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Niragi was missing.
He’d been missing for the better part of a day and a half now, and while that shouldn’t mean anything — shouldn’t have to, not with the way they kept things firmly in the casual category — Karube couldn’t shake the sour knot lodged stubbornly in his gut. It had settled there sometime after sunset yesterday and refused to move, twisting tighter each time his phone lit up with anything but Niragi’s name. The younger man left him no text, no calls, no sarcastic voice messages that opened with Oi, bartender, and not even an usual half-assed threat to steal from the top shelf of Lucid’s liquor rack if Karube wasn’t going to answer.
In short, there was just… nothing. None, nada, and that was never something Niragi would do at all, because for whatever else he was — loudmouth, brat, sharp-tongued menace who poked at people just to watch them squirm — he would never stay quiet. Even when it came as a string of annoyed grunts, half-slurred curses, or the sharp clack of his cane on uneven pavement, Niragi always made noises. He insisted on being noticed and being the center of the world to make up for all the bullying he had suffered in the past.
So for him to just vanish without a word…
Yeah. Strange didn’t begin to cover it.
“Your friend not here today?” one of the regulars asked, jerking a thumb toward the corner seat Niragi usually claimed. Karube didn’t look up at that, though the glass in his hands felt a tad bit heavier now, like the question had sunk deep and settled somewhere he didn’t want to touch.
“Guess not,” he muttered, polishing a spot that didn’t need it, and left the answer there without offering anything more — not that he knew how to, really, because he was already too wound up to talk about it out loud. He hadn’t stopped feeling jumpy for the past thirty-odd hours simply because Niragi wasn’t here. He routinely checked his phone between drink orders and kept glancing toward the door every time the bell over it gave so much as a twitch, hoping that the notorious man would show up.
Except that he never did, not even a ghost of him, and by the time last call at Lucid came and went, Karube finally had had enough of this.
He shut down Lucid early, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and locked the doors behind him. He wasn’t opening tomorrow either — that much was clear. The streets were quiet at three in the morning, but that didn’t matter. He already knew where he was going.
(Though he didn’t forget to stop by the convenience store, grabbing a few things without much thought: food, bottled water, some basic meds. Niragi could take care of himself — would probably curse him out for the gesture — but just in case things weren’t going the way they were supposed to go… at least it’d be something.)
.｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡
It turned out that Niragi was someone full of surprises — how could he not know that by now? — because when he got to the apartment, the door was already unlocked. Slightly ajar, in fact, like someone had left in a hurry or come home and forgotten how to be cautious.
That should’ve been the first real sign. Not just wrong in a normal way, but wrong in a sense that made his skin crawl — bone-deep and instinctive — because for all Niragi’s reckless bravado and shit-eating grins, he was never careless. Not with his own safety, not with a busted leg that sometimes gave out on bad days, and certainly not when he lived alone in a crumbling building that practically folded at the corners and had paper-thin walls.
And yet…
“Niragi?” Karube called out as he pushed the door open fully, knuckles grazed briefly against the edge of it. “Niragi, you there?”
No answer, so he exhaled slowly, squared his shoulders, and stepped in.
The apartment was dim, quiet, stale in a way that made his jaw tighten. There was an opened can of something on the counter, untouched. A glass of water, half-drunk. A shirt tossed haphazardly over the back of the couch. There were signs of someone who lived here, but that person was nowhere in sight, and Karube was prepared for the worst.
“Niragi,” he tried again, louder this time, more urgent. “Oi, where the fuck are—?”
“… Here.” The voice was low, croaky and barely audible, making him jump at the sound and turn to squint toward the bedroom door. There, tucked beneath a mound of mismatched blankets and disheveled sheets, was a human-shaped lump — a lump that laid absolutely still saved for the small twitch of a hand and the mess of sweat-damp hair half-visible against the pillow — and Karube couldn’t help the sigh he breathed out after that.
At least the bastard was alive.
He crossed the room in a few brisk strides, nudging the bedroom door open the rest of the way. Niragi was there, sprawled out in a cocoon of tangled sheets, skin flushed an unhealthy shade of red and pink mixing together. He looked like hell had warmed over — pale in places and overheated in others, slick with sweat from what must’ve been hours of fever, and his eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused, blinking slowly like his thoughts couldn’t keep up.
Still, even like this, the idiot had still had the audacity to smirk.
“Hey, bartender,” Niragi slurred, voice raw. His lips twitched faintly, just enough to give the impression of a smile. “Finally showin’ up to tuck me in?”
Karube stared at him for a long while, unimpressed, because what the actual fuck? “Shut the fuck up,” he muttered. “You look like you just crawled out of your own grave. How long have you been like this?”
“Awww.” The younger man croaked, then winced at how sore his throat was. “You worry ‘bout me?”
That was the closest thing to a thank-you that he could ever pull out of this bastard.
“I brought medication and some soup.” Karube set the bag down on the bedside table, sitting down at the edge of Niragi’s crumpled bed. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, really — he was a bartender, not a nurse — but his hands worked like they remembered things he hadn’t practiced in years. Cool cloth, water bottle, the gentle clatter of blister packs as he rummaged for paracetamol.
Niragi watched him through half-lidded eyes, face blotchy and skin burning to the touch when he pressed the back of his hand to his sweaty forehead. The younger man flinched a little but didn’t pull away. Too far gone, probably.
“Idiot,” Karube muttered again under his breath. “You didn’t call anyone? Didn’t even drag yourself to the hospital?”
“Didn’t wanna…”
“Didn’t wanna what?”
Niragi blinked, a long, slow blink that ended with his gaze drifting off-center. He was still feverish, still lost somewhere halfway between the haze of his fever, his breath catching oddly like his body couldn’t decide how to regulate itself. “Didn’t wanna be a burden,” he slurred eventually, voice so faint Karube almost didn’t catch it. “Didn’t wanna owe you anything.”
The blonde-haired man felt his chest go tight at those words, slow and unpleasant, like someone had poured cement into his lungs and expected him to breathe through it.
“You’re not—” he started, then stopped, because that wasn’t a thing Niragi would understand right now, not when he looked like a kicked dog pretending to be fine. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh, swallowed those words back to the deepest pit of his heart, and held out two pills with a cup of water. “Here. Take this first.”
Niragi obeyed, though barely. His fingers fumbled around the pills like he’d forgotten how hands were supposed to work, trembling just enough that Karube had to steady the glass and guide it to his lips when it nearly tipped. He drank in small sips, eyes fluttering shut with something like relief — or maybe just exhaustion. It was hard to tell.
“Should’ve fucking told me,” the bartender muttered, words catching low in his throat. “You can’t just disappear when you’re sick. That’s not how this is supposed to work.”
“Didn’t think… you’d notice,” Niragi mumbled. “‘M fine, it’d pass…”
Karube didn’t answer that right away. He just sat there with a hand still braced against the younger man’s burning forehead, his thumb brushing absently over the mess of hair like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
“You’re such a dumbass,” he said eventually, voice breaking a little from how it pained him to see the bastard suffer like this. “You went off the grid for more than a day, the fuck you mean I wouldn’t notice? I’m not stupid, you know.”
Silence settled in after that. Karube was beginning to think he’d fallen asleep, and his mind was already debating whether to carry this stubborn bastard to a hospital or how to bring his fever down when—
“’M tryin’, man.”
The blond blinked, surprised. “Huh?”
“Tryin’ not to be… so fuckin’ loud.” Niragi turned his face into the pillow a bit more, breath hitching. “You get sick of me.”
The words slipped out like they weren’t meant to — soft and clumsy, coated in fever and whatever vulnerability lived beneath whatever sharp corners he usually hid behind. It was enough to make Karube freeze.
He hadn’t even gotten a word out, or even mentally recovered from the shock, before the younger man beat him to it.
“Don’t lie.” Niragi sighed, thin and airy. His fever was climbing again — the blonde-haired man could feel it beneath his palm, and he had to bite down on the string of curses threatening to rise. “Can tell. You’re annoyed… when ‘m bitchy ‘bout stuff.”
Karube clenched his jaw at that, breathing out slowly through his nose as those words settled — heavy, suffocating, and fucking unfair in the way they scraped against every part of him that gave a damn. He didn’t know what made him angrier: that Niragi had let himself get this bad without telling anyone, or that the bastard really, truly thought he would rather not deal with him at all.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, brushing sweat-damp hair away from Niragi’s brow again, trying to ignore how hot his skin felt. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
But then again, they both were.
That was why they kept orbiting back into each other’s worlds.
Karube stayed there a moment longer, knuckles pressed to Niragi’s clammy temple, the soft hum of his own breath the only thing keeping him from unraveling. Then, quietly, he pulled his hand away and reached for his phone with fingers that shook a little more than he’d like to admit.
It took him two tries to type in the search. Closest hospital. 24/7 emergency care.
A list popped up instantly, but his eyes landed on the second one down — not the closest, but the cleanest, and not so far that they couldn’t get there quickly. He didn’t even hesitate before calling a taxi, voice low and clipped when he gave the address, added a tight “please hurry, I have a sick passenger with me,” then hung up.
Once the transportation was arranged, he turned to look at Niragi again — fever-flushed, already half-asleep, or maybe just too far gone to keep his eyes open — and reached out, tapping two fingers against his shoulder.
“Hey.” He murmured, hand running up and down in a motion of comfort. “We’re goin’ to the hospital soon.”
Niragi stirred faintly, blinking with visible effort. “No… 'm fine, I said… it’ll pass—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the blond snapped, then winced and forced his voice to mellow out. “You’re burning up. You can’t even sit up on your own, dumbass.”
A groggy noise of protest left the younger man’s lips, but it fizzled out halfway through. His head lolled sideways, breath stuttering again, and that was all the answer Karube needed.
“Alright,” he sighed, more to himself than to the man drifting deliriously in front of him. “I have to carry you to the taxi outside. Help me out, yeah?”
In response, Niragi mumbled something — it sounded like a "dumb idea" mixed with some curse words — but his words slurred and slipped under his breath too much to make sense. His eyes cracked open just a little, unfocused, watery. Karube didn’t wait for real consent.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already shifting to slide an arm under the younger man’s shoulders, the other curling under his knees with care. “Bitch about it later. You can cuss me out after you stop boiling from the inside out.”
Carrying Niragi was not easy. He was heavy with fever, a dead weight that made every movement precarious — especially with his injured leg. Karube tried his best not to jostle it, but the bastard still winced anyway, a momentarily sharp tremor in his body.
“Shit.” The blond hissed, murmuring softly against the dampened forehead and leaving a soft kiss on top of it. “Sorry. Would be more careful if I could. Just… bear with me.”
When the taxi finally pulled into view, its headlights slicing across the empty road, Karube flagged it down with a jerk of his chin. The driver looked hesitant when he spotted Niragi’s state, but one look at the bartender’s face — tight-jawed, eyes dark with something sharp and unspoken — had him unlocking the back door without question.
“Red Cross Medical Centre,” Karube said, getting Niragi inside with careful, practiced movements, like the man was made of glass and any jostle might be the last straw. “Drive as fast as you can, please.”
The driver gave a small nod and pulled away from the curb. In the backseat, Karube kept a steady hand on Niragi’s shoulder to keep him from slumping further. The younger man mumbled quietly, unintelligible, his lashes resting heavy against his feverish cheeks, and he couldn’t help but sigh and reach out to wipe the sweat away as gently as he could.
“You could’ve called,” the blonde-haired man’s voice was a mixture of softness, disbelief, and pure concern. “Just… a text. Anything. You know I would’ve come.”
Niragi didn’t respond — he just slumped a little more than before with a small, shivery sigh, breath ghosting against his collar. It was only when the car swerved slightly — a pothole, maybe, or some uneven curb — that he stirred again, brows twitching like he was trying to drag himself back up from wherever his fever had taken him, and glanced up at Karube.
“Hey,” Niragi rasped, barely a whisper. His hand twitched weakly, like he was trying to grab at something but couldn’t make his fingers work.
“I’m here,” Karube said instantly, catching that hand and holding it firm. “What up?”
There was a pause, heavy and awful, stretched between them before Niragi’s voice broke through — soft, cracked, like he hadn’t meant to say it at all.
“… ‘M scared.”
Karube had to will himself to snap his jaws shut, because it was fucked up — beyond fucked up — that someone like Niragi could survive hell after hell, still spit in the face of death with that shit-eating grin, but this — a fever, a failing leg, the idea of being a burden — was what broke him.
Though there was nothing he could do to alleviate that pain, so he settled for a tighter squeeze around the hand in his palm instead, then looked straight forward until he saw the hospital blinking in the distance, hoping that the pain would pass soon enough for them to finally breathe again.
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It was the flu, apparently.
“He should be fine after this IV infusion and some rest.” The lady — Dr. Harukawa, as her nametag read — said, handing Karube a paper cup. “He was a bit malnourished and dehydrated, though, so someone should keep an eye on him over the next couple days if possible.”
Niragi was asleep now — actually asleep this time — which was a good sign. The steady rise and fall of his chest was almost hypnotic in its normalcy, and the sight of it loosened something in his chest that he hadn’t even realized was wound so tight. The breath he let out was unsteady, relief finally catching up to him now that the worst had passed.
“He’s also very lucky that you have brought him here as well.” Dr. Harukawa added.
Karube looked up at that.
“What do you mean…?”
“You said he lives by himself?”
To that question, he nodded. “Yes, and… I think he had that for a few days now.”
“There you go,” she said, then gave Karube a smile to reassure him. “Given your description and his past medical history, he’d end up being much worse if he was to be by himself any longer. It’s good that you brought him here just in time.”
The words were meant to comfort, and maybe they would have — but Karube couldn’t quite bring himself to return the smile. The thought of what could have happened, of how close it had been, just sat heavy in his chest instead. She didn’t seem to push, either, so he was grateful for that.
“Any other questions for—”
“No,” Karube said quietly. “Thank you for your help.”
She nodded and left him alone with Niragi once more.
The lights in the room had been dimmed now — low and warm — and the only sounds were the soft beep of the monitor and the gentle hum of the IV pump. It was peaceful, strangely so, but he wasn’t used to this kind of silence — not when that obnoxious bastard was lying so still, pale beneath the hospital sheets, his skin stark against the sterile white that made him look almost too fragile.
“Idiot,” he muttered, reaching out instinctively to adjust the blanket, tugging it higher over Niragi’s chest. “You should’ve called someone.”
But they both knew he wouldn’t have.
Karube’s gaze lingered on his face — the faint parting of his lips with each breath, the slight furrow still caught between his brows even in sleep, like his body couldn’t quite let go. He sighed, and with it came that familiar ache in his chest — the one that never seemed to leave where Niragi was concerned.
So he reached for his hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Guess I’m staying here for the night, huh,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the back of that fever-warm hand. “Hope you don’t mind, asshole.”
That was the least he could do, after all.