Chapter Text
Ren and Akechi never got sick. It was a point of pride. During flu season, they wore masks in public; washed their hands before they ate; ate all the citrus they could find. Akechi carried a bottle of hand sanitizer everywhere and used it as sparingly as possible, well aware of the looming threat of antimicrobial resistance. When their friends complained of runny noses, they shared secret smirks.
So it was several years into their relationship before Akechi saw Ren ill. It came on quickly: Ren woke up one morning wincing whenever he swallowed, and Akechi made him open his mouth to reveal the redness in his throat. But Ren refused to stay home. He’d wear his mask, he’d drink lots of orange juice, it wasn’t that bad, he’d be fine. Okay, Akechi had said. Okay, Morgana had said, slit-eyed.
Akechi usually got home before Ren. But when Akechi walked in that night, Ren was curled up on the couch under a blanket, red-nosed and shivering. Morgana, perched on Ren’s hip, whirled around.
“They sent him home,” Morgana said, running over to Akechi. “I tried to get him to text you, but he wouldn’t—I think he’s warm but I can’t tell—”
“Ren,” Akechi said. He had the presence of mind to close and lock their door behind him, but that was all: he vaulted across the apartment still bundled in his winter things. His scarf almost smacked Ren’s face when he knelt beside the couch. “Are you all right?”
“S’just a cold,” Ren mumbled. His voice was raw and hoarse. “A really shitty cold. M’okay.”
Cold fingers closed around Akechi’s guts.
“Why are you on the couch?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He pressed the back of his hand to Ren’s forehead and flinched: it was like a hissing kettle. “You should be in bed.”
“I wanted a nap.” Ren rubbed his nose on his blanket. It left a decidedly unpleasant smear. “Didn’t realize how long it’d been.”
“Have you eaten anything? Drank anything?”
Ren scrunched up his face. “Uh-uh.”
Akechi took a breath, let it out, sat on his bottom. Pulled out his phone. “Describe your symptoms.”
“I told you, it’s a cold.”
“No it’s not,” Morgana said, at Akechi’s elbow. His eyes were wide and glossy, his tail swishing. “Nothing’s ever knocked you out like this.”
“S’been a while,” Ren rasped. “M’probably due.”
“Your symptoms,” Akechi said, toggling to WebDoc. “Now.”
Ren groaned. “Don’t look it up. The internet always thinks I’m dying.”
“Ren,” Akechi said. It was easier to look at his screen, rather than at Ren; to seize the anxious energy skipping through him and channel it into action. “Please.”
Ren tried to sigh through his nose and blew a snot bubble. “Ew. Sorry. Uh...obviously my nose is stuffy.” Nodding, Akechi tapped that symptom. “I’m coughing. My head hurts. I feel hot and cold at the same time. I guess I have a fever? And my throat is sore.”
“Any nausea?”
Ren hummed. “I mean, when you mentioned food I wanted to hurl, so...”
Akechi clucked his tongue. “Your color is poor.”
“Well thanks.”
“I just mean you look pale. You feel—” Akechi touched Ren’s forehead again. “Yes, quite warm. I wish we owned a thermometer, I keep meaning to get one. Can you breathe? Any shortness of breath?”
Ren inhaled carefully. “Nope.”
“Anything else?”
“Uh-uh.”
Akechi tapped Submit. A blue circle began to spin in the center of the screen. Akechi held his breath; Ren sniffled; Morgana peered at Akechi’s phone, ears twitching.
Finally, results. At the top of the list were flu and the common cold. Akechi relaxed, but then continued down the list: pneumonia. Bronchitis. Sinusitis. Coronavirus. Brain cancer.
“What’s the verdict?” Ren croaked.
Akechi looked up. Ren blinked at him through eyes ringed with shadows. Akechi’s chest tightened.
“Flu,” he managed. “Or a cold.”
“That’s not all it says!” Morgana cried. “What about the other stuff?”
Ren opened his mouth, rattled, buried his face in his blanket to cough. It went on for so long that Akechi’s tongue went dry; it racked Ren’s shoulders and tightened his neck. Akechi had only just realized he should rub Ren’s back or something when Ren finally subsided, wheezing.
“The internet always thinks it’s cancer, Morgana,” he said, sniffing mightily. “I bet it’s the flu. It feels like the flu.”
“Bed,” Akechi said, setting down his phone, getting up. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“I don’t wanna move.”
“Maybe not, but you’ll be more comfortable in bed. Come on.”
Ren whined into the blanket, but Akechi bent, hooked his arm under Ren’s shoulder, forced him to sit up.
“Ooh,” Ren said, smiling, sticking out his feet. “Are you gonna carry me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Akechi said. “You can walk.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Ren, for pity’s sake.”
“I’m siiiiick,” Ren said, flopping his head sideways for effect. “Carry me.”
Akechi’s brain was whirring so loud that he could barely think, let alone muster an argument. He crouched, slung one of Ren’s arms around his shoulders, locked each of his own under Ren’s waist and knees, and lifted. Adrenaline helped. Ren was only slightly bigger than Akechi, but he was a solid weight, especially now, draped catlike against Akechi’s chest.
Akechi huffed, adjusted his grip. Ren nuzzled his face into Akechi’s neck, his damp nose cold even as his cheeks seared Akechi’s skin. Akechi’s stomach flip-flopped.
“Off we go,” Akechi grunted.
They reached the bedroom and the bed without incident, Morgana hot on Akechi’s heels. Several muscles in Akechi’s shoulders screamed when he crouched to lay Ren down, but he ignored them. Ren gave him another sloppy smile that intensified the ice clustering behind his sternum.
“Get some sleep,” Akechi ordered, tugging the sheets over Ren. “Are you comfortable? Do you need another blanket?”
“I’m okay,” Ren said. “Stay with me?”
Akechi’s throat clenched. “I’ll be back. I want to find something for you to eat. Broth, at least, to sip. Just rest. All right?”
For the first time that night, Ren’s eyes narrowed.
“Hey,” he said quietly, searching Akechi’s face. “You know everything’s okay, right? It’s just the flu.”
“Of course,” Akechi said. He patted Ren’s shoulder, pulled away before Ren could reach for his hand. “Of course it is. You’re right.”
Morgana muttered something.
Ren sighed, snuggled deeper into the mattress. “Okay, well. Hurry back.”
“I will.”
Akechi should have kissed his forehead, adjusted his blankets, but the whine in his head had abruptly risen to a screech and he couldn’t stand it anymore. He practically dashed out of the room, almost shut the door on Morgana scurrying behind him, found himself in the living room before he knew what had happened.
He stood there, one fist against his chest and the other in his hair, and breathed. In, out, fwoo. In, out, fwoo. In, two, three, four, out—
“What if he’s really, really sick?” Morgana said.
Akechi looked down. Morgana danced from one paw to the other. He didn’t have the right anatomy to bite his lip, but he probably would have if he could.
“It’s the flu,” Akechi said. He sounded far away. “He’s right. It’s just the flu.”
“But what if it isn’t?” Morgana insisted. “How do we know if he needs to go to a doctor? What do we do?”
“Fever,” Akechi said. “If his fever spikes—”
“We don’t have a thermometer! You said so!”
“I could go and get one.” But the thought of leaving Ren here, alone, even with Morgana—if something happened—
“And what about food? Do you know how to make soup?”
“It’s not difficult. I can figure it out.”
“But is that what he really needs? What if it makes him throw up? He could get dehydrated!”
Rationally, Akechi knew he could find all of these answers online. Surely somewhere there were sane, reasonable people who would explain what to do for a flu, thermometer or no thermometer. But all he could think of was how grey Ren had looked, how weak, how the last time he’d seen someone curled up in bed like that they’d—
“You should call someone,” Morgana said. “Takemi! I bet she’d know what to do!”
“She’ll think I’m ridiculous,” Akechi countered, but the gears in his brain were turning, creaking with rust.
“Who cares? If it means Ren’s taken care of—”
“All right, all right,” Akechi snapped, casting about. “Where’s my phone?”
“Do you have her number?”
Fair point. “Where’s Ren’s phone?”
It was on the side table, facedown. Akechi unlocked it (the passcode was 0602), tapped Ren’s contacts, scrolled—
And paused, thumb hovering over the screen.
Before he could think better of it, he pushed Call and put the phone to his ear.
“Kid?” said Sojiro Sakura’s voice. “What’s up?”
“Sojiro-san,” Akechi said. Morgana’s jaw dropped. “It’s Akechi.”
A pause. “Akechi? Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Akechi said. “No. I think so. Ren is ill.”
“What?” Sojiro said, with a definite edge. “How bad? Are you at the hospital?”
“No! No. Not yet.” Akechi dragged his hand through his hair, left it standing on end: he was still wearing his gloves. “Not that I think he needs to go, but—”
Sojiro caught his breath. “Okay, kid, calm down. Take a second.”
There wasn’t time for that, Ren was sick, he was cold and shivering and small and if Akechi didn’t do something now he would—
“Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
That, Akechi could do. He felt like he was floating by the ceiling, watching his own mouth move, hearing his voice distantly describe the symptoms.
“Have you taken his temperature?” Sojiro asked.
“No,” Akechi said. “We don’t have a thermometer.”
Sojiro coughed. “How’ve the two of you gotten this far without a thermometer?”
“We don’t get sick,” Akechi retorted. “At least, not typically. I could go and get one, but I don’t want to leave him alone—”
“Okay, okay,” Sojiro said. “How about his breathing? It seem like he’s having trouble?”
“No. He keeps coughing, but he says he can breathe fine.”
“That’s good. When’d he eat last?”
Akechi looked at Morgana, remembered Morgana couldn’t hear the conversation, and said, “Has he eaten today?”
“Not since this morning,” Morgana replied, wide-eyed.
“He hasn’t had anything since this morning.”
Sojiro sighed. “Okay. Gimme a few minutes and I’ll come over there.”
“What? No, you don’t have to—”
“I’ll bring some soup and stuff. And a thermometer.”
“Sojiro, truly, you don’t have—”
“A few minutes,” Sojiro said. “Okay?”
And he hung up before Akechi could answer.
Akechi lowered the phone, stared at it. Morgana goggled at him.
“What’s happening?” the cat demanded. “Hey!”
Presently the phone locked itself, and Akechi flinched. Ren’s lockscreen was a picture of him, at Leblanc, elbows resting on the bar and head slightly bowed over an open book. To Akechi, there was nothing significant about it; he’d probably sat like that a thousand times; but Ren clearly treasured it.
Morgana was still squawking when Akechi piloted himself back to the edge of their bed, touching first Ren’s neck and then his side. Ren’s eyes were closed, his mouth open, snoring in time with the gentle rise and fall of his ribs.
Akechi was going absolutely insane.
“Akechi?”
He spun around. Morgana stood in the doorway, ears low.
“Are you okay?” he mewed.
Akechi couldn’t speak. Ren’s heart beat steadily under his palm.
“I didn’t know you were so freaked out,” Morgana said, padding across the room. He rested his paw on Akechi’s knee. “It’s gonna be okay, y’know?”
“I don’t know what I’d do,” Akechi said. “Without him.”
“Me neither.” Morgana blinked hard, shook his head. “But he’s not dying. Right? It’s just the flu.”
“Right,” Akechi said. Every time he said it, he believed it a little more, despite the vise steadily tightening around his chest. “Perfectly ordinary. ...Sojiro’s coming over. He said he’ll bring soup.”
Morgana brightened. “Oh, cool! That’s good! He’ll know what to do!”
“Yes,” Akechi replied. “Yes, he will.”
And so he did. Sojiro appeared at the door with a container of soup and a bulging tote bag. Inside was a box of stock cubes; a fresh package of miso; and assorted mix-ins, including tofu, green onions, and soft-boiled eggs. Plus, yes, a thermometer.
“You probably have most of this already,” Sojiro told Akechi, hefting the bag onto the counter. “Can’t hurt to have more, though. I made enough for tonight, but after that you’ll have to do it yourself. You know how?”
“I’ve never done it before,” Akechi admitted. “But I’m certain I can work it out.”
Grunting, Sojiro took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. Akechi opened it carefully, because it was yellow and wrinkled and the crease in the middle seemed flimsy at best. Long-faded ink described—
“That’s my recipe,” Sojiro said, scratching the back of his head. “It’s pretty easy. Start with the broth and some onions for now, see how he keeps that down. I wouldn’t add any protein—that’s the tofu and egg—until tomorrow. You don’t want to upset his stomach.”
“Wow,” Morgana breathed, gazing up at Akechi. “Even Ren doesn’t know Sojiro’s miso recipe.”
“Sojiro,” Akechi said. His throat was tight. “This is—unbelievably kind.”
Sojiro shrugged. “Yeah, well, I remember what it’s like. First time Futaba got sick, I freaked. I had to figure it out on my own. I didn’t want you to go through that too.”
Akechi stared at him, unable to speak.
“Right,” Sojiro said, rubbing his hands together. “Where’s the patient?”
Ren was still asleep, whistling through his nose. Akechi’s heart compressed at the sight of him. Sojiro rapped him smartly on the head with the thermometer.
Ren jerked awake. “Hlugh?”
“I hear you’re sick,” Sojiro said. “What’d you do, lick a lamppost?”
Ren squinted. “Sojiro?”
“Yeah. Open your mouth.”
“...why?”
“I’m gonna take your temperature.”
Ren considered him for a moment, still squinting, and then did as he was told. Sojiro popped the thermometer under his tongue.
“Give that a minute to think,” he said, and set about doing everything Akechi had already done: feeling Ren’s forehead, peering at his face, even touching his side to check his breathing. Ren submitted to it, either too tired or too confused to resist.
Finally the thermometer beeped, and Sojiro checked it. “Yep,” he said. “Mild fever. Nothing scary.”
Akechi was flooded with warmth. Morgana heaved a sigh.
“What’re you doing here?” Ren croaked.
“Akechi called me,” Sojiro said. Ren blinked, lifted his head, looked at Akechi over Sojiro’s shoulder. “But he’s got you covered. I brought over soup and fixins for him to make you more. You’re in good hands.”
“Course I am,” Ren said, holding Akechi’s gaze. “I never doubted.”
Akechi hadn’t realized how hard he was clenching his jaw until he wasn’t anymore. He felt like jelly, like he’d spent the evening bouldering and was only now settling into a hot bath. He also felt like he couldn’t look at Ren without doing something he’d regret.
“I’ll go and heat up some broth,” he said, and left.
Sojiro found him a few minutes later, watching the broth steam in the saucepan.
“Not too hot,” Sojiro warned. “If you boil it, it’ll lose the miso flavor.”
“Understood,” Akechi said. Paused. “Sojiro—thank you. This was...I’m very grateful.”
“Hey, I was worried about him too,” Sojiro said. “Stupid kid. He takes better care of himself now that he’s got you, but. Well. I’m glad he’s got you.”
Akechi ducked his head to hide the heat creeping into his face. “Thank you.”
Sojiro reached out, hesitated. Tapped Akechi’s shoulder with his fist.
“Right,” Sojiro said, clearing his throat. “I’m gonna go. If you need anything, call me. But you got this.”
“I think you’re right,” Akechi said. “I really do.”
***
Ren was sitting up in bed, Morgana purring in his lap, when Akechi returned with a steaming bowl and a box of tissues. The latter he set on the nightstand; the former he gave to Ren, who lifted it and inhaled as best he could.
“God, this is the worst part,” he complained. “I can’t even smell it.”
“You’re not supposed to smell it,” Akechi said, climbing in beside him. “You’re supposed to sip it.”
“Smell’s half the fun,” Ren said, but sipped. “Mmmm. That’s good. Why is everything Sojiro makes so good?”
“He’s a professional,” Akechi said.
“Yeah, but it’s not even fair.” Another sip, longer and deeper. “He should at least share some of his secrets.”
Akechi hummed. “Perhaps he will someday.”
“He already did,” Morgana said. “He gave Akechi his recipe.”
Ren rounded on Akechi. “He what?”
“He may have,” said Akechi mildly. “I didn’t really look at it.”
“Goro.”
“Drink your soup.”
“Goro you have to show it to me. I have to know.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps, if you’re feeling better.”
“Why are you torturing me?” Ren asked, thumping his head against the headboard. “I’m sick! I’m suffering!”
Akechi laughed. “You’re fine.”
Ren sighed theatrically, looked at his bowl, drank some more broth.
Akechi scritched Morgana’s ears, rested his hand on Ren’s leg, squeezed it. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said quietly. “Very glad.”
Ren smiled at him, sniffed. “Don’t make me kiss you. I don’t want you getting sick, too.”
“It’s far too late for that. Flu has an asymptomatic incubation period.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’d better have some soup too, then.”
“I will,” Akechi said. “Once you’re finished.”
“Hurry up, you’re saying.”
“In so many words.”
Ren laughed, rested his head on Akechi’s shoulder, closed his eyes. He was still uncomfortably warm, a firebrand all along Akechi’s side, and Akechi could hear his breath catching in his raw throat. But he was eating, he was sitting up, and he was smiling, and that was enough. He was going to be okay.
And so he was.