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The only inkling Tooru gets that tells him that something is off with Tobio, happens at eight forty sharp—right when he’s about to leave for work.
“Tobio-chan,” he calls, grabbing his keys from the hook near the door. When his partner’s footsteps fail to sound across the hardwood floors, he frowns.
Louder this time?
“Tobio-chan! I’m about to leave.”
Still nothing.
Tooru sets his bag down on the chair in the living room— the designated chair that they keep stacking shit on and forgetting to clean— and makes sure the pile of newspapers, magazines, miscellaneous spam mail, and administrative letters does not come toppling down from the weight of his backpack.
He briskly walks down the hall, catching a glimpse of the bathroom door— still open— and furrows his brow when he realizes the light is off.
Which means…
“Tobio-chan, are you still asleep?”
He asks this, even though he already knows the answer.
The lumpy cocoon of blankets swaddled on top of their bed doesn’t even stir—in fact, it’s almost entirely still, save for the slow rising and falling of Tobio’s chest buried somewhere under the mess of warmth and fabric.
So much for a goodbye kiss, Tooru sighs to himself, and reaches over to turn on the fan. He points it toward the bed, satisfied when he sees the little fibers of the soft, furry blanket blowing in the opposite direction.
“I’m off,” he whispers, before starting back down the hall, through the living room, and out the door.
It’s a bit odd that Tobio’s sleeping in today. Tooru knows the Adlers have afternoon practice, but Tobio typically rises early regardless of his schedule. When Tooru’s leaving for work, Tobio’s usually getting ready for his morning jog, and they intersect long enough to share a morning’s greeting, a quick hug and kiss goodbye.
Well, Tooru thinks to himself, A slow morning every once in a while can’t hurt.
He’ll see Tobio later this evening, so he can be patient until then.
When Tooru comes home, however, Tobio is nowhere to be found.
Well, that’s an exaggeration— he’s nowhere to be found in the living room. But this is unusual in that it’s usually where Tobio is when Tooru gets back— sitting on the couch after coming home from practice, freshly showered and holding a warm drink. Either that, or he’s doing the dishes in the kitchen or making a snack (Tooru checks there next, only to find a conspicuous lack of Tobio).
He pads down the hall in his socks.
“Tobio-chan,” he calls.
He hears a soft, mechanical humming sound somewhere in the distance.
Did Tobio forget to turn the fan off?
Tooru frowns, making his way to the bedroom. As he gets closer, he realizes that yes, this must be the case— Tobio didn’t turn it off before he left this morning. He peers into the doorway and reaches over to switch off the fan when a lumpy shape on the bed catches his eye.
“Tobio?”
The lump is still, save for a very subtle and familiar rising and falling motion.
Tooru lays a hand on the pile of blankets. “Tobio— have you been asleep? All day?”
An exhausted, petulant sound is the only response. Carefully, Tooru sits on the side of the bed, finding the end of the topmost blanket and slowly pulling.
Tobio’s face— sweaty and flushed, half-smushed against the mattress— greets him, decorated with a grumpy pout. His inky dark hair clings to his cheeks, damp with perspiration.
Tooru presses the back of his hand to Tobio’s forehead.
“Tobio-chan, you’re burning up.” He moves his hand to Tobio’s red cheek, which somehow feels even hotter. He startles with realization. “Have you been like this since this morning?”
Tobio makes an unintelligible sound which Tooru nonetheless knows is intended to communicate: How should I know?
Tooru clicks his tongue and rises to grab the thermometer from the medicine cabinet in their bathroom. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before I left?”
“Too tired,” Tobio whines back weakly.
Tooru tsks again before taking the cap off the instrument and carefully sliding it into Tobio’s ear.
“Cold,” Tobio grumbles.
Tooru waits for the beep, then pulls it out slowly. He grimaces. “One hundred and three.”
Tobio shifts a little. “... Is that bad?”
Tooru blanches. “Of course that’s bad!” Then he freezes, slowly setting the thermometer down. “Please tell me you didn’t go to practice like this today.”
Tobio rolls his eyes, as if Tooru is the one being ridiculous. “Of course not.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“Mmph.” Tobio fidgets uncomfortably in his prison of blankets. “I called Ushijima-san. Told him I wasn’t gonna make it.”
“Oi,” Tooru grunts. “You mean you told Ushiwaka-chan you were sick? But you didn’t say anything to me?”
Tobio gives him an incredulous look. “Why would I?”
Tooru squashes down the temptation to squish Tobio’s cheeks together. This adorable, adorable brat.
“Tobio-chan, I’m your boyfriend. That’s what partners do. When one person is sick, the other person stays back to take care of them.”
Tooru makes sure to enunciate his words and speak very slowly because Tobio looks half-delirious from fever, but also because he knows Tobio is very stupid even when in great health. “Get it?”
Tobio scowls deeply, his bottom lip sticking out in the cutest, most constipated-looking pout Tooru has ever laid eyes on.
“No,” Tobio grumbles out.
“No?” Tooru exhales sharply. “No one’s ever taken care of you when you were sick before?”
And it’s meant to be a rhetorical question so Tooru’s not waiting for a response, already mentally transitioned to try to remember where he put the cold medicine, but Tobio breathes out quickly before muttering: “No.”
“No?” Tooru’s aware he must sound like a broken record now, but he can’t bring himself to care. He scoots forward on the bed within arms’ reach of Tobio, and presses a hand to the younger’s flushed face. “Tobio— what do you mean, no?”
“What do you mean, what do you mean?” Tobio wiggles away from Tooru’s hand as he says this, and the playful air from earlier is suddenly gone, replaced with something more irritable and tense.
Tobio sends him a pained look, his watery blue eyes flashing with hurt, his entire body trembling with fatigue. “I said no.”
And Tooru knows, because Tobio had told him several years ago— at first in a disturbingly clipped and nonchalant tone, I’m not close with my parents, never have been, upon which Tooru had pried further details out after several very deep and heartfelt conversations— but sometimes the consequences of Tobio’s upbringing make themselves known in very painful ways, ways that Tooru cannot anticipate.
From the time Tobio had first cooked him a meal, and Tooru had been surprised at how good it was, and remarked so— to which Tobio had frowned and said, well, I had a lot of practice cooking for myself… to the last day of the Tokyo Olympics two years ago when Tooru had reconvened with Tobio after the award ceremony, asking, Are you ready to go, did you see your parents already, and Tobio had given him a confused look before replying blankly: They didn’t come.
Here too, Tooru finds himself momentarily speechless.
And then something raw and painful aches in his chest and he wishes he could muster up the courage to say: Tobio, don’t look so resigned. Be angry, be upset. Be selfish for once. Tell me to stay and I will.
Instead, Tooru chases Tobio’s face with his hands, pressing his cool fingers into the younger’s warm skin, and leans forward to give him a kiss on his forehead.
“Wait here,” Tooru says softly.
Tobio makes a weak noise in response.
He is by no means as skilled a cook as Tobio (or his sister, or his mom— but these are beside the point), but he’s competent enough to make a rather tasty bowl of congee. He and Takara used to enjoy it when they were sick, and their mother taught them how to make it before they had gone off to college (well, Argentina, in Tooru’s case).
It had been the first dish he’d made in his apartment in San Juan, when he was broken with homesickness and wanted nothing more than to sleep in his real bed again. And although it hadn’t been as good as his mother’s, that first spoonful was the closest he had gotten to Miyagi since leaving Japan.
He knows Tobio doesn’t have a comparable memory— for all that Tobio is a great cook and competent at house chores, the younger learned these things out of necessity, picked them up by doing. His best recipes are from cookbooks and online articles, nothing passed down from parents or family tradition. Still, Tooru hopes that maybe this congee will be the start of a memory for Tobio— or better yet, a memory for both of them to share.
They have some leftover chicken from last night’s dinner, so Tooru throws it in a pot with rice and water, adds shoyu and sesame oil, and then cracks an egg in and whisks it once it’s started to boil. He chops up some green onion and sprinkles it on top at the very end.
Good, he thinks to himself, after he ladles a large portion into one of their nicer ceramic bowls.
He grabs some acetaminophen from the medicine cabinet and pours a tall glass of water. Balancing everything carefully on the tray, Tooru pads over to the bedroom and rests it on the nightstand.
“Tobio-chan,” he says gently.
He gently peels back the blankets again to reveal his boyfriend’s cute but feverish face.
Tobio makes another garbled noise.
Tooru peels open a cooling patch, picking off the wax paper seal with his fingernails. Then he pushes Tobio’s bangs back before firmly sticking it to his forehead, gently pressing on the edges to make sure the adhesive activates.
“Cold,” Tobio mumbles again, but he doesn’t try to push Tooru’s hands away.
Tooru shushes him and helps him sit up, fluffing up their pillows to form a comfortable backrest. “You can go right back to sleep after you eat and take some medicine.”
“Eat?” Glassy blue eyes stare at him, confused.
“Eat,” Tooru repeats with a short nod. He lifts a spoonful of porridge up and blows gently to cool it down. Satisfied, he presses the spoon to Tobio’s mouth.
Thankfully, Tobio parts his lips obediently. Tooru dips the spoon a little and then retracts it, just to make sure Tobio can get all of the rice.
“How is it?” Tooru readies another spoonful.
Tobio makes another contemplative noise, chewing and swallowing, before breathing out, “good.”
Then he opens his mouth again, clearly waiting for the next bite.
Tooru stifles a little laugh, blowing the food again, then feeding Tobio. Something about it is so disorientingly domestic— sitting on the bed, spoon-feeding his boyfriend— and it warms him to the core.
Whatever the case may have been in the past, it’s of no matter now: Tooru is here to make sure Tobio is taken care of.
Spoonful after spoonful, Tooru diligently feeds Tobio, until the bowl is empty. He picks up the Tylenol. “You should take the medicine now.”
Tobio gives him a dazed look— but opens his mouth expectantly.
Tooru blows his hair out of his face, trying not to smile too hard, and pushes the pills past Tobio’s lips, lifting the glass of water up to the younger's mouth.
Several gulps of water later— the glass now empty, too— Tobio makes a pleased noise.
“You feel better now that you’ve eaten?”
“Yes.” Tobio wraps the blankets around his shoulders again. Then he looks at Tooru, expression soft and his eyes watering, and swaddled in the blankets he looks so young and lost. “M’sorry.”
Tooru blinks. “For what?”
“For— for snapping at you earlier.” Tobio’s eyes flicker down to the mattress. “I’m sorry.”
Tooru places a delicate hand on Tobio’s cheek, which is still flushed, but at least a little less hot now. “Don’t be sorry.”
“But, I…”
Tooru shushes him again, helps Tobio scoot forward so he can lie down comfortably.
“Don’t be sorry,” Tooru repeats. “Just promise me from now on, if you need me, you’ll let me know.”
Tobio’s lips press into a wobbly little frown. Then he swallows.
“Okay,” Tobio concedes, then wiggles back under the blankets. “I will.”
Tooru breathes out a little laugh and leans down to press another gentle kiss on Tobio’s forehead, right below the cooling patch and between his eyebrows. “Hurry up and get better soon.”