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Leorio awakens a bit past three to the stomach-turning sound of vomiting.
For better or for worse, it’s an absolutely unmistakable sound, and one Leorio is all too familiar with given all his shifts at the hospital. And so, only half-awake and almost tripping over a pair of pants he left on the bedroom floor, he leaps out of bed and dashes to the bathroom. He pays no mind to the time or the ache in his bones for sleep—if someone is ill, he isn’t going to sit idly by.
And there, bathed in the dim, yellow glow of the bathroom light, is Killua, trembling and sweating where he’s curled up in front of the toilet. His forehead is pressed to the tile floor as if desperate for something cool and he breathes slowly and deliberately. His labored exhales sound to Leorio as if he’s doing his utmost to avoid whimpering.
“Killua?” Leorio tries, gently.
Killua jumps, quickly sitting up and turning to face Leorio. He’s pale and glassy-eyed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“Sorry,” he says, voice a bit hoarse. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”
Leorio shrugs.
“Eh, you get used to that sort of thing in medicine. No biggie.”
Killua doesn’t look wholly convinced.
“But more to the point,” Leorio continues. “You look pretty awful. I bet you feel even worse.”
“I’m fine,” Killua says, but with the exact mechanical tone of someone repeating a phrase learned by rote.
“Hmm,” Leorio says, tapping his finger to his chin in mock contemplation, “actually, in my professional medical opinion, I’m going to diagnose you with a severe case of ‘Not Fine.’”
Killua’s head bows and his gaze drifts downward. He looks ashamed, and Leorio is simply not going to stand for that.
“Here, why don’t you rinse your mouth and I’ll help you to the couch and get you comfortable. Does that sound okay?”
“You don’t have to–”
“Nope,” Leorio interrupts. “I am not going to let you finish that sentence. The words 'you don’t have to do that’ are officially banned until further notice.”
Killua merely nods, looking too weak to argue. It’s likely the only reason Leorio’s getting this much compliance from him, but hey, he’ll take what he can get.
After a few shaky tries, Killua manages to get himself off the ground unassisted, rinses his mouth in the sink, and stumbles to the living room. He really does look terrible, trembling and weak, eyebrows scrunched together and face fixed in a frown.
And Leorio’s not stupid. He’s aware of Killua’s upbringing, of the torture masquerading as training and the poisoning and the confinement and the cruelty. He can’t imagine Killua’s intimately familiar with affection and comfort, especially when he’s at his most vulnerable. Which, of course, makes Leorio all the more determined to give him some.
Leorio quickly gathers anything he thinks Killua might need and wobbles into the living room, arms piled high with the softest blanket he owns, a few pillows, an ice pack, a mug of tea, a bottle of pain-killers, and a glass of water.
Killua is curled in a rather pathetic looking ball on the side of the couch, blearily opening his eyes when Leorio comes in before closing them again, as if the effort to hold them open was simply too great. The poor kid looks exhausted, so Leorio sets to work. He surrounds Killua with the pillows, wraps him in the blanket, puts the tea in his hand, sets the water and ice pack within arms reach, and shakes out a few of the pain-killers into his hand.
“Here,” he says, giving them to Killua. “Take these, and drink that. It’s ginger, so it’ll help with the nausea.”
Killua merely nods weakly and does as Leorio says, not even snapping that all of this is ridiculous, and he’s fine, really, and Leorio shouldn’t be making such a fuss. And that, more than anything else, tells Leorio how far gone he truly is.
And so, without a second thought Leorio joins him on the couch, turning on the television and settling in.
“There’s never anything good on this late,” he says, flipping through channels on the remote, “but maybe we could find a game show or something.”
“You’re not going back to bed?” Killua murmurs.
“And leave you alone in the shape you’re in? Not a chance.”
“Leorio, you really don’t–”
“Nope,” Leorio says. “Remember the ban? Hasn’t been lifted yet, so shut it.”
Killua merely nods, unusually docile, and takes a sip of the tea.
Leorio doesn’t have much justification for what he does next beyond Killua looking so very small and so very fragile curled up beside him and the persistent, irrepressible suspicion that no one has ever once taken care of him when he was sick. And, if Leorio’s being honest, that he watched a friend waste away to sickness in front of him once, and he’ll be damned if he lets it happen again. So, against all better judgment, he reaches out, wraps an arm around Killua’s shoulders, and pulls him close to his side.
Killua’s sweaty and hot and stiff as a board in Leorio’s grasp, but he doesn’t pull away immediately, and that’s not nothing.
“What’re you doing?” Killua says, with the tone of someone trying his best to sound indignant and failing at it entirely.
“Nothing,” Leorio says. “Mind your own business and watch some TV, will you?”
After a long moment in which Killua seems to be weighing his options quite carefully, he very slowly leans against Leorio’s side and rests his head on his shoulder, his whole body relaxing and the shaking beginning to subside. And if that’s not a victory, Leorio thinks, giving Killua a squeeze, he isn’t sure what is.