"Matthieu?" I called quietly. Usually my rough and tough counterpart answered me, but today the house was silent. I frowned, worried. "Matthieu! You can stop trying to scare me now!"
There was still no answer. Even Kumajirou wasn't around, but then again, he was never around. I moved through the hallway, checking every room I passed by. Nothing seemed out of place, which worried me even more. Oliver could have come in with those poison cupcakes of his and coerced Allan into dragging him wherever the hell that little demon wanted him.
Tears of worry sprung into my eyes when I reached the bottom of the stairs and saw his beloved hockey stick laying there. I kneeled down beside it, trying my best to not assume the worst. It was hard though. Matthieu was never without that damned stick, and now here it was and our house was silent and he was nowhere to be seen.
I picked up the stick and made my way upstairs, fighting through the tears. I shuffled into the bedroom we shared and sighed, noticing that he had, once again, forgotten to make up the bed this morning. In a sudden fit of anger, I tossed his hockey stick at the bed, jumping when it made a small "oof!"
I approached the bed cautiously. "Mattie?"
A groan answered my question. Flinging myself at the bed, I let the tears flow down my face freely. "Don't you ever! Ever! Ever! Do that to me! Again!" I shrieked, punctuating each sentence with a weak punch to what I hoped was NOT his genitals. I couldn't really tell, ya know, he was covered in layers and layers of blankets.
Worriedly, I moved closer to the headboard, then pulled the blankets away from his head. As soon as I saw poor Mattie's face, I melted. He was so obviously sick as a dog, and it was fucking adorable.
His violet eyes glared up at me in a vain attempt at intimidation despite the fact that his cheeks were redder than the blood on his beloved hockey stick. I pressed my hand to his forehead to check for fever. Sure enough, he was burning up. I smiled down at the poor man and whispered, "I'll get you some soup and a rag for your forehead."
He moaned in answer and I giggled, pressing a kiss to his hot forehead. "Je t'aime, ma chere," I murmured. He mumbled something that was probably an answer as I pulled away.
Just as I reached the doorway, he said hoarsely, "Matthew?"
I turned around with an affectionate smile. "Yeah?"
"Remind me to never eat Oliver's cooking again."