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Mukuro Was going to die.
He was going to waste away on this couch and die and no one would notice. Would anyone come looking for him? Would anyone come to his funeral? He didn’t even have enough energy to start typing out his will on his phone.
“It’s the flu, stop whining.”
Kyouya’s deadpan remark swam in his head. His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. Everything was hot. Where was he again?
Oh, right. Mukuro forced his mind to focus on the plush couch cushions, the weight of the quilt he was buried under, the faint buzzing of the tv.
He smiled thinking of the unimpressed look Kyouya had given him when he discovered his lover’s limp, sweaty form hanging halfway through his bedroom window. Fighting through the vertigo had proven to be too much, and Mukuro had decided that he would wait for Kyouya to come home, instead of trying to pull himself the rest of the way through.
He must have looked even more pathetic than he thought because Kyouya had chosen to hold his tongue instead of the more common verbal evisceration he was used to receiving when Mukuro did something particularly stupid. Instead, Kyouya had dragged him bodily to the bathroom, proceeded to give him what felt like the coldest shower in his life, then bundled him up onto the couch with a gruff “don’t move.”
So here he was, camped out in the living room, surrounded by used tissues and empty teacups. Kyouya was probably right about him overreacting, but since when did the flu lay people out like this? He couldn’t even remember the last time he got sick! There had to be something else going on. Kyouya was finally going to kill him, making good on his constant threats of “biting him to death.” Probably poisoning him with whatever was in that tea he kept forcing Mukuro to drink.
“Kyouuyaaaa, come lay with meeee.”
Maybe if he continued to be as insufferable as possible, Kyouya would eventually give in to his requests, or at least put him out of his misery by smothering him with a pillow.
“I’d rather stay healthy, thanks.”
“Ugh come on. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Mukuro made a feeble attempt at wiggling his eyebrows for Kyouya, who’d finally made eye contact with him from behind the kitchen counter.
“Your body is 90% snot right now, I’ll pass.”
Mukuro groaned.
There was the sound of a burner clicking off, and the clink of silverware against enamel. Mukuro’s eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, but through his swimming vision he watched as Kyouya’s form approached him. Holding a steaming bowl of… something.
“You need to eat.” Kyouya’s low voice was much closer. When did he get so close? The bowl of something was sitting atop the kotatsu. “C’mon, get up.”
A steady hand supported his aching back as Mukuro slowly transitioned into sitting upright. He was now eye level with Kyouya, who was kneeling in front of the couch, observing Mukuro with soft soft eyes.
“I don’t know, Kyouya,” trying to be coy through a coughing fit, “I’m so weak. You might have to hand feed me.” He winked.
“Shut up.” The Cloud’s expression never shifted. He picked up the bowl and held it between them. “It’s not my fault if you choke.” Kyouya took a spoonful of the something and held it in front of him.
Mukuro did his best to school his expression in the following moments. Being spoon-fed something (soup, it was soup) by the Vongola Family’s formidable, elusive Cloud Guardian wasn’t an experience he’d been prepared to cross off his bucket list. It didn’t even seem like a feasible interaction to have on his bucket list.
He lost himself in the floaty feeling of a fever-induced high, and a body now full of hot soup. Mukuro’s world tipped as gentle hands pushed him back down into the couch cushions, Kyouya’s face hovering over him.
“Don’t even fucking think about leaving.” He whispered.
“Why would I?” Mukuro stifled a cough. “The service here is incredible.”
Kyouya rolled his eyes, reaching down and tucking an errant lock of sweaty hair behind Mukuro’s ear. Satisfied with his work, he began to pull away to stand.
“Wait!” Mukuro grabbed a fistful of Kyoua’s yukata, “wait.” He struggled to lift his head as he pulled the Cloud closer.
“No. I’m not kissing you while you’re sick. No fucking way.” He worked to untangle Mukuro’s fingers from his sleeve.
“Kyouyaaaaa!”
“Let go.”
“So mean.” Mukuro pouted as he flopped back against the cushions, eyes glassy.
He observed that Kyouya seemed to have an intense internal argument with himself. Then, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh, gently removed Mukuro’s hand from his yukata and leaned down.
What happened next couldn’t have been real. However upon later recollection Mukuro realized that even his best illusions couldn’t have conjured a moment such as this. He closed his eyes, expecting to feel Kyouya’s lips against his own. Kyouya’s palm against his feverish cheek.
What he got was the soft press of a nose against his own, followed by a series of gentle nudges.
A nuzzle.
Every rational thought left Mukuro’s body.
He snorted, devolving into a fit of giggles at the absurdity of the gesture as Kyouya abruptly stood, face unreadable.
“Well… goodnight.” He mumbled, and turned swiftly on his heels towards the bedroom. The tips of his ears flushed bright crimson.
“Goodnight Kyouya.” Mukuro whispered, still chuckling as he heard the bedroom door slam shut. The tip of his nose burned as traced the path Kyouya’s had made with a careful finger. He committed the moment to memory, replaying it in his mind as his exhaustion forced his body into dormancy.