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Swirling, like the gingko tree leaves whirling in the wind out beyond the front window, Jing Yuan's sense of balance was, uncharacteristically, about to fail. Feeling a bit like he was back in the early days of sword practice, not knowing where to look, where to face, what to expect, with each step he took across the swept path of the floor, ground moving beneath his feet, head pounding something fierce, the feverish general had only a moment to think to himself, a moment to register something was amiss, before it seemingly gave way beneath him.
What bowl and utensil he had been holding, carrying towards the nearby low table for a late dinner, clattered to the floor as a pair of arms and a set of paws with muzzle to match caught him just in time, slowing his fall and easing him to sit down. They were murmuring something, his lover and the lion at his side rumbling back to them, voices low and laced with concern, but his normally acute hearing could hardly understand them over the sound of his own heartbeat, blood rushing through his veins. Everything was far too loud and not loud enough; the world kept swaying, his head kept pounding.
Peeking around the corner, peering into the kitchen area, they had expected to follow the earthy aroma straight to their lover. Finding him swaying on his feet and about to collapse was not in their original plans, but (and they are well aware of this after years spent together in this lifelong hunt through every cosmos) plans change.
"Jing Yuan?"
He only breathes a little more pointedly in response to any inquiries, no doubt trying to use mindfulness and meditation to stave off the remnants of his wounds from the fight with that accursed Phantylia, and eventually they give up on waiting for verbal answers. Opting for action instead, they slowly pick up the lost utensil from the floor, placing it gently on the table nearby. Cleaning up the spilt bowl comes next but the shuffling sounds make Jing Yuan's ears ring, a frown marring his face ever so slightly each time, and so they do their best to remain silent and careful. Manuevering him to stand, barely, so that he is leaning on them with nearly the full weight of his migraine-onset self (they were equals in this relationship, and that they could support him as he would them was so very important to the both of them, often making him huff a laugh and them shake their head in exasperstion most days), they make their way towards their shared bed as the pitter patter of paws trails behind them, keeping watchful eye.
Coaxing him into slipping into someting more comfortable, sleepwear that is lightweight and loose and made of easy texture, they busy themselves with making certain that the curtains are clipped closed. Dimming the room into a pleasant darkness, they only return to the shadowed bedside when their task is done.
Fluffed pillows and strewn blankets lay atop the bed itself, nested carefully around a very snug, albeit still restless form of their lover. He stretches a bit while trying to get comfortable, pawing at the blankets like a discontented cat in vain effort to get comfortable, and each failed attempt leaves him increasingly frustrated, though he hardly shows it. Craning his neck yields no better results (and looks quite painful from where they stand), a heavy sigh leaving him as he gives up on stretching out and simply lays still, blankets even more tangled than when he started.
They take pity on him and carefully lower themselves onto the bed, next to him. Shuffling into their lap, guided by instinct and the warmth of them, Jing Yuan breathes easier as he makes himself comfortable in their grounding presence. When their hand graces his forehead in a gentle brush, they startle to find it near feverish. Attempting to untangle themselves from him, in order to fetch a damp cool cloth, is only successful after an entirely appropriate amount of clinging for a man of his status to display and a trade off with the loyal lion who happily takes their place on the bed (they do not mind really, pleased he is so open with them).
When they return again, settling back into the cozy comfort of before, they lay a little higher so that Jing Yuan can lay his head on their chest; his migraine still rages, but he thinks it dulls when they ground him with the love and care that seeps from their soul to his. The cool cloth on his forehead, soft and only slightly damp, helps minutely; it helps enough to send him in to a light doze, discomfort easy if only for a moment.
Fondly, they run their fingertips ever-so-lightly over his scalp, careful of the tender points that plague him in the midst of his head pain. He subconsciously rolls into their touch, seeking out their comfort even in his fitful slumber. Brows furrowing again catch their gaze and their fingers stall, contemplating.
Slowly, inch by inch, their fingers make their way closer and closer to the bases of his temples. He tenses when they brush over the tenderness that lays there, a sound at the back of his throat, but soon all but sighs, relieved and pleased, as they tenderly massage soothing circles into the tense tissue around each area. In a calming manner that they continue, it seems to work. His face relaxes in his sleep, brows no longer furrowed with stiff movements, and he sighs deeply; they chuckle to themselves at the mumbling he gives them from his slumber, all too pleased to have been able to help the one they love the most.
Jing Yuan wakes much later, unaware of the time (the curtains must be closed tightly and he cannot decipher the height of the sun or moon, the brightness behind the garden's trees typical of the day is not here now; he suspects his lover had something to do with it). His lover makes for a perfect place to rest his head, now no longer in pain, and he shifts his face into their neck in gratitude, a lazy kiss that is more a press of lips follows suit. The tender grin he gives their sleeping form tells them he loves them, thanks them for looking out for him. The upward curl of their lips as they doze, that he can feel as it stretches their cheek next to his, repeats it all back.
Maybe the sun rises, or sets, he cannot tell and is not trying to. Their warmth, warmer than a fever and much sweeter, beckons him closer than the sun ever could. He curls back in next to them, the lion snug between them, entwined as they should be, and finds himself drifting back off to the sleep they yet cling to. His migraine does not come back.