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Akaashi Keiji is going to die.
He’s convinced of it actually, and no one can tell him otherwise because he’s absolutely positive that this is what the throes of death feel like.
It’s his third or fourth day in bed he thinks, but to be honest, he’s slept for most of it so it might as well be both day one and day ten at the same time. His body aches in ways a body shouldn’t, and he’s both too hot and too cold at the same time, and the mountain of peculiarly colored tissues next to his bed has begun to peak up over the edge just in his field of vision. It’s disgusting.
“Are you dying,” Bokuto asked at some point, and he was so sad that his hair managed to sag. How does a person’s hair sag? He sniffled and pouted, and Akaashi groaned what was probably just a death rattle.
“No, I’m fine,” he lied, his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth until he coughed. So convincing. He was sure he asked Bokuto a question like how did the game go or did you take out the recycling, but he may have just gone back to sleep.
A few days passed since then, and Akaashi slowly withered away into nothing, but he didn’t have the strength to stay awake long enough to tell his loved ones goodbye. It’s tragic, really, but it’s a warrior’s death. It has to be considering how terribly he’s suffered through it.
The creak of his bedroom door is what stirs him. Bokuto’s nose poking through the crack is the only thing blocking the solid streak of light cutting through Akaashi’s final resting place, and Akaashi squints as he tries to focus on his face.
“You ok in there, buddy?”
“No,” he croaks.
“Do I need to call an ambulance?”
Akaashi shakes his head weakly. “I don’t want to go to the hospital. Just let me die.”
That was a mistake. Akaashi’s final request sends poor Bokuto into hysterics, and the next thing he knows, his door is being slammed shut and it sounds like a herd of elephants is wreaking havoc in his apartment.
Akaashi means to call out, means to stop him and assure him that he’s probably fine, but he slips back under before the words can come out.
“Keiji.”
Akaashi smiles softly at the voice in his dream. It’s distant and familiar, but it’s so warm that it makes him float, and he thinks that maybe being called to the other side isn’t so bad at all.
“Keiji,” the voice half sings, and something cold presses against Akaashi’s forehead. It stirs him enough to think that maybe he isn’t dreaming. “You in there?”
He mumbles a no and tries to go back to sleep, but the person behind the voice just snorts. Don’t laugh at me, he wants to say, but since when do his dreams listen to him.
“Bokuto called me and said you were dyin’,” he says. “I hope when I go out, I don’t sweat so much.”
Akaashi’s eyes fly open at the insult. He scowls bitterly at whoever dared to call him sweaty, but the shadow at his bedside makes his chest seize. A perfect dorito who smells like dryer sheets and ivory soap on days where Akaashi can breathe through his nose. It couldn’t be anyone else.
Is it selfish that he’s a little happy to see him?
“What are you doing here,” he mutters.
Osamu reaches towards him and brushes the hair off of Akaashi’s forehead. Akaashi’s attempt at moving away is thwarted by the pillow he recently became a part of. “Came to bring ya back to life.”
“You’re going to get sick.”
“I’m too pretty to get sick.”
Akaashi swats at him weakly and laughs until he coughs, and it’s a nasty sound from deep within his chest. Gross.
“Why didn’t ya call me,” he asks, and he almost sounds hurt. Why would he be? Who would want to see him like this? Who would want to listen to how awful he feels? Akaashi might not be a whiner, but all’s fair in love and flu season.
“Didn’t wanna bother anyone.”
You. I didn’t want to bother you.
He hates this. He wants to roll over and hide, but it hurts too much to move, but he can only imagine what kind of shriveled up pile of snot and bones he looks like right now. Why did Bokuto have to call him? Miya Osamu of all people…
“I’m not leavin’,” he says like Akaashi was about to kick him out. He should for his own sake, but he can’t help that a small part of him wants to cling to the big fabricky dorito and bury his snotty crusty face into his chest and sleep until the angels carry him home.
Maybe it’s best that he leaves…
“Mmk,” he manages.
“If you call someone else, they’ll just hafta get in line.”
Akaashi frowns and swats at him. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I,” he hums in that cheeky Miya way, and Akaashi doesn’t know if he wants to smile or whack him. “Can ya sit up for me?”
“No.”
“Keiji, Keiji, Keiji, I didn’t know you were such a baby when yer sick.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Mhm,” he argues. “Sit up so you can drink this, please.”
“Nuh uh,” Akaashi says, but his body moves on its own. His head spins as he sits upright, and he’s seconds from tipping back over. Osamu breaks the seal on a bottle of water and hands it to him to drink. The water rushes in too cold against his dry throat, and he shivers. He puts the cap back on and pulls his blanket up higher over himself, chilled to the bone from just a drink. “Thanks.”
Osamu points to a thermometer on the bedside table next to one of the empty tissue boxes. “In like a minute can you check yer temperature for me?”
Akaashi nods, and Osamu stands back up.
“I thought you said you weren’t leaving.”
“I’m not, I’m just gonna make ya some soup.”
“Soup,” he repeats as a question.
“Need to get some fluids back in ya so you’ll feel human again,” he says as he reaches down and brushes his fingers through Akaashi’s awful greasy hair. “Take yer temperature, and then drink some more water, and I’ll come bring you some when it’s done. Okay?”
“Okay, dad,” he forces a smile.
“Yer lucky Bokuto called me and not Kita,” he warns. “He woulda come in with an IV drip, a tongue compress, and a lecture about keepin’ yerself hydrated.”
Akaashi nods. He is lucky.
Not that he doesn’t like Kita, but he… is partial to his current caretaker.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Call me, err, groan ominously if ya need me.”
“Mm.”
Osamu leaves, and Akaashi reaches out for him pathetically, but fortunately he doesn’t notice. Seriously, why did it have to be him? Why is he here? Osamu of all people isn’t supposed to see him like this. Why didn’t Bokuto call Kuroo or someone. Never mind, maybe not Kuroo, but Osamu… He covers his face for a weak dry sob. He hasn’t even had the courage to ask him out yet, and now he’s seen him in his snot cave of darkness.
Akaashi wallows in his misery as he waits for the thermometer to finish checking his temperature, and when it beeps, he realizes his room is too dark to see what it says.
He pushes himself off of his bed and stumbles on wobbly legs until he’s out in the hall. He does have a fever, it seems, but it’s a low one so he probably doesn’t have anything to worry about.
Now that he’s out, however, he decides to see what Osamu is doing in his apartment unsupervised.
He finds him alone in the kitchen chopping an onion, his sleeves pushed up over his elbows, and if Akaashi wasn’t already dying, he might as well die right now just from the sight of him. His arms are slightly tanned and the veins in his hands bulge slightly as he grips the handle of the knife, and Akaashi swallows.
“I didn’t know you knew how to cook anything but onigiri,” Akaashi says.
Osamu looks over his shoulder, and his hair whooshes as he does. Akaashi might be in love. “That’s because that’s all ya ever ask for.”
Akaashi flushes slightly, presumably from the fever, and takes a seat at the kitchen table with his water bottle and his pounding heart. “What else can you make then?”
“Anything you want,” he shrugs casually.
“I want onigiri.”
It’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out like a whine thanks to his stuffy nose, but Osamu laughs anyway. “Yer gettin’ soup.”
“Fine.”
“Ya keepin’ yer water down?”
“Got through that part a few days ago,” he winces, not wanting to remember how sick he was then. If there ever was a race for the most enthusiastic purge of one’s organs, he might have taken the lead.
“Days?” Osamu turns back towards him and gapes. Well, as close to a gape as he can manage. His mouth is still frozen in that permanent pout Akaashi likes so much, but his eyes bulge out enough that the shock is loud and clear. “Keiji…”
“I’m fine.”
“I’da come sooner,” he grumbles more to himself, returning to his vegetables, and Akaashi doesn’t argue. “Shoulda dragged ya to the doctor in the first place.”
“Hey, look at me, I’m drinking my water and waiting for my soup, I’m practically cured,” he insists. Osamu glances back, and Akaashi instinctively covers his face with his hand. “Wait, don’t look at me I haven’t showered in days.”
“We’ll get ya a bath after you eat,” he says, and when Akaashi blinks a little too quickly, he realizes what he just implied. “I mean me and Bokuto will get ya in there, and you guys can– you can– soap .”
“Soap,” he nods, but the energy to tease him runs out before he can say anything else, and he ends up slumped over onto the table.
“You can go back to bed, this’ll take a while.”
“I’m fine. Bed’s gross.”
“That’s fair.”
Akaashi closes his eyes against the light in the kitchen and rests. Osamu goes back to cooking, and the sound of his knife drumming against the cutting board becomes a gentle hum that helps him forget about how awful his body feels. He wonders what the soup smells like.
He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, and any other time it would have been downright impossible for him to sleep sitting at a table, but he does, and he’s not long awakened by the sound of footsteps behind him.
“Whoa,” Bokuto says a little too loudly. Akaashi lifts his boulder of a head and looks around the room to gauge his surroundings. Osamu is seated in the chair across from him twiddling away on his phone which makes him want to crawl under the table and hide for a reason he can’t put his finger on. Why is he here? “Smells good in here.”
“You can get yerself a bowl in about thirty minutes,” Osamu says. “It’ll taste better in a couple hours though.”
Akaashi looks towards the stove in surprise. The kitchen is already cleaned up from the small mess he made cooking, and all that’s left is the single simmering pot with steam slipping out from the small space left under the lid.
“You’re done already?”
“Mhm.”
“Oh,” he tries to hide his disappointment. He didn’t mean to sleep through the whole visit. “How long was I out?”
“Not long. Go back to bed.”
“Don’t want to.”
Bokuto sneaks over to the pot and slips the ladle in before bringing it to his lips for a taste. You’ll burn yourself, Akaashi wants to say, but it comes out as a displeased grunt. Bokuto does burn himself, but the yelp is quickly replaced with an excited chirp that gets both of their attentions. “Man, you’re lucky your boyfriend can cook!”
He’s not my–. Akaashi hides his head back in his arms before either one of them can see the look of horror on his face. They’re just friends, and everyone knows that. The difference is their friendship is more recent so they’re not as naturally comfortable around each other yet, but that doesn’t mean anything! And just because he has a little crush on his new friend (which happens to everyone) doesn’t mean Osamu likes him back.
If he survives this plague he’s somehow managed to catch, he’s going to kill Bokuto.
“What do ya mean? I send a whole bag of onigiri home with Keiji every time I see him,” Osamu says innocently, and like an angel, he doesn’t correct him about his status as his just friend who makes him food a lot. Akaashi isn’t sure his withering body could handle the rejection right now.
Akaashi peaks up over his arms, and Bokuto squints suspiciously. “What onigiri?”
Osamu turns back to Akaashi, but Akaashi isn’t able to duck back down in time before he sees him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles. “I’m sick.”
“I’ll just send extra next time,” Osamu says, and Akaashi can hear the smile to his voice. The word angel suits him the most, he thinks. And maybe fool as well for thinking Akaashi won’t eat those too.
He doesn’t fall back asleep this time, but he does continue to rest his head while Osamu and Bokuto talk to each other about any and everything. Osamu is quiet as usual and mostly listens to every word Bokuto says like Akaashi always has, and Bokuto is happy as ever to talk to anyone.
“He’s a lot like ‘tsumu,” he once said.
It should be annoying, the sound of people talking and making too much idle noise while his head pounds angrily, but Akaashi is happy. He’s been cooped up alone in his room for too long, and these happen to be his two favorite people. If he has to die from a terrible disease, at least he’s exactly where he wants to be.
He coughs weakly and shatters the spell. All attention returns back to him, and although he can’t see him, he can feel Bokuto worrying from across the room.
“Oh, yer fever,” Osamu says. “I forgot to ask what it was.”
“Just a low one,” he says softly.
“We’ll get ya some medicine after you eat.”
“Okay.
He doesn’t bother arguing even though he doesn’t think he needs to take anything. Osamu already did this much...
“Is he gonna be okay,” Bokuto asks, his voice trembling like he’s at his hospital room.
“I think so.”
“I’m right here,” Akaashi frowns.
“I can almost hear his voice,” Bokuto whispers sadly.
Akaashi groans, and Osamu laughs.
“Shh, you’ll wake up yer fever.”
He lifts up his head and scowls. “That’s not a thing.”
“It might be.”
Akaashi puts his head back down, effectively giving up. Osamu is a Miya after all. He should know better. He thinks briefly that maybe if he doesn’t argue with him, he and Bokuto will go back to talking, and that’s worth his small concession.
Not long later a small thud lands carefully next to him, and a gentle hand brushes through his hair. He lifts his head up, and Osamu pulls a chair across the floor to sit next to him.
“Wakey, wakey.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Liar,” he drawls. Akaashi sits up and rubs his eyes. Alright, maybe he was a little. “Eat this, you’ll feel better.”
He nods and blinks slowly at the bowl. He knows the motions he has to make, but there’s a delay to his hands, and he thinks maybe this is why it was so easy to just not eat at all.
“Do you want me to feed ya,” Osamu offers, but there’s a small glint to his eye. A dare. Akaashi may be on the edge of pathetic, but he knows mischief when he sees it. “Here comes the airplane.”
Akaashi laughs out a small cough and reaches for his spoon. “Thank you for the soup.”
“Coulda done this days ago and you mighta felt better.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t want to see that.”
“Does it look like I mind?”
He chased a cubed carrot with his spoon, avoiding his eyes. “I guess not.”
“Am I gonna have to make Bokuto put me on speed dial?”
“Speed dial,” he laughs. “Maybe he can just page you instead, grandpa.”
“You know, he didn’t even call me,” Osamu considers, and Akaashi looks at him, confused. “He called ‘tsumu.”
“Why?” Akaashi doesn’t mean to sound so horrified by that, but he can’t imagine why in the world Bokuto’s brain thought that of all the people to call in a crisis, he went with Miya Atsumu.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he smiles faintly. “S’there somethin’ you wanna tell me?”
“No,” he balks. “What?”
“Can’t say I’m not a little jealous.”
Akaashi sputters and drops his spoon before ever getting to take a bite. “No, it’s not like that! I barely know your brother!”
He expects Osamu to not believe him, but he throws his head back and laughs. “I’m just kiddin’. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease ya when ya don’t feel good. Bokuto didn’t have my number so he had ‘tsumu tell me.”
Akaashi frowns and looks back down at his bowl. “Jerk.”
“Are you poutin’?”
“No.”
“I think yer soup’s cooled down enough to eat,” and Akaashi can hear the you know I’m right tone to his voice, and he doesn’t know if he hates him for it or likes him more.
He finally eats, and man does he wish he could taste it. The broth is hot against his tongue, and it stings a little going down, but it might as well be a bowl of hot water for as dead as his taste buds are. It’s nice, though. The heat moves straight to his chest, and although it gives him a nasty cough, it breaks up some of the congestion and he breathes a little easier.
“It’s good,” he manages. “Thank you.”
“You can’t taste it, can ya.”
Akaashi glances at him, not sure if he should lie or not.
“This is Kita’s grandma’s cure-all-soup,” he explains. “Made it for us a couple times during a few bad winters, and it’ll fix anythin’ you got.”
Akaashi hums and nods, and he continues.
“The secret is the broth is half vinegar and half chili oil.”
He coughs and looks at him in shock. “Didn’t Bokuto say it tasted good?”
“Yeah, I think you might need to get him to a doctor once ya get to feelin’ better,” he frowns. “Probably caught whatever you have.”
“Oh my god.”
“You’re gonna be real mad at me in a day or so, though.”
Akaashi looks at his half empty bowl and sighs. “Great.”
“That’s fer lettin’ yerself get this bad.”
“I’m going back to bed.”
Akaashi does not end up going back to bed. Once he’s finished eating, Osamu drops a bag full of different over the counter medicines onto the table and begins to sort through them by symptoms.
“Bokuto didn’t tell me what was wrong with ya, so I got everythin’.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well obviously you weren’t gonna.”
Akaashi frowns. Who is this scolding man? What has he done with his nice and passive Osamu?
“Cough?”
“Mhm.”
“Headache?”
“Yeah.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Chills?”
“Yes.”
“Aches and pain?”
“Yep.”
“Anythin’ else?”
“I think that covers it.”
Osamu grabs one of the boxes and pulls out the bottle inside. He pours out two capsules into his palm and extends his hand for Akaashi to take them. The gesture is firm enough that he doesn’t resist, and maybe he’s a little glad he has something to take as if just the action will cure him of all the garbage going on in his body right now.
He slumps back in his chair and exhales.
“You done?”
“I’m done.”
He isn’t allowed to return to his room yet, and is instead led to the bathroom to wash the sweat and germs off. He doesn’t want to go, but the exhaustion comes back in waves, and his head droops as he walks. If Osamu led him to the edge of the world, he might have let himself walk off.
“Don’t leave,” he mumbles.
He shuts himself in the bathroom, his head still hanging low as he clumsily pulls the clothes off of his body, and the texture is grating against his skin. The hot water from the shower head is just as bad.
He stands under the stream for an unknown amount of time on two stiff legs, and he’s sure the fingers scrubbing away at his scalp are his own even though he feels like his arms still hang as weights to his sides.
This must be the fever fighting back against him. He angered it by taking medicine and drinking soup, and now it attacks him as he showers, and oh does it hurt. He groans quietly through aching muscles and a tightening chest, and somehow he feels worse than he did that morning. He wants to sleep.
The towel isn’t as bad. His skin is too sensitive, but wrapped around him it’s like a shield against the cold air that both comforts him and makes the shivers worse. He doesn’t know what’s best or what’s right. He can’t even lift up his head anymore. He’s glad Osamu can’t see him like this.
The door opens with a knock, and a wad of clothes are handed through the crack. He doesn’t remember getting up to take them, but he somehow manages to get the sweatpants on one leg after the other. This fabric is much better.
The shirt pulled over his head smells clean, and it’s a victory because he can smell. Either Osamu’s soup really did help or the steam from the shower cleared his head enough, but he’s so happy he can cry. He thought he would never feel better again.
When he finally leaves the bathroom, he doesn’t expect for Osamu to still be in his apartment. He doesn’t say much, most likely because Akaashi doesn’t look like he can answer him quite yet, but he does send him off to the living room couch despite all of his protests.
“You trust me, Keiji?”
Akaashi frowns.
“I said I’d make ya feel better right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Why can’t I feel better in bed?”
“‘Cause Dr. ‘samu says so.”
He manages a hmph , but he goes to the couch anyway. He doesn’t like how easy he gives in like this. That’s a weakness that could be used for evil, he thinks. Rob this teller. Why? Because I want you to. He shudders. Osamu isn’t that kind of guy, but he’s still not ready to become an accessory to armed robbery.
He lies down on the sofa and is covered up with a blanket. The TV is left on cartoons, but it doesn’t matter because he’s going to sleep anyway. He closes his eyes because he can’t help it, but again he mutters a soft don’t leave.
He doesn’t hear his answer.
Bits and pieces of Bokuto and Osamu’s conversation works their way into Akaashi’s dreams.
Where do you keep the extra–?
Over here next to the–.
Thanks.
Do you– help?
Just keep– eye.
Okey doke–.
Is the–below?
No, we have–.
Akaashu frowns in his sleep, but he doesn’t stir. The conversation comes in the form of two green aliens in lab coats speaking an unknown language over him. He doesn’t want to be dissected, doesn’t want to be probed. He starts to cry.
The mechanical roar that soon follows doesn’t help.
“Keiji,” the cuter alien says, patting his head.
Akaashi scowls, his eyes still closed. “Abductors can’t use my given name.”
“Okay,” he laughs. “Akaashi, can I sit with you?”
He opens his eyes and looks up to see Osamu bending over him, gently rubbing his head as fondly as ever, and Akaashi isn’t sure if he’s embarrassed because he just called him an alien or if it’s from Osamu not calling him Keiji for once.
He blinks up confused at the request, and Osamu waves him up.
“Move,” he says and tugs at Akaashi’s shoulder. Akaashi sits up just enough for Osamu to take the place of the throw pillow beneath his head.
“I’m going to get your clothes wet.”
“I’ll live,” he says, patting his leg. Akaashi settles back down, and as soon as his head finds his lap, his heart leaps up into his chest. Is he really doing this? Is he really about to rest on Osamu’s leg for the next indeterminable amount of time? As soon as the fingers thread themselves through the damp strands of hair, he gets his answer. “What kinda movie do ya like?”
“Anything,” he says, closing his eyes again. His legs are shoved up closer to his knees, and a familiar weight falls next to his feet.
“He likes serious stuff,” Bokuto says from the opposite end of the couch.
“Makes sense,” Osamu says. “Ah, can you pick, I think he’s out already.”
Akaashi doesn’t tell him otherwise, content to listen and enjoy having his fevered head scratched.
“You guys don’t go on movie dates? I can’t believe it.”
“We haven’t actually–,” he pauses, hand and all. “No, we haven’t.”
He does his best to hold in the wince of shame, but if he fails, Osamu doesn’t seem to notice. He really is going to have to kill Bokuto.
“What do you do then?”
“Food mostly,” Osamu says. “Sometimes we walk around, but I think it’s really just been me draggin’ him to all the restaurants I wanna try.”
“He likes that kind of stuff. Honestly, if you guys ever want the apartment to, uhh, you know order in and hang out, just say the word, and I’m out of here.”
“Thanks,” he laughs softly. “I don’t think ‘tsumu would give us the same consideration.”
Akaashi feels himself warm all over, and he doesn’t think it’s from the fever this time. They’re just talking about the idea of Osamu and him spending time together, but it sounds like he wants to. Or he just doesn’t want to say no, I don’t thank that’s a guhd idear, but thanks fer the awfur because that would just make things twice as awkward for himself.
“Is he asleep,” Bokuto asks carefully.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Uh oh.
“This is probably wrong of me to say, you know, as a lifelong bro, but I’m really glad he has you,” Bokuto says. Akaashi’s heart leaps up into his throat. Oh my god, I’m gonna kill him. “Like, in high school it was just me, which is fine because we were a team, but then in college he just didn’t wanna get close to anyone. Like sure he dated a few people here and there, but whenever they tried to get too serious, he would get all in his head and panic and push them away, and I just… want him to be happy, I guess.”
“I see.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“Sometimes he thinks too much,” Osamu says finally. “But I guess I do too.”
Oh?
“We actually haven’t talked about anythin’,” he laughs faintly like it’s embarrassing for him because of course it is. Akaashi is personally humiliated and extremely sorry. “Like that, I mean.”
“Oh!”
Yeah, jerk, oh.
“Yeah…”
“But you’re here.”
Osamu takes a breath deep enough that it makes Akaashi shift slightly on his lap. “Woulda come sooner, but he didn’t even tell me he was sick so I guess that’s that.”
It’s not like that!
“It’s not like that,” Bokuto says. He takes it back, he’s going to kiss Bokuto. As soon as he’s back to normal, he’s going to leave a big sloppy mouth kiss on his best friend for saying the right thing this time. “He’s like a cat.”
A what.
“You know how cats run off into the woods and hide when they get sick? He does that every time something’s wrong.”
“I see.”
Akaashi is seconds away from finally exposing himself for being awake and speaking up for himself because this is not going in a direction that looks good for him, but then Osamu says something that makes him freeze in place.
“He’ll just have to get used to me bein’ around then, I guess.”
He’s not sure if he’s thankful that the conversation dies off then or not. A part of him wants to hear more, but the other part is too exhausted from trying not to squirm to death. This wasn’t how he wanted to know that Osamu really wanted to be around him and wasn’t just being nice by inviting him out to eat so much, but he’ll take what he can get.
Bless Bokuto for talking too much. Bless Osamu for being an angel. Screw this virus for taking Akaashi out before he ever gets to kiss him.
He falls asleep again while the other two watch the movie, and being sick truly is the worst inconvenience. This is the longest they’ve ever spent together at one time, and he is ruining it by not participating. This might as well just be Osamu and Bokuto friendly bonding time while Akaashi tags along for the ride. He can’t complain, though. The thigh against his cheek is warm, and the hand scratching his head is gentle, and the man taking care of him in these small ways no matter how much he whines smells like fresh laundry and ivory soap.
The movie ends, and Akaashi is roused awake once more. It’s dark outside, and a pang hits for making Osamu stay this late.
“How ya feelin’?”
“Better,” he nods.
He presses the back of his hand against Akaashi’s forehead. “I think yer fever is gone.”
“I can smell again,” he sniffles, and then he coughs from the overzealous display of his breathing capabilities.
“That’s good.”
“You have to go, don’t you.”
“Kinda,” he frowns. “I mean, I do.”
“No, that’s okay, yeah, of course,” Akaashi looks down at his hands. “Thank you for… you know.”
Osamu cranes his neck to look at him. “How much were you awake for?”
“I dunno,” he shifts.
“Hm. Well, I’ll check on you tomorrow, alright?”
Akaashi nods, and Osamu sits up. “Got yer other sheets put on while ya napped. Bokuto said he’d switch ‘em outta the dryer for me when they’re done.”
“My what?” Akaashi stands up and almost tips over as the blood rushes to his head.
“Couldn’t have ya back in yer own filth,” he says. “Not that you were that bad, but it’ll help ya feel better.”
Shocked, Akaashi teeters towards his room to see for himself and finds that not only has his bed been changed and made, his mountain of tissues is gone, and two unopened bottles of water sit waiting for him on the nightstand.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, horrified. He turns back, and Osamu walks towards him from the living room carefully like he’s stepping on glass. “Why?”
He folds his arms across his chest and frowns. “What else was I supposed to do?”
“You came here…”
“Yeah.”
“You made me soup…”
“Mhm.”
“You took my temperature and bought me medicine…”
“Yup.”
“Why,” Akaashi blinks. “Why all of this? My laundry and my tissues? That’s so gross, I’m so sorry.”
This time it’s Osamu who hangs his head. He leans against the doorframe and shrugs. “I dunno. That’s my job, right?”
Akaashi frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of a reality where Osamu is used to cleaning up after people. He doesn’t like being a friend who uses him. Bokuto shouldn’t have called. Akaashi should have just gotten better on his own faster.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “If I was sick, would ya just send a get well soon card and call it a day?”
“... no.”
“Is it wrong that I wanna take care of you?”
Akaashi blinks away a sting in his eyes and shakes his head. “I suppose not.”
“See.”
“Is that what you do then? You come and rescue your sick friends? Or sick dudes you have lunch with sometimes?” It sounds petty coming out of his own mouth. He knows it, they both do. Every inch of his body wants to tell Osamu to leave and to not burden himself with him, but it doesn’t come out.
“Just this one,” he says. Akaashi looks up and waits. “I know I suck with words sometimes, but like… I wanted to be here.”
“Thank you for coming.” I’m sorry you had to see this.
“I woulda been here sooner.”
“I know, you said that, but–.”
“Keiji, I wanna be the person you call when yer sick,” Osamu finally says, almost straining. “I don’t care if ya get a toothache, I wanna know about it. I didn’t hear from ya for a few days so I thought you were busy at first or started talkin’ to someone else and that wasn’t fun, but when I found out why ya didn’t say anything, I was pissed.”
“I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
You.
“How can I stop being anyone to you?”
Akaashi sits down on his bed. His legs gave out, but he doesn’t care. He’s sick, he’s shocked, and he’s stupid. “Why would you want to?”
“I like ya, I guess, I don’t know,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. I didn’t come here for that, I just wanted to–.”
“Okay,” Akaashi swallows. “The next time I get sick, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Good.”
“And if I forget we had this conversation–.”
“I’m sure Bokuto will tell ya all about it.”
“I wasn’t listening,” Bokuto shouts from the other room. “I didn’t hear anything!”
Osamu and Akaashi both make a face between a smile and a wince.
“Congratulations on your relationship!”
Akaashi covers his face with his hands and groans. “I’m so sorry he’s like that.”
“‘Tsumu is the same way,” he says, and the look on his face can only be described as fondness. Akaashi can only pray this isn’t a dream. Osamu looks down and sighs. “It’s kinda late.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Anytime.”
Akaashi packs up all of the different bottles of medicine Osamu bought last week into a bag. He suspects he knows exactly which one he really needs, but it’s better to be prepared, he thinks.
He couldn’t exactly get Kita’a grandmother’s soup recipe himself because she doesn’t know him, but thanks to a certain Miya and Friends groupchat, it’s taken care of by way of Kita himself.
Atsumu texts him the address, and Akaashi boards the train with a wave of regret knowing he sent Osamu home so late when he lived this far away. If it had been any other circumstances, he would have asked him to stay the night strictly to be polite, but he didn’t want to get him sick. So much for that plan.
Almost two hours later he makes it to the apartment Osamu shares with Atsumu who opens the door when he knocks.
“How is he,” Akaashi asks gravely.
“It’s bad,” Atsumu frowns. “I think he might be dyin’.”
Akaashi nods solemnly. Yes, he knows this sickness well. “Thanks for calling me.”
“I’m fine!” A ghastly voice shouts from inside the apartment. Akaashi looks in to see Osamu wrapped up in a blanket with a red swollen nose and all of his hair sticking up in every direction. “Let me die in peace!”
“What kinda fine is that,” Atsumu half yells as a grumpy Osamu stomps off. “Take yer medicine and shut up!”
“Don’t need it!”
“Yer boyfriend brought it special,” he shouts loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Akaashi flushes. He’s not my boyfriend, he wants to say, but that’s not true anymore, is it.
The quick pad of footprints on a bare floor precedes Osamu running back into view. “Who?!”
Excuse me?
“Keiji?” Osamu adds urgently. “Here?!”
“I’m right here,” Akaashi sticks his head in.
“Don’t let him in,” he wails. “I look like shit!”
“He knows, he’s seen ya.”
“No!”
“You can come in,” Atsumu sighs. “My brother is kind of the worst when he’s sick.”
“It’s okay,” he laughs as he slips his shoes off. “I was worse.”
“You two tryna invent some kinda super virus or somethin’?”
He sighs in pain and shakes his head. “I feel awful.”
“No, no, it’s fine, he needed to be brought down a peg.”
“Shut up, ‘tsumu!”
“Quit hidin’, ya coward!”
Akaashi gives Atsumu a polite nod before heading into the apartment to find Osamu who seems to be hiding from him. It’s kind of cute.
“Listen, uhh, I don’t need to tell ya because yer ‘samu’s man and everythin’, but make yerself at home. The apartment’s yers,” Atsumu says as he grabs a pair of keys off the counter.
“Where are you going?”
“Dude, I’m goin’ to yer place,” he says, covering his nose and mouth with his shirt. “Me and Bokuto are lockin’ ourselves in while y’all get over yer little germ fest here.”
“But I’m not sick anymore,” he says, but Atsumu insists on putting as much space between them as he can.
Atsumu opens the door and backs through it quickly to get away. “Yeah, sure yer fine, Patient Zero, yer not gettin’ me sick.”
The door slams, and Akaashi is left alone stunned and speechless. Did he just get kicked out of his own apartment while he’s not even there? Why didn’t Bokuto warn him?
“‘Tsumu,” Osamu groans from the other room. “Did he leave me? Am I that disgusting?”
“No,” Akaashi calls back with a laugh. “I’m still here!”
“No!”