“I am tired,” I complain at length. “And hungry.”

I can feel Meshani smile. “Are you recovered enough to come home?”

“Yes. I will not make a scene. Where did you put my goggles?”

“On the chair, my heart.” 

I peer around the room and spot my eyewear. As much as I do not want to leave Meshani’s embrace, I feel vulnerable here still. This is not my home, with its familiar comforts and trappings. And so I slip from his strong arms and rise somewhat unsteadily to retrieve my goggles. A chill shimmers across my skin, a reminder of the migraine that still haunts the edges of my mind. I can feel it lurking, waiting for a lapse in control so it can surge to the forefront once more. 

The rubber strap on my goggles feels a bit tight as I secure them over my eyes. It is an illusion, of course; these are custom designed and purpose built to fit only myself, so the strap is fixed in place. But with the discomfort in my head, they seem uncomfortably snug.

“I am not going to be able to tolerate light at home. Will you be able to finish preparing our meal with no candlelight?” I feel regret for having to ask this of Meshani.

“We can eat in the sitting room,” he allows. It is not our usual custom, and such things are important to both of us. “I will need at least some small illumination to finish meal preparations.”

I nod. “The light as we transit back home will be uncomfortable, and the migraine will likely worsen. Will you mind terribly if I take my scooter and arrive home before you?”

Meshani shakes his head with a fond smile. “I expected such.”

I return his smile softly, then bend over to meet his lips with mine. His head tilts upward and I slide my fingertips along his strong jawline to cradle his face in my hands. I feel his skin soft against my calloused palms. His mouth draws me in further, warmth passing between us where we touch, and I feel a low fire begin to kindle in my belly. 

If it were my choice, I would allow our small intimacy to build into something much more. But that would be unwise here. Instead, I curb my desire harshly and limit us to nothing more than this kiss. 

But for all that, it is still a deeply passionate kiss. Meshani accepts my wild lust and tames it, returning it to something manageable. He allows me to express what I feel without the need for words. I do not crush his lips beneath mine this time. Rather, I softly draw him into engagement. He could pull away and refuse at any time, yet I can tell he welcomes this as much as I. When I become too insistent, he modulates us back. And if he wants more, he asks.

He allows me to linger, drawing this out as long as I wish. And eventually, he allows me to draw us to a conclusion. I can tell he is satisfied for now; there is no reluctance to part or lack of response. 

"After food, I will want more," I warn him. My voice is low and husky, and it brings a smile to Meshani's face.

"Whatever you desire," he promises me. I feel a spike of lust surge through me in response to the primal growl in his words. Heat flashes into my eyes. I have to try very hard to not give in. 

Standing upright takes an enormous effort of will, but I pull myself together enough to remain in control of my base instincts. I offer Meshani my hand to aid him in standing. He takes it, and I pull him nearly off his feet. 

We both grin at each other; this is not the first time this has happened, and Meshani expects it now. He continues to hold my hand as we move to exit, and I love him all the more for it. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut behind my goggles as he toggles the door open. The light from the hallway pours into the room, and I flinch as it strikes my eyelids even through the darkened lenses. Meshani steadies me through his omnipresent contact, giving my fingers a light squeeze of reassurance. 

He leads me down the hall as I work to crack my eyes open and fight off the continuing effects of the migraine. By the time we reach the dining hall, I finally have my eyes open and focusing clearly despite the constant throbbing ache at the base of my skull. Meshani asks me to wait at the doorway with a small gesture and a soft murmur. I offer a small nod in acquiescence, the motion tightly controlled to minimize the movement, and he releases my fingers to go speak with Grandy. It takes him but a moment, though it feels like much longer as I lean heavily on the jamb.

When Meshani turns away to return, Grandy lifts a hand in farewell to me. My arm shakes faintly as I return the gesture. I know that Meshani notices, but he pretends not to have seen and I am grateful for his discretion. Instead, he once more laces his fingers with mine and I follow him willingly from the building.

He escorts me to where my scooter is parked. “Are you safe to travel?”

I honestly consider for a long moment. “For now. If that changes, I will stop and wait for you.”

He gives me a soft smile and kisses my forehead lightly. “I will see you at home,” he promises.

“I look forward to it.”

We part ways for now, and it is very hard to let him begin walking away as I ready my scooter for travel. But for my own safety, this is the best way. We do not both fit onto the scooter. Not well, at least. And Meshani genuinely prefers to walk.

I arrive home without incident. It takes me somewhat longer than is usual, as I am being careful to monitor myself. But for once, I do not feel irritated at the slow pace. I am deliberate in assessing my physical, mental, and emotional states in order to minimize the chances of a public overload incident. 

Once I have parked my scooter and let myself into the house, I find myself leaning heavily on the wall as I stagger into the sitting room. I light no candles, relying on my memory and my unique vision to show me the way. It is only once I have collapsed onto the sitting cushions that I carefully pull my goggles down to hang about my neck and, with a heavy sigh, recline into feigned relaxation. My eyes slide shut against the steady pulse behind them as the migraine realizes I no longer have anything to distract me from its presence.

I focus on my breathing. The nausea has passed, but a bone deep ache has replaced it. I recognize the initial stages of sound sensitivity. At least it had the courtesy to wait until I was at home before manifesting. But combined with the light sensitivity above and beyond usual, this is shaping up to be a miserable afternoon.

I have some time to suffer in silence before Meshani arrives home, and I use that time to try and work past the discomfort. Three counts to inhale, three counts to exhale. Repeat. 

It is only marginally successful. 

When Meshani arrives home some time later, I am faintly whimpering with each exhalation because the pain in my head is not abating. He opens the door as softly as he is able, but it still is too loud. Each of his soft footfalls seems to ricochet through my skull. I am acutely aware of when he comes to check on me, as I hear him draw in a surprised breath.

“Will you be able to eat?” he asks as softly as he can. It still feels as though he is speaking at a normal volume. 

“Whether I can or not is irrelevant. I need to eat. My stomach has already revolted, so I will be able to keep it down. I simply will not be able to enjoy the flavor as I should, and for that I am sorry.” Even though I am barely speaking above a whisper, it feels as though I have shouted.

Meshani brushes light fingers across my knee. “Supper will be ready soon,” he replies gently, and I hear concern in his voice. “Hand me your goggles, so that I can put them away.”

“Thank you, my all.” I reach out blindly and he takes my hand. We each squeeze gently for a brief moment, then release. I then fumble at the goggles about my neck, managing at length to draw them up over my head. Once they are free, I hold them out for Meshani to take them. He gently receives the goggles then retreats to the kitchen to finish preparing our meal, leaving me to resume my ineffective breathing exercises.

I am not really aware of time passing as I struggle against the grip of the migraine. Breathing once more becomes my focus. Part of me wants nothing more than to sleep, but that part keeps getting interrupted whenever my skull throbs. The methodical, insistent pounding also drowns out the howling of my stomach as the mild scent of the meal begins to waft down the hallway. 

At length, I hear the faint rattle of dishes. The scent of broth and vegetables leaps up out of the kitchen and rolls down the hall to wash over me. It sets my stomach to protesting its emptiness with such vigor that for a bit, the migraine can no longer compete. I crack open heavy eyelids with hesitancy lest the migraine decide to punish this attempt at sight. 

Meshani’s footfalls seem to be much more of a normal volume as he pads down the hall toward me a moment later. I carefully orient on the sound, turning my gaze to find him, and my vision swims. Blinking helps a bit, though my lids seem to want to remain fixed shut whenever I close them. I carefully wipe at my eyes, lightly massaging the lids with gentle circular motions. It does not help much, but at least it does not hurt either. 

I hear an unfamiliar sound and my eyes flicker open reluctantly to see Meshani sliding a tray onto the sideboard. He takes up a bowl from the tray and wraps it in a cloth, then takes up a spoon and turns to me. “Here, love. Can you manage?”

My arms feel absolutely leaden as I reach up to accept the bowl. The rest of my upper body follows my arms automatically, and I draw into a sitting position without really thinking. It takes comparatively little effort. Meshani places the bowl carefully into my hands, cupping his palms about mine to ensure I do not spill as I draw the bowl back toward my chest, and I realize that there is a tremor shivering down the length of my arms. He helps me to settle the bowl into my lap without spilling, then hands me the spoon. 

“Rabbit and root stew,” he tells me, then brushes a kiss upon my forehead before returning to the tray. 

I feel as though I am six years old again and having difficulty with using tableware. My fingers vibrate faintly, which makes the spoon pitch and yaw off level. Meshani turns back just as I nearly drop the spoon into the stew. In the darkness, he does not notice. But he cannot miss the invective I utter under my breath.

“I have the shakes,” I tell him before he can ask. Even my voice trembles.

“Here. Herb bread. I could not find real butter to be had anywhere, though, so it is oleo spread.” He does not comment on my weakness, and I am grateful. Instead, he hands me the thick hunk of pale wheat loaf with one hand as he retrieves the bowl from my lap with the other. Once I am freed from the bowl I tear into the bread with vigor, practically shoving it into my mouth whole.