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Perhaps they’re just a little delirious this time.
It actually feels like Mori’s in a fever dream, sluggish, drowsy, flushed to the point it resembles an irritation on his pale skin. The sight in front of his eyes is just a little blurred and although there’s not really much to see on the ceiling of his bedroom, especially during the night, it causes an unpleasant sensation of vulnerability. And he hates showing vulnerability more than anything.
Shivers run through his body every now and then, but thankfully, there is a powerful source of heat right next to him, cuddled up to his side, his arm lazily embracing the figure. It’s a strange type of intimacy; it diminishes the cold that’s overcoming his senses right now, but it feels normal. Natural, even.
Laying in bed with one of his executives when they both are feverish and delirious should certainly not feel normal or natural. The fact that they’ve both fallen ill at the same time is unnatural enough — Mori isn’t a doctor for nothing. Maybe he doesn’t work in this exact profession, but he certainly knows how to prevent a common cold. He would have taken some medicine and gotten back to work if it wasn’t for Kouyou, exactly as feverous, who dragged him to bed and encouraged to drop a layer of clothing or two on the way.
And there they were now — in his bed, limbs entangled with each other and the sheets too, the man in just his pants and partially unbuttoned shirt and the woman in a plain, white yukata; the feverish heat burning their bodies through the thin pieces of clothing.
Kouyou seems even drowsier than him, she let her hair down earlier and the pinkish-red strands are now sprawled around his white bedding and shirt. Perhaps it’s just his delirious mind making something up, but the sight is really mesmerizing — how her hair stands out from the plain background, how it looks so soft and gleaming, how the shade intermingles with the flush on her face right now. It’s so interesting that he moves his hand a little and touches one of the long wisps near his arm.
“What are you doing?” Kouyou’s voice sounds weak and sleepy, but Mori doesn’t immediately let go of her hair and pretend like nothing happened. He slowly puts the strand down where it had been laying before and pats it gently for it to blend with the others.
Yes, he’s definitely delirious.
“Your hair is nice,” he says, glancing at her as much as he can. Her head is resting on his shoulder, giving the impression of a much bigger height difference than they have in reality, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter after all. They’re not even that close, usually. This night is an exception. “I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Really?” she furrows her brow and lifts her head up a bit, looking down at him. “I’ve heard you compliment it once or twice before. I’m pretty sure.”
They’re engaging in a silly conversation that’s pretty much useless, but it’s justifiable. He can clearly see how unhealthily glossy her eyes are. A great evidence for the delirium.
“Well,” he starts, trying to think of a suitable explanation. “It’s much better when you see it up close. And touch.”
“I don’t like people touching my hair,” Kouyou pouts, but her expression softens after a short moment. “But you’re fine. You can.”
His bemused mind can see the reason for her resentment towards the gesture, but doesn’t question it anymore; at the same appreciating the fact that her permission is a sign of the trust she puts in him.
“We don’t spend much time like this together,” he points out, reaching out for another strand of her hair and toys with it between his fingers for a moment. “Not at all.”
“Right,” she agrees, coming back to her previous position. His shoulder welcomes the burning heat of her skin with gratitude. “Do you enjoy it?”
Mori gives it some more thought. He does, right now, when chills are shaking his whole body. Her touch brings warmth and with warmth right now comes comfort. If he were all by himself right now, he would probably be trembling on the chair in his office or already passed out on the desk. It’s much more pleasant to be laying in bed with someone whom he trusts — and the feeling is mutual.
“Yes,” he nods. “Very much.”
A new, small wave of warmth hits his chest. Kouyou chuckles at his answer.
“I enjoy spending time with you in general,” he continues before she can break in. “Not just like that. In every way.”
The words are escaping his mouth by themselves, without much thought. The fever is now evident; normally, he’d never let such a thing happen or allow such an image of him to be seen by anyone.
“I do too,” Kouyou responds quietly. “Talking with you. Having tea with you. Going on undercover missions with you. Now I finally got you to rest.”
“You’re exaggerating. I rest a lot.”
“You don’t.” Kouyou rolls her eyes at his protest. “I don’t know how many times I’ve walked on you asleep with your head on your desk. It’s about time to do it properly, don’t you think?”
A memory flashes in front of his eyes. Every time he accidentally fell asleep while working, in the morning, there was a soft, red blanket on his shoulders or on the ground. He never questioned the strange occurrence much — most of the nights when it did happen were too short to remember the details.
“The blankets. That was you?”
“Me,” she nods. “Someone needs to take care of our unreliable boss.”
Mori wants to say something, but the voice stops in his throat. He’s definitely delirious, but the urge to change their position and face is strong; if it wasn’t for the current weight of his limbs, he would definitely do that.
It seems like there’s something behind Kouyou’s intentions. It can’t be a simple gesture of kindness, and maybe it’s just because of his feverish state, but he can’t form a coherent thought. He wants to turn around, touch her hair, her skin, even if the smallest touch burns and look into her gleaming eyes like they have everything he needs in this world, but maybe it’s just the delirium.
“How much time will it take for us to get over the fever?” Kouyou asks innocently, like she hasn’t just provoked a stream of thoughts that caused a significant migraine for him.
“Depends,” he says indifferently. “Does your throat hurt?”
“Not much. Just the fever.”
“Mine does. In case it’s contagious, you should probably move to another room.”
He informs her about it almost automatically, as if he were giving a diagnosis to a patient, but unexpectedly, Kouyou lifts her upper body again and rests her palm on his cheek.
Their lips touch. They’re significantly warm and chapped, which seems unnatural, fake, even, a reminder of the fever, the one barrier between them. Mori isn’t sure whether Kouyou kisses him because of the sudden urge caused by the sickness or she has another, unknown motive, but he leans into the kiss as much as he can.
Soon they pull away from each other; Kouyou gives him an unintelligible glance before laying her head back on his shoulder and closing her eyes.