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If Akechi Goro were to choose one word to describe how he felt when he woke up that morning, it would be shit. It feels as though a hammer is repeatedly slamming into the back of his head, his skin is disgustingly clammy, his muscles ache and everything is far too hot.
But he isn’t sick, though. Can’t be sick. He doesn’t get sick. A cough, maybe once or twice every few years, but never anything more. This isn’t sickness, he tells himself, pushing through a quick workout and too-hot shower.
It isn’t. He’ll be fine.
Goro doesn’t eat breakfast that morning, blaming it on the time and definitely not the fact that the thought of eating anything makes his stomach flip.
And he’s waiting for the train at the Kichijoji Station right now, ignoring how the room is spinning in large, blurry circles and how his legs feel ready to give out. He’s fine. It’s just a…whatever. It’ll pass, and he’s behind schedule, so—
“You look like shit.”
The room may be twisting into odd shapes and there may be a loud blur of sounds coming from all around, but Goro would recognise his boyfriend’s rich, pleasant voice anywhere.
He turns to where he thinks the voice is coming from, and sure enough—past the blur of the crowds—Akira’s there, wearing the typical blazer and jeans. He looks fine. Well enough to comment on Goro’s perhaps unruly appearance.
A sudden thought occurs to Goro. Shouldn’t he be at school? Or is it Sunday already? Akira’s figure proceeds to meld into something black and white and—ugh. His head hurts like hell.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. Goro struggles to catch the words over the rush of other noises. “—you alright?” Akira is asking, heavy concern evident.
“I’m fine.” But his voice comes out definitely not fine. Weak, and he’s unable to switch into his usual harsher tone. If Akira can notice stupid things like his dominant hand then he most definitely noticed that—
Goro starts coughing—too suddenly—and fuck, no, he’s not sick. It’s just a— He stops coughing, and stumbles, and he thinks his legs might give out now.
Someone—Akira—grabs his chin, tilting his face. Akira’s hands are so, so cold. Like the good cold, because everything was too hot before.
Akira’s dark grey eyes widen. Maybe. The room is spinning and he’s all but become another swirl.
“You’re burning up,” Akira says.
Goro tries to turn away or say something, but words, his mouth, his body is failing him.
“I’m taking you back to the apartment,” Akira states. Loud, it’s too loud. Akira’s body is so much colder. Goro’s too tired to argue any further.
It will be fine. One nap, then he’ll wake up, and go about his regular routine. He doesn’t need Akira’s help either, he can send him back on whatever excursion he was occupied with before. Goro’s fine.
—
Regardless of how many times Goro says he’s fine, there is no way in hell Akira is going to listen. He can’t even say the word fine without slurring or tripping over it.
Akira was on his way to meet Sumire when he found Goro at the Kichijoji train station—shivering violently, as though it were fifty degrees below zero and he wasn’t wearing any clothes. But he was dressed in his usual outfit of a sweater vest and shirt. Though, the sweater vest was inside out.
Aside from instantly knowing something was wrong by the way he was slouching—worse than Akira’s own horrid posture, if he’s being entirely honest—Goro’s face was pale and his eyes were jumping all over the place.
Far from “fine.” And Akira isn’t changing his opinion on matters.
Goro’s trying to scramble away from Akira now, trying to act as if he didn’t just completely fail to take off his shoes (Akira had to help him). Goro attempts to glare. And fails. It’s cute, actually.
“I don’t think it’s bad enough—” Goro starts, but he breaks the sentence with a cough. Point proven again.
Akira shakes his head, gripping Goro’s shoulders. “You’re getting to bed. You need rest.”
He’s pretty sure Goro tries to sigh—but the sickness takes over him again and he nearly falls to the floor coughing.
Akira helps him up—careful not to put too much pressure on any body part—and guides him to the bedroom. Luckily for them, the apartment isn’t terribly large. The bedroom is the first door down the hall—marked with a caution sign. Futaba hung it there last time she was over. It seems Goro couldn’t be bothered to take it down.
The interior of his room is still rather bland. Akira makes note to buy some posters or figurines for him later.
Goro all but falls onto the bed, face plagued with discomfort and pain. (Yeah, he’s not leaving here anytime soon.) Akira tries to help him get comfortable, ignoring the various, incomprehensible complaints. Goro’s words are far too slurred now to make any sense.
And after a moment, there’s silence.
Akira gets to work.
The first task is to get a glass of water and a cloth—his temperature is ridiculously hot.
He stops by the bathroom to rummage through the cabinet for a thermometer. There is none, and there’s no medicine either. Merely the bare necessities: painkillers and gauze.
Is this how Goro bandaged himself up after battling Shadows?
Akira doesn’t linger on the thought or by the cabinet long, opting to text Sumire. He hasn’t cancelled their plans yet—and she might be able to get what he needs.
(May 21st, 11:17)
akira: v sry, but i have to bail. goro’s sick
sumi<3: Oh! It’s ok—please tell him I hope he feels better soon.
akira: actually, would you mind doing me a favour?
sumi<3: Of course not! What do you need?
akira: ibuprofen and aspirin
akira: oh and a thermometer
sumi<3: I can drop it off in half an hour or so! :)
akira: thx <33
God bless her. Akira shoves his phone back into his pocket and saunters out into the kitchen.
The next tasks are easy though—Goro has one of those fridges with a water dispenser, there’s a suitable bowl sitting on the counter, and the drawer full of washcloths and towels was left half-open. He fills a glass and the bowl with ice water.
The apartment is so quiet. Akira hums quietly as he goes along. Goro doesn’t spend much time here, he supposes. And he only switched apartments…five-ish months ago. Switching from the one he had when he worked with Shido.
Akira balances the towel on his arms, holding the bowl in one hand and the glass in the other. He pushes the door open with his foot.
“What are you doing?”
Goro’s bracing himself against the bedroom wall, panting. And he’s shirtless. But more importantly, he’s out of bed.
Goro tries to look over at him. Then winces noticeably. Instead, still bracing himself, he says, “I’m trying to get—” a cough “—changed.” He tumbles forward—there's a shirt on the floor.
Akira sighs, and moves to set the bowl and water on the nightstand next to the bed. Then he whirls.
“You could ask for help, y’know.”
Goro has somehow managed to get the shirt on. Akira wonders how he did it. Probably the same way he managed to get to Kichijoji Station. Willpower. He sighs again.
Goro starts, “I don’t need…” But he never finishes the sentence, crumbling back onto the bed. He’s holding a hand to his forehead and squinting, as if everything’s too much.
“Move your hand,” Akira demands.
Goro obliges reluctantly.
So Akira leans forward, pressing his lips to Goro’s forehead. He grimaces when he pulls back. Still hot. Too hot.
He dunks the cloth in ice water.
—
Goro wakes up feeling fifty times worse than he did before he slept, as though whatever he caught decided to ingrain itself deeper into his body. He’s accepted the fact that he must be at least somewhat sick. Curse being made of organisms that give life to viruses.
He turns his head to the side and is met with Akira’s comforting figure. He’s sitting on a chair and reading a book. Goro’s desk chair, wooden, and terribly uncomfortable. He could’ve just sat in the other room. At least there’s more comfortable seating there.
Akira looks up, closing the book and reaching for something out of view. Goro tries to sit up, but fails. His muscles are too stiff.
Akira helps him up instead, without a word. Then forces him to drink water. Well, not forced, per se—he was thirsty anyway. But he can’t say he isn't reluctant to be treated like this.
Goro collapses back against the pillow, another wave of blistering heat. He may not be wearing the sweater vest anymore, but he’s still just as warm. But a cool cloth is pressed to his forehead a moment later, subduing the heat a little.
Even barely able to keep his eyes on the ceiling, he can sense Akira still watching him. It’s proven when Akira asks, “Why didn’t you say you weren’t feeling well?”
Goro ponders not responding. It will probably hurt—given his dry throat and ongoing pain everywhere. But he starts anyway, voice raspy, “You…I didn’t think…” He stops.
I didn’t want you to know.
He shouldn’t even be sick. Hell, Akira has so many other things he could be doing—whatever he’d been doing in Kichijoji, for example. They hadn’t made plans today, so he must’ve had plans with Sumire. And if Akira catches whatever he has—
Akira seems to figure out his train of thought, because he huffs in an annoyed way and grabs one of Goro’s hands.
Akira’s hands are still perfectly cold, a relief from the heat. His boyfriend rubs circles on the back of it with his thumb. Goro tries to focus on that rather than the hundreds of awful sensations crawling about his body.
A shiver runs down his spine.
Fuck, he’s so pathetic.
“Sumi brought some medicine a while ago,” Akira says, holding up a bottle. “If you want to feel better—”
“I know what medicine does, Kurusu.”
Alright, the words sound childish when he says them like that. He sighs and nods at the bottle. Only because Akira’s offering.
It’s a spoonful of some liquid. Goro resists the urge to scrunch up his nose, and swallows it unceremoniously.
Another shiver sprints down his spine as he lies back down with a particular grimace. “It tastes like shit.”
“I should hope not.”
“You know what I mean.” Goro winces, feeling the beginning of another headache.
He’s definitely not fine. Fuck sickness. Viruses.
The room is spinning again. Looks like the medicine is shit.
Great.
—
“I’m fine.”
Akira sends him a disbelieving look. He most likely knows full well just how fine Goro truly is. No better than six hours ago.
“I can use the bathroom unsupervised,” Goro says. If he could’ve, he would’ve rolled his eyes. But that would most likely end up with the rest of his body rolling as well.
“I have no doubt,” Akira says, “but I’m saying that you should’ve at least told me!” Akira raises his hands in evident exasperation. “What if something happened?”
“The bathroom is barely seven metres away—I’d be fine. I am fine.” He’s still standing, after all. But that’s about as far as his good health goes. His muscles beg to be rested again.
No, if he holds out a little longer—
Akira says, holding Goro’s stare. “The only way you’re going to get any better is if you stay in bed.”
“I’ve fought sickness by myself before, Kurusu.”
“You’re not by yourself anymore, Akechi.” A sharp intake of breath. “So suck it up, and lie down.”
He doesn’t want to comply, but his body disobeys him. He's left falling back against the bed and staring at the white ceiling again. Akira moves to do something. Who knows what.
And Akira comes back a minute later, interrupting Goro’s counting of ugly white sheep. (Yes, he’s resorted to such insanity now.) He reaches the threshold of seventy-two when he hears the rustling of pages. A book.
“What are—"
Akira shushes him. “I’m reading. You’re mad about not being able to do anything productive. At least this gives you something to do.”
Goro doesn’t say anything else, merely burying himself deeper into the bed. Akira takes his silence as a means to start.
“ ‘As we have seen, this indistinct white band has been variously described as a river, as the residue of a flow of milk, and so forth. Who knows what it really—’ ”
“Is this Night on the Galactic—”
“Yes. Now shut up.”
Goro huffs, but says no more as Akira continues. He likes his voice anyway. It’s almost like a drug. He could listen to him read forever…
—
Goro doesn’t know when the shift from being unbearably hot to unbearably cold happened, but it happened, and now he’s been shivering for so long it’s almost painful.
He only woke up five minutes ago, but he was shivering long before that—dreams plagued with frost and bitter winds. His muscles are still so sore, a problem that has only seemed to worsen with the constant shaking. Even under multiple blankets, blankets that Akira seems to have piled on him, he’s absolutely freezing.
Goro tries different ways to keep himself warm—rubbing his arms up and down his arms, moving—all of them prove fruitless. So instead, he curls himself into a tight ball.
But the shivering still doesn’t stop.
Goro hears movement—probably Akira—and then there are cool fingers pressed to his forehead. Too cold. He may have savoured that coolness yesterday morning, but it's far too cold now, sending a violent wave of shivers down his spine. He groans, opening his mouth to complain when—
Akira slides into the bed beside him. Or at least Goro’s tired, cold inflicted mind thinks he does.
Yeah, he definitely does. Arms wrap around his waist, pulling him into Akira’s chest. Confident hands rub circles on his back—like he did hours ago with Goro’s hand. Akira’s warm, though—not cold, despite his hand’s impression.
Slowly, the shivering stops.
“Is this helping?” Akira asks, his voice a mere whisper.
Goro nods, too tired to actually say anything. Hopefully Akira senses the gesture.
His muscles relax, and he takes a breath.
The world dissolves into a mist of warmth and ebony-haired pretty boys.
—
Akira hands him a cup of chamomile tea; the only option in the sad, empty pantry. Akira tries to stock it for him every few weeks, but Goro spends most of his time there anyway. Goro accepts the tea with a grateful nod.
He’s moved from the bed to the couch today. Managed to wash himself this morning with minimal help. He isn’t leaning too much on one specific temperature today, not too cold or too hot.
Akira sits down beside him. An old episode of Feathermen drones on in the background.
“Thank you,” Goro says, after a moment.
Akira sets his mug on the coffee table. Then flashes him a grin and leans forward to kiss his nose. “No problem—I’m happy to help, Goro.”
Goro rolls his eyes half-heartedly at the display of affection. “Even so, there’s no doubt I wasn’t easy to deal with.”
“Is that self-awareness I hear talking?”
“No.”
Akira snorts. “Glad to see you’re back to normal.”
“Whatever.”
His boyfriend leans forward again though, this time to kiss his cheek. “You’re not a burden. And I’ll tell you however many times it takes you to believe it.”