bedsheets were really fusty last night.” The blonde continues blithely. Kayn, on the other hand, thinks from a different angle.
“How long did you stay in Zhunyia for?”
“Couple days. I wanted to see the festival. Talked to tons of locals and mapped out a new route for hiking up the mountain.”
Kayn twists Rhaast’s handle. Bingo. “This is what you get for hanging around crowded ports during storm season.”
“I’m not sick.” As if on cue, another wave of coughing forces him dead in his tracks.
Kayn levels a withering sneer his way. “Aww, the little civilized Piltovan can’t stand the savage diseases of Ionia?”
“Come off it, I’ve faced tomb curses way worse than this.” This time, Ez glares at him outright, forced to lean against a tree as he hacks into his elbow.
Kayn clicks his tongue impatiently. “What are your symptoms?”
“Why do you care?”
Kayn withholds his words strategically, making Ezreal think he’s concerned about contracting it as well.
Ezreal lists them. Sudden onset. Coughing started at night. Didn’t sleep well. Felt like shit this morning. Coughing fits today at shrinking intervals, headache. Slight fever.
Kayn pictures the port, crawling with families and merchants and hawkers, all congealing on narrow, slippery streets, one blonde darting here and there among them, notebook in hand, “Did you talk to any kids?”
“Uh, I guess. No, wait, I actually did buy some persimmons from a few squirts.”
“I can’t believe this.” Kayn laughs ungenerously, “You’ve caught a kids’ disease!”
“How can you be so sure?” Ezreal demands, fur standing on end.
“Sounds a lot like waking cough. Most people here get it when they’re children.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh well, I’m not sure if this is something you can catch twice. I don’t actually want to get you sick either…” Ezreal suddenly hunches his shoulders up, tapping his thigh awkwardly.
“No. If you live through it the first time, you never get it again until you’re old. I’m immune anyway.” He hefts Rhaast a little, and since Ezreal can’t hear his telepathy directly, the Darkin blinks in agreement.
“Can’t believe you’re not done growing, Ezreal.” Kayn laughs again.
“Hey, I’m older than you! You should show some proper respect for someone well-traveled and far more worldly-wise.”
“No.” He flattens the palm of his corrupted hand on Ezreal’s head and presses down heavily to muss blonde locks, voice dripping with disdain. “You lost any privileges you had, and let’s be honest - there were few to begin with - when you stepped on a landmine in the dead center of a pathway in the last temple we raided. Some professional .” He reveals his teeth in a full sneer.
“And we got out of that in one piece.” Ez bats his hand away, straightening his goggles from where Kayn had painfully mashed them into his skull, “Showcase of my unquestionable skill in always making the best of any shitty situation.”
“Yeah, yeah. No plan survives first contact with you. Let’s see you dumb-luck your way out of this one.”
Ezreal’s retort is cut off by another fit. “Aww, this sucks.” He says as soon as he’s recovered. He whines futilely, “But I’m never sick!”
“Neither am I.”
“Except the one time you caught this disease, apparently. What did you call it again?”
“Waking cough. Because the fits are so hard, they’ll shake you from deep sleep when you need it most.”
Ezreal groans, “Some strain of consumption, then. Greeeeat.”
They stop in front of the tangle of vines that hides their bolthole-slash-treasure stash. Ezreal’s little base of operations here in Ionia. Or at least this part of Ionia. Gods know if he has a dozen others all over the isles, squirreling himself away when the need arises.
This one, Ez assured him when they made it, is nice as far as boltholes go. After a short tunnel past the vines, it turns sharply 90 degrees left and right and left before ending in front of a locked gate to yet another ruin. There’s a node of magic behind the wall that Ezreal was drawn to in the first place; according to him, it glamors the whole entrance tunnel and cloaks it in a nice, comforting aura to his senses. Over time, they filled it with lamps, shelves, tables, chairs, swept the floor and laid carpets down. With each visit, Ez added more items to their inventory: weapons from Shurima, conveniences from Piltover like a self-heating cooking pot, scrolls and maps and journals to line the storage spaces and weigh the whole place down with a semblance of hominess.
When they light the lamps and trade stories surrounded by flickering light, it doesn’t feel bad at all.
Today, as they settle in, Ezreal throws his camping gear down against the wall in its customary spot. Kayn leans Rhaast near the corner where he usually sleeps.
The Darkin catches his eye deliberately. You worried for the little thing?
I don’t think that’s necessary. Kayn sends the thought back as drily as possible.
You don’t think it’s necessary, or it isn’t? Kayn, you’ve a cavity for him.
The Darkin shows him a juxtaposition of a feeling and an image, mashed into one. A soft dent in his heart and the shape of the infection inside Ezreal’s lungs, a hooked worm wriggling.
Before he can shut Rhaast down, Ezreal interrupts them, whirling around, comically mismatched hands slapped to his cheeks in horror, “Wait! This isn’t like the pox, is it?”
Kayn stares until he understands why Ezreal is asking. Then he drawls, “Oh. Awful scarring. Some people end up pitted like prunes for life.”
The way Ez’s face screws up into a vortex of annoyance, exasperation and plain fear is worth it. His arm haphazardly shoots out to slap Kayn in the side. He pinches Ez back. Vain little prick.
“You’re not scarred! Jerkass.”
“Took you a while to notice, is your head stuffed with cotton already?”
Groaning, Ezreal plonks down in the nearest seat and shoves his face into his palms, “Urgh, I don’t know. I think I’m fine for now, but you said this is pretty serious?"
“It kills the weak, children or old.”
“Of course it does.” Ezreal snarks. “What’s the survival rate?”
Kayn shrugs, hell if he knows. “Put it this way, only one kid I knew who got it died.”
“And you knew…how many people that age?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Ezreal slumps completely forward onto the table this time, gauntlet glinting dully.
“If you’re up for it.” Kayn jabs back, baiting.
Ezreal completely ignores him.
Kayn frowns, fingers itching once again to reach forward and offer comfort. It is utterly possible that Ez is feeling much worse than he is letting on. He’d been avoiding eye contact ever since the start of their trek into the forest after all.
After hovering over Ezreal’s shoulders, Kayn decides to all-in and press down firmly at last. A shudder runs through the blonde’s whole body and a feeling like relief spreads into Kayn’s. He strokes gently up and down between those bony shoulder blades.
“You’re not weak. Ez.”
That finally brings Ezreal to look at him, blue eyes more watery, shimmery than usual.
There you are, Kayn thinks.
“You-” Ezreal starts. But he doesn’t know how to finish it. Typical. He sets his chin down on the table and looks at the wall, as if scrying for an answer there. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He should go and light a few lamps. Instead, he continues stroking Ezreal like a cat. “Feel better?”
“Mmhm,” Ezreal affirms, and the sound catches them both off guard with how tremulous it is. Ezreal gulps wetly and hides his flush as best as he can. With the peachy redness reaching his ears, he looks feverish already. Spine gone painfully rigid underneath Kayn’s palm, he waits for Kayn to take advantage of this obvious weakness. But the assassin pointedly ignores it. Instead, he stops the petting and merely lets his hand rest bracingly.
The pout of self-pity on Ezreal’s lips turns into a grim line. His voice turns heavy when he speaks, “Kayn, I wouldn’t have hung out with you if I knew how serious this was.”
Taken aback, because coming from Ezreal, this might as well have been an apology, Kayn responds by sidestepping, “You said that already.”
“Uhhh, oh.” Ezreal blinks slowly, “…Guess I did, huh?
“And besides, you probably would have been sick by yourself in that inn, with no idea what to do next.”
“That’s not true -” his sentence once again devolves into a series of racking coughs. It’s happening nearly every time he speaks now.
Kayn stands up matter of factly, taking stock. His braid swings side to side as he sweeps the alcove.
They need water. And…Kayn feels like slapping himself.
Medicine.
Ezreal is looking at him all puzzled, as if his thoughts can no longer match pace with Kayn’s. Not only that, ever since flopping over on the table, he hasn’t sat up properly at all. As if his strength is leaching out of him.
The two of them just spent half an hour walking leisurely into the forest to make their way here. By the gods, they aren’t going to do it again. It only takes half a second for Kayn to pick up Rhaast and turn around, sinking into the ground via magic already.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“Healer’s. You’re gonna need medicine.”
Sputtering, Ezreal clambers to his feet and sends the chair clattering away from him - movements awkward and numb already.
“What, I’m coming with you!” He protests.
“I know what to buy and I got enough to pay for it. Just stay put and rest.”
“But I should-”
Kayn claps a hand over Ez’s mouth before he can cough again. “No way. Just let me handle it.”
Judging by the way Ez’s eyes flinch and water painfully, he’s fighting to keep another wave down. Kayn removes his hand one millisecond before it actually happens, Ezreal bending over and hacking into his fist, the other hand clutching his throat.
Kayn understands his trepidation enough. The sting to his pride. It’s the first time either of them has asked a favor like this. And Ezreal would come out of it owing.
As for himself, he’d come out extra burdened. Other than the money, it’d be days lost to camping in the wilderness away from the Order, looking after someone he considers, considers-
In lieu of finishing that harrowing thought, he spares a glance backward at Ezreal one more time.
That’s all it takes for him to make up his mind.
The marks on Ezreal’s cheeks aren’t glowing brightly anymore.
***
As soon as he’s out of the gauntlet’s blink distance and in a place with proper camouflage, he sets to work sending an encoded message to the order to not bother him for the next week. Master Zed will not be pleased, but there is also little to do at the moment that the underlings can’t handle. For a mercy.
Next, he starts wrapping Rhaast up in bandages, like in the early days. The single eye bulges comically at him.
All these precautions that you’ve never bothered to take before.
“I want him to recover his ass and get off Ionia, unrecognized, unassociated with us, as fast as possible.”
Hilarious. The prodigal assassin, tending to a life. Are you really committing to this?
Kayn hovers his finger threateningly in front of Rhaast’s eye. “Don’t make me shiv you.”
You would never.
They’ve spoken about Ezreal before. In the months and seasons between the mage’s visits. They’ve noticed the way Ez talks to his gauntlet as if it were alive, as if there were someone inside. There isn’t. And by tacit agreement, neither of them are ever going to bring that up with the explorer.
As for Kayn, it’s true. He’s never done this before. He’s never taken care of a life instead of reaping it. But so what? He always gets what he wants, and right now his priority is something that stems not from his past, not from Zed, and not even from his own ambitions. He’ll see it through. He angles these thoughts towards Rhaast who sees, instead of a cavity in a softened heart, a hard and rearing determination.
What is this? For a moment, jealousy and resentment make Rhaast sound truly more of a demon, an azakana, than the burnt-out husk of an Ascended, but Kayn is pretty sure that Rhaast likes Ezreal. And Kayn is very much willing to use that card against him.
“I recall you’d rather not see him burnt to cinders under your possession.” The image of a tiny bird, crushed effortlessly under claws of scarlet-and-iron.
The seething from Rhaast cools.
Compared to you? He still wouldn’t last. And that is all there is to it.
“Sounds like we’re on the same page.” He waits until Rhaast does the mental equivalent of tossing his head in a huff before sinking through the shadows of the forest floor.
***
At the healer’s, he has an oversized poncho on, hood up, keeps his voice low and face angled to hide the corruption. Rhaast is strapped to his back, but not immediately recognizable.
She sees his get-up and chooses not to acknowledge any of it. Good. She has family out in the backyard garden, tending herbs. It would be a shame.
“What is the matter?”
“I have a friend who’s sick. It’s waking cough.”
She nods perfunctorily. “Age, weight, height?”
“20. About 80 kilos.”
She casts an amused gaze at him. He raises a hand to draw a line in the air, illustrating Ezreal’s approximate height next to himself, barely past his shoulder.
“Quite a small stalk,” she laughs. “But their age?”
“He’s a visitor to Ionia. From Bilgewater.”
Her old, graying eyes blink open wider. “...Is that so?”
He derails her off that topic, “This is his first time catching it. Will it be more dangerous to him?”
“Is he healthy?”
“As a horse.”
“His chances are good, then. But it’s unfortunate he’ll probably feel it much worse than a child would. You must get him to drink this 3 times a day, no skipping. Boil a sachet in the morning, strain it and make sure he takes a cupful with a light meal if he can stomach it…You remember, right?”
He nods, because what he remembers most is not having any appetite at all, stomach heaving violently, and still having to down mouthfuls of the bitterest, vilest bile known to Runeterra. He’d pretend to be asleep so Zed wouldn’t try, not that it fooled him at all.
“I remember not being able to keep the medicine down, either. I would rather have enough satchels to account for that.” No clever ploys to make him return and pay extra down the line.
“Then, that will be an extra 50. I’ll give you twice the amount for a week.” She waves him off to the herb drawers to collect the purchase.
***
“You have a week to live,” he announces as he stalks through the wall.
“Shut up, Kayn.”
The reply is surprisingly deadpan, considering shadow-stepping in on Ezreal usually triggers at least a muffled squeak of surprise. The reason is because the blonde is on the ground, has his eyes shut and has chosen to hole up in his sleeping bag as close as possible to the node instead of his usual spot.
As Kayn approaches, he opens his eyes just a sliver. The flush has swept across his whole face and down his neck, where strands of hay-colored hair are clumping up from sweat. His breathing is a little strained.
“I’m serious. This thing is short. Only takes 3 days to get over the worst of it, and then a week at most to recover.”
Ezreal frowns a little, probably running a comparison of this latest information against other diseases he’s read about.
“You should be resting your little mind,” Kayn teases. “Turn it off.”
“Generally, the shorter a disease, the deadlier it is. Whatever. I’ll be fine.” His face pinches from rambling, straining his voice. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re being paranoid. Healer said you’ll hurt, but your chances are good.”
Despite himself, he reaches forward and presses his hand against Ez’s head again. The extra contact seems to do wonders calming him down. His eyes slip closed.
The fever easily permeates Kayn’s palm, reminding him of the sticky heat and ragged pants from doing…other things with Ez. He traces the shell of Ez’s ear, but stops short of anything more suggestive than that.
“The less you talk, the less you cough.” Kayn goads one last time before rising and fetching the self-heating pot. He thinks Ezreal’s annoyed groan is more than enough to make up for not successfully scaring him earlier.
The medicine comes with instructions that he reads with a grimace. Yet, he won’t give Rhaast the satisfaction of feeling out of his league.
The first dose has to begin today. As he draws water, boils it, shakes the contents of the first satchel into the water and watches it stain the entire bowl opaque, he realizes morbidly that the whole process reminds him of mixing poisons.
***
The first dose goes down as well as Kayn guessed it would.
Ez practically spits it all back on Kayn, chokes and coughs and flips him off, as spirited as if he weren’t even sick.
In deadliest calm, Kayn wipes the liquid off his face, his chest, refills the cup and then extends it to Ez once more, speaking in a bone-chilling tone. “You’re going to try that again.”
Ezreal always has the gall to do something out of line, and now he casts a nervous glance at the gauntlet where he’d put it beside his pillow.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Kayn seizes his cheeks and threatens, “If the illness doesn't kill you, I WILL.”
“You mean if the ‘medicine’ doesn’t kill me first -”
“ Drink .” Kayn starts putting actual pressure on Ez’s face with his corrupted hand, one of the claws coming awfully close to pricking a blue eye.
Ezreal taps his hand to signal that he’ll cooperate. Kayn lets go but remains in his personal space, glaring him down. Ez takes a trembling grip on the cup, a deep gulp of air, and knocks it back in 3 desperate quaffs.
“Oh, it smells vile! It’s everywhere in my mouth - I need water-!” He wails.
“Fucking princess!” Kayn tosses his arms up and puts some distance between them before he actually punches the mage. He throws a canteen from the table at Ez with enough force to substitute.
“Ow!”
Kayn paces in a tight line with his back to Ezreal as he polishes off the canteen. Rhaast watches the whole farce with no small amount of ridicule and Kayn dares him to say anything in their connection.
“Hey,” Ezreal pats down his chest where drops of medicine have stained the white shirt collar, “I’m not coughing.”
Kayn snarls, “That’s why you need to drink it.”
Ionian herbal medicines. Ezreal’s face turns an interesting shade of humbled. Schooled, even. Kayn takes the lull as an excuse to get outside, they still need dinner anyway. A couple of rabbits would do. As he relays this to Ezreal, he thinks the blonde will continue fussing, but to his surprise his only response is, “Right. I’ll take a nap.”
He raises an eyebrow dubiously. Ezreal pointedly burrows deeper under his blanket and turns away from him, voice muffled as he asks, “See you in a half hour?”
Kayn doesn’t bother answering as he snatches Rhaast off the wall and heads out.
***
When he returns, he finds Ezreal absolutely did not nap, and has dragged his bag closer and fished the expedition logs from it to jot down messy notes with one arm poking out of his bedroll. Probably documenting his first-hand experiences of pain and suffering.
Kayn tries not to roll his eyes too painfully. Ez really should have taken the rest. He doesn’t even realize the hardest part of the illness is yet to come.
They banter as Kayn makes short work of the stew. Only light, liquid food allowed for the next 3 days. Ezreal drags himself up to the table, cinching his jacket around himself and crossing his arms for extra warmth.
“Do I have to drink it again?” He grimaces at the dark, ominous cup already waiting for him.
“Suck it up.”
“And you drank this too when you were sick?”
“Uh-huh. Don’t water it down, you’ll only prolong your suffering.”
He cuts Ezreal off as the latter tries dumping half of the medicine broth into clear water to dilute the flavor. With a wrinkled nose, Ez tries both cups and dismays upon finding that, yes, he has indeed created twice the amount of taste bud-annihilating potion now.
“Twisted rite of passage.” He mutters darkly, before repeating the same process of taking deep breaths and quaffing. Even after finishing the drinks, he continues to shudder, chills running up and down his frame. Kayn snickers self-indulgently at his dramatic faces of revulsion.
Ezreal beats a hasty retreat into his bedroll and continues poking at his journal. He keeps dropping his pen. After 10 minutes of fiddling with it, he gives up writing altogether, wrestling with his bedroll to tuck every single part of his body inside, even bunching the blanket up around his ears.
Something’s off, and Kayn waits him out by going through the motions of cleaning his spare blades. Finally, after half a dozen furtive glances thrown Kayn’s way, Ezreal’s bravado finally breaks.
“Kayn. I’ll pay you back later.”
“What?”
“Can you-? Can I borrow your blanket?”
Kayn makes a face of disappointment that Ez must have calculated he would, because he sheepishly burrows deeper into the sleeping bag, explaining, “I can’t get warm.”
That makes Kayn kneel down in front of him, trying to gauge just how fast this is tailspinning, “Even this close to the node?”
Miserably, Ezreal nods just a fraction. Only inches away, Kayn can assess him better. Little lines of pain crisscross the corners of his eyes, marring his freckles. His mouth might still be working but fatigue is clearly weighing him down.
Kayn heaves a sigh, which has become a reflexive habit in only a day. “You should have asked earlier. I could have gotten one in town.”
A nervous frown flits across Ezreal’s face.
“I have a better idea.” Kayn says, sidling close. He lays down behind Ez, outside of his bedroll, but drapes his own blanket over both of them. Under the cover, he winds his arm around Ezreal, casually flipping his braid over the blonde’s shoulder. He knows Ez has a fascination for it.
“You’re-” Ezreal is interrupted by a cough before he continues suspiciously, “You’re being awfully nice.”
Kayn layers his voice with smugness. “I know. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
After some hesitation, Ezreal shifts to grab hold of Kayn’s hand and his braid, holding both close to his chest.
“Feeling warmer?” Kayn murmurs as he feels Ezreal’s frame relaxing, stray blonde locks ticking his nose.
A nod in response, because it’s better than speaking with a cracked voice.
“Then sleep.”
Ezreal finally listens.
***
Only a few short hours later, Ezreal is woken by the first wave of real agony. It’s always the worst at night.
His fever has shot up in temperature, creating a sheen that sticks his hair and clothes to him suffocatingly close. He shudders uncontrollably as the coughing tears its way out of his lungs.
Struggling upright as much as he can, he tries to clear his airway and steal his breath back. Kayn leaves the soaked bedroll and brings water and medicine over. Ezreal clutches his throat, fear lacing his voice as he wheezes, “Why isn’t the medicine working?”
“It is. It would be even worse if you didn’t drink it.”
Even in this condition, the sight of the black liquid makes Ezreal backpedal. Kayn wonders if this dose will go to waste as well. But, another wracking wave of pain causes fresh, stinging tears to squeeze from the corners of Ezreal’s eyes, and that convinces him to reach out with a shaking arm and drink the cup, straight from Kayn’s hand.
Kayn has never seen tears on Ezreal’s face before.
It takes about 20 agonizing minutes for Ezreal to sip it all. To Kayn, it seems even more interminable than some of the times he’d spent in the brush, stalking and waiting to ambush a mark.
Afterwards, Ezreal pushes himself against the wall, slumping heavily and wrapping Kayn’s blanket around himself as best as he can. Lying down is too difficult at the moment with how the coughing is whip-snapping his light frame.
“By the way, if you cough blood, that’s normal.” Kayn informs him blandly.
You’re not funny. Ezreal would say, if he were still capable of it. Instead, his eyes flicker with desperation.
The illness wrenches control of your lungs from you, slithers into your stomach, twisting it empty and weak. You’re fighting a monster inside, one that doesn’t want you to breathe, doesn’t want you to sleep. Ez struggles for an hour before starting to lose. The intelligence and sky-blue clarity in those eyes are fading under pain and fatigue.
Kayn has stayed sitting beside him, offering a shoulder in support. As Ezreal slips into unconsciousness, a pale mimicry of true rest, his entire weight settles on Kayn. He shifts around until Ezreal is laying down under both blankets again and he sits cross-legged in front of the mage, mirroring Zed all those years ago.
Now that he’s seen the reality of what he’s committed to, he realizes he is conflicted. He probably won’t be getting any more real sleep than Ezreal, resigned to meditating in between the coughing attacks.
But, he reaches out to tenderly brush straw-colored locks, finally allowing his heart to ache in sympathy, he won’t abandon him.
***
The second day, Ezreal develops a fear of breathing.
This complicates things.
Blood and phlegm spatter across Ez’s palms today as he heaves. The medicine won’t stay down either. Kayn forces him to take the tiniest sips every half hour or so.
He doesn’t blame him exactly. If every time you breathe, the monster punishes you by hooking its claws deeper into your flesh, you would retreat as far back as possible to avoid its deadly grasp. But this means that Ez is effectively holding his breath, wasting precious energy on something pointless and maybe even more harmful.
Ez pushes him away after the latest dose, sniveling pathetically through his wheezes. There’s snot and spit on them both. It’s unpleasant. Kayn feels stifled, not only by the hard work, but by the air of clammy sickness and stale sweat.
Ezreal can’t even sit up now, sprawled bonelessly under the blankets. Kayn tries to coach him, “You have to breathe with it. You’re only making it worse by retreating.”
But it’s like the sickness has already broken Ez’s brain. He furrows his brows and croaks something barely audible, “Stop.”
“What?”
Ezreal shakes his head, pleading. The marks on his cheeks are dull and patchy as dust.
There’s fear in his eyes again.
“What, Ez?” Kayn leans closer, thinking he needs more help. He cups his face gently.
Ezreal takes a deep breath at last, only to waste it spitting out absolute nonsense: “Y-you don’t h-have to do this.”
That’s when Kayn’s temper finally rears.
There’s a blank roaring in his ears. The insult and the confusion and the sudden, inexplicable pang in his heart all churn into turbid rage.
“K-kayn, please.” Ezreal gasps.
“You want me to leave? You want me to let your sorry ass die here?!” he drops his hand as if scalded and lurches to his feet, voice ringing off the walls.
Rhaast’s eye stares at them unblinkingly.
“What do you think I’m doing this for?! This whole time!”
Ezreal runs away again, slipping his eyes shut, misery overtaking any pain from the illness. The next wave of coughing is inevitable and the worst by far. He has just wasted his energy on bullshit assumptions - how could he even think that?! - and he has no defenses.
The coughing shakes tears from his face.
Kayn, instead of leaving like his pride has half a mind to do, folds to the ground again in front of Ezreal and gently gathers him up in his arms. He tucks the crown of Ezreal’s head under his cheek and feels hot, ragged breaths fan over his throat. Holding him upright like this immediately relieves the pressure on the mage’s breathing, and the coughs ease by a margin.
Kayn knows, he knows. He lacks the words to fix this.
All he can do is hold Ezreal tightly, shelter a blue-white flame in his palms as he tries to keep it steady. He rubs his nose against Ezreal’s forehead and presses a kiss to it.
For a moment, the mage tenses up in Kayn’s hold, his eyes popping open, bright and beautiful for the first time in days. Some sort of realization flashes through them.
A fount of tears wells over again, quiet and hot like blood, but Kayn doesn’t understand.
“Come on, Ez. Fight it.” he ruffles blonde hair, pleading.
Out of all the possible reactions, he doesn’t expect Ezreal to grit his teeth firmly and force himself to nod.
Kayn blinks.
Ezreal stops resisting the coughs, going slack with them and following their flow. He no longer shies away from Kayn, but instead leans heavily into him in order to keep his airway open, fully trusting him to hold him upright.
This is much better. Kayn settles them back against the wall as comfortably as possible.
At some point, Ezreal attempts to speak again, but finds his voice completely blown.
I can’t even talk, he mouths.
“Can’t say I miss it.” Kayn drawls gently. He makes sure to card his fingers through Ez’s hair reassuringly.
Ezreal burrows into his neck in answer, using all his strength to attach as firmly as a leech. Fever dreams take him.
The hours pass. Rhaast silently closes his eye.
It’s funny, he might not miss Ez’s mouth running its mile-a-minute commentary, but he misses him . There’s no point in being together like this when Ezreal isn’t even around to taunt back. They were always on equal footing (more or less). Even when he had the mage pinned under him in bed or on naked grass or against the rough walls of a ruin, Ezreal had never been helpless. If Kayn kisses Ezreal now, he wouldn’t even be able to say no.
The medicine goes down easily now that Ezreal is truly unconscious. Kayn tips the cool, bitter fluid down his throat without any coaxing. His body needs the fluids desperately.
***
On the third day, Ezreal is delirious. He babbles. Formulas, runes. Names of pathways, misspoken Shuriman words. The fever’s frying his brain.
Kayn hesitates before practically vaulting into the shadows, scythe in hand.
The healer is quick and dry with her words.
“Is it normal if he’s delirious? Does he need stronger medicine?”
“Some people do exhibit it. If he becomes lucid by the 4th day, then you don’t need to worry. If not, bring him here immediately. Add this to each dose in the meantime.”
As she prepares the supplement, Kayn is already mentally retracing his steps back, imagining Ezreal cocooned in the blankets alone.
“So, you and your visitor?”
Kayn pauses.
“Sometimes, a visitor is like a good omen. My eldest was sired by an outsider. He went off traveling to see the wider world. Comes back every 7 years like an albatross.”
She pushes a sack of pills towards him. “No charge.”
Everything is as he left it when he shadow-steps back. Ez hasn’t miraculously woken.
He takes a moment to collect himself, leaning against the wall like Rhaast. This has been exhausting in a way hunting quarry has never been. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of the outcome. The fear he fiercely pushes away.
Rhaast sends the palest, most fleeting tendril his way. What does a weapon know about healing? And yet…
There’s no way Ez is going to be conscious enough to swallow the herbal pills without choking. He devises a way to crush it into a soluble paste in the medicine broth. That should work.
He sits him up and administers the dose, thankfully without issue. By now, he’s practiced at tucking Ezreal under his chin, the two of them becoming one bundle of heat. He very nearly drifts off.
“Mmrm, urgh...dad…"
Kayn freezes. But despite his wishes, he hears it again. Clear as day.
“Dad…”
A furrow, somehow sad, twitches across Ezreal’s brows.
“You’re an overgrown brat, sure, but I’m not your dad.” Kayn sighs, “You’re not even sane right now are you?”
He figures this is something he won’t mention to Ezreal when he wakes up. Then he stops thinking about the future at all, even tomorrow, because otherwise dread would gnaw at and ruin him. As training dictates, he empties his mind of all things.
When he is pulled out of meditation, it must be because, despite his efforts, he is confused and distracted from sheer exhaustion and the shadows have leapt off the wall to caress his cheek. Moth-light and nearly imaginary.
He shakes himself fully awake, only to find Ezreal has wormed a hand free and - baps Kayn softly in the chin. Again.
Kayn peers closely at his face. His eyes are drawn shut, but he’s mumbling. “Talk to me.”
Kayn tangles their fingers. “Ez? You awake?”
The response is a muzzy groan, less than what he’s hoping for. But then, with all the strength of a kitten-paw, Ez stubbornly squeezes his hand back.
Kayn kisses the crown of his hair fiercely. What can he talk to him about that isn’t needlessly gorey details about violence, slaughter…solitude? He grins like a lunatic.
“There’s a seabird called the albatross. Comes back to land every 7 years. Never touches the ground otherwise.
“When it returns, it always finds the same nest again.”
Once, when they were missing Ezreal, Rhaast had called him a little thief of shiny things. A little twittering bird. Kayn replied that, to him, Ezreal was more of a soft, snuffling creature.
I can see things about him you can't , Rhaast said. Hollow bones . Snappable.
He starts from the beginning of Zed’s lessons. Ionian plants - safe to eat, toxic, meant for salves or poisons. The way mated rivers converge in spring after they have gorged themselves on monsoon rains. The way a tree once snagged Kayn’s ankle and let him go only after he begged, invoking a pact between an Ionian and his land. The more he talks, the more he remembers.
Ezreal continues drifting in and out of layers of unconsciousness, body still slack against the coughing. Kayn is sure his words are nothing but low, droning comfort to him, and the waste is a shame. Knowledge always piques his attention and impresses him. Kayn runs out of things that he hasn’t told Ezreal already during the first times they’d encountered each other and decided on a mutually-beneficial truce.
He talks them into midnight. His voice is fraying nearly to the breaking point when Rhaast hits him with a bolt of urgency in their connection. He looks up at the Darkin, and then down at Ezreal. He presses a hand to his forehead, his cheek.
The fever is broken.
***
Ezreal practically blinks through the front door of the inn and as soon as he can finish the formalities of booking a room, he makes a beeline for the hot wash tub at the back. For the next 30 minutes, he’s in there scrubbing and cursing and whinging, and Kayn’s patience nearly runs out from what seems to be Ezreal’s attempt at flaying his own pale skin off.
Rhaast rests in the window’s blindspot and sends pin-pricking tendrils of teasing his way, questioning him if he would not finally cave and join Ezreal in the water.
Kayn paces instead, going from the table to the chair to the wall to the bed. And repeating. He’s working out the kinks from babysitting on the floor for three days and wondering what to do next. It’s too early to return to the order or kick Ezreal off the island. What he really wants is to run wild and take Ez out to the sequoia forests, where they once raced from boughs to canopy, blinking and shadowrunning, to the fields of snowmoon flowers that only bloom under gibbous light, to the pond, their pond and their waterfall. But if Ezreal needs rest, then -
Speak of the devil - he finally exits the bath…wearing only a washcloth around his hips and stopping Kayn dead in his tracks. Even though he’s scrubbed clean, there’s something petulant in his pout, almost a frown.
Despite the blood rushing south, Kayn still feels a twinge of guilt. The sickness carved out its pound of flesh and Ezreal really did shrink even thinner. The gaps sunken between his collarbones and ribs are hard to look at. The purple, tender bruises under his eyes mock the arcane crescents.
“Why don’t you put some clothes on?” Kayn suggests, “We can eat and-”
Ezreal reaches for him, tugging him into a searing kiss. They’re pressed together naked and wet from chest to stomach and the little waistcloth almost falls off. The effect on Kayn is immediate.
His hard-on is painful and he can’t help snatching Ezreal up, groaning into his mouth, the corrupted claws coming dangerously close to piercing skin, but Ezreal doesn’t care, he grinds up into him and steals both his breaths and questions.
“Ez-What’re you-”
“Kayn, Kayn-” Ezreal won’t shut up between kissing him, and his name becomes a crazed string of praises, “Kayn kaynkayn.”
Ez is shutting Kayn’s mind down, his groans shifting into feral growls as he runs his hands everywhere, over every coveted inch, of that exposed, tight body. His chest, his waist, the cleft of his thighs and ass. The washcloth falls off at last, stupid little thing. Kayn reaches to wrap his hand around Ez’s cock but -
Ez shoves him towards the bed, and Kayn swears he topples onto it only because he’s shocked, not because Ez has the strength to push him around so easily.
The mage hops onto his lap, ripping the belt-cord off and shoving Kayn’s pants down. Kayn can barely keep up, palms settling on Ez’s waist only out of practiced reflex. As Kayn’s cock springs free, Ez grabs it rudely and presses the tip of it straight into his soft, warm hole.
“You prepped?!” Kayn squawks. Is that why he’d spent so damn long in the bath?
A smirk wends its way on Ezreal’s lips. Kayn’s brow twitches. Oh, that won’t do at all.
With their hips snapping in lockstep, Ezreal rides him at a brutal pace and they both come much too soon, electrified and shivering but not nearly satisfied enough.
Feeling like he’s still being blindsided, Kayn sits halfway up, but Ez crosses his arms mulishly, eyes narrowed with that weird petulance again.
“Albatross?”
Kayn gapes, feeling a strange mortification crawl up his neck. He vaguely feels his face and ears burning.
“It’s 5 years, not 7 - that’s an old wives’ tale, and they do nest at sea on tiny rocks and islands, but the point is-!” Ezreal pokes him in the chest. “I’m not some dumb bird, Kayn!”
Rhaast howls in malicious amusement.
The second round, Kayn pins Ezreal under him so he can drag out the pleasure any way he wants.
“Hush.” he sneers as Ez’s voice, still healing, cracks into a sharp cry.
Kayn was always the more flexible one between them, and he uses this to his advantage each time. He’s jammed Ez’s thighs with his own, one forearm pressing heavily down on Ez’s collarbones and a hot palm around his cock.
Ezreal writhes, body stuttering to find the rhythm of pleasure. His hand that isn’t twisting the sheets is riding futilely atop Kayn's corrupted one, powerless to direct his strokes. Kayn sucks the sweet-salty bud of a nipple into his mouth and smiles as it breaks Ezreal’s voice into staccato notes.
“How shall I devour you?”
Ezreal whimpers, tossing his head back to bare the beautiful, taut line of his throat. Kayn plants pretty bruises everywhere in such a fallow field. He peers down at his handiwork.
The damp, needy sheen on him now is so different from the illness before. Kayn starts stroking him now, grip hard yet lingering, pinching at the tip when it smears. He watches Ezreal’s eyes darken with pure want in real time. The first time Kayn had seen blue eyes dilate, he had sworn they changed colors entirely, from sky to shaded river.
Releasing the sheets, Ezreal tangles his fingers in Kayn’s hair, demanding him to let it fall from its bindings, spill all over the pillows and sheets as it shelters Ez. Kayn indulges him. Swirling pools of dark locks are a perfect frame for Ez’s sharp cheekbones and glistening flush. Ez pulls him down into an unbreaking string of kisses and Kayn ruts him to completion under a curtain of black, shimmering hair.
They spend a blurry day like that - fucking like animals in heat and resting, and the only times they leave each other is when they slip into sleep.
It’s when they pause to eat in bed, pears that Ezreal flung one skinny arm out to pluck from the table, that Kayn gets an explanation.
“It drove me crazy. The way you cared. I wanted you so badly. I was too weak to even touch you.”
Recalling, Kayn halts on a memory from the last day of the illness, when Ezreal put all his strength into tapping Kayn’s chin.
“You’re gonna make me obsess over you.” Ezreal says. And it stuns Kayn because it sounds like a confession. Ezreal is frowning at some wrinkle in the sheets between them, gaze flickering with emotion, but as a sadist, Kayn withholds comfort just to hear him continue.
“I can be in Shurima or Demacia, in the deadwinter of Freljord and I’ll still think of you.”
“I…” he trails off, finally choosing to let their eyes meet.
Well, if Ezreal can show rare courage, Kayn will match it. Not brashness, he’s always reckless and rash all over all the time. Courage.
Kayn reaches for him and nuzzles his forehead, easily enveloping him in the answer itself. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Under his chin, Ezreal seems to smile.
***
They catch up on all the banter they missed.
“So, what next? Do you have any plans?”
Kayn did. 1-and-a-half days ago. He just didn’t think Ez was going to make them fuck their brains out.
“Was thinking we should go back to the pond. See the ermine-cats on the way.”
“I’m in.” Ez nods happily. “We should come up with a way of sending each other messages. Stay in touch more often.”
Kayn gets the feeling it’s outside of the usual for Ezreal to send regular messages to anyone. He asks, “Don’t you have any fancy devices in Piltover that can do that? Mechanical pigeons or something?”
Ezreal laughs, not particularly maliciously, “There are in fact prototypes of lodestone communicators; they work over super long distances but they’re really simple. We could only send single letters or words.”
“Perfect. My first message will be ‘f u’.”
“Dumbass.” Ezreal smacks him.
With that matter settled, there is a lull for a while.
Then Ez asks in a much quieter way, “Did I…say anything about my dad? I kind of remember calling for him.”
“That was all you did.” Kayn reassures.
“I…see.” Instead of being reassured at all, Ezreal’s expression collapses with disappointment for some reason. Kayn’s skin prickles, sensing a topic he’d rather not approach.
“Do you think of Zed as your dad?”
Zed is his father because he’s something in between the protective and guiding force a parent should be and what a mercenary, cold-blooded leader is. For a master, he’s shown unconditional faith in Kayn. For a father, he still plucked Kayn off that battlefield because Kayn’s ability to survive matched his will. If it hadn’t, they would not be here.
“Yes and no.”
Puzzled, Ezreal looks at him.
“Ez, your parents are still your real family…even if they’re not here. Mine comes with a contract.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.” Kayn parrots him, a tad unkindly.
But the way that he slips his hand under Ez’s and curls them together is kind. Ezreal squeezes back without hesitation, strength nearly fully recovered.
“I’ll bring you an army knife next time. You’ll find it useful.”
Kayn raises a brow, “What does it do?”
“It’s an all-in-one knife-corkscrew-screwdriver-bottle opener-can opener-scissors-and what else-”
“Sounds like I’d have to see it myself before I can judge its usefulness.” Kayn cuts him off, although inwardly the thought of Ezreal gifting him something is warming in a way he refuses to examine closely. He simply lets it burn as a vague, comforting weight in his chest.
Ezreal looks satisfied enough at that.
Their hands lay in their shared line of sight across the sheets. Smiles steal across their lips, like secrets. The arcane marks burn brightly, but not nearly as bright as Ezreal’s eyes.