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He couldn’t skip work; that was an unfortunate truth. No matter how long he lies in bed, procrastinating eating breakfast with Naomi, he just can’t find the energy to get up. He heaves a heavy, weary sigh. Kunikida will kill him if he calls out.
Junichirou pushes himself up from his futon, nose twitching at the smell of breakfast from the kitchen. The moment the smell of eggs and bacon hits his nostrils, his stomach churns with overwhelming nausea. Slow, deep breaths are all that keep him from vomiting all over his lap.
“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Naomi calls, and where Junichirou would usually smile in response, he grits his teeth against the pounding in his head.
“Morning,” Junichirou rasps out. The words grate against his sore throat like sandpaper, leaving him feeling internally raw and open. His hand raises to rest at the base of his neck, surprised at the sound but not as surprised as Naomi looks.
“Are you alright?” His sister asks, setting down the spatula in her hands. Her eyes shift from their breakfast on the stove to give him her full attention. “You slept in later than me, and you sound awful.” She pauses. “You look awful, too.”
“Gee, thanks, Naomi,” Junichirou huffs, but it loses its effectiveness when it comes out no better than a wheeze. “I’m gonna go get ready.”
“Surely you’re not going to work like that!” Naomi protests, eyes wide as they follow his trek to the bathroom.
“Kunikida would kill me if I called out,” Junichirou sighs.
“He’d kill you if you went in like that!”
“I’m going.”
“But-!”
“Naomi.”
His sister clamps up at his stern tone. “…yes?”
“Your food’s burning."
“Shit!” Naomi shrieks, turning back to the stove. Junichirou takes the distraction for what it is and locks himself in the bathroom.
The moment the door locks behind him, Junichirou slumps against it. From that short distance alone, his legs have already started trembling, his head fuzzy, and his body far too heavy. The minute he sets foot into the Agency, everyone will know he’s unwell. They wouldn’t even need Ranpo’s skill for that. Today was going to suck.
“You’re late,” is Kunikida’s greeting the second Junichirou walks through the door. He’s not wrong. Even Dazai is here before him.
“Sorry,” Junichirou rasps, not fond of how everyone’s eyes swivel to him at the sound of his rapidly weakening voice. It’s even worse than it was at home.
“You look like hell, kid,” Dr. Yosano comments, immediately pointing a demanding finger at the couch. “Sit.”
“I’m fine,” Junichirou protests weakly, though he feels anything but.
Atsushi tilts his head slightly, gaze turning a bit distant as he focuses on listening. “…I can hear your lungs rattling,” the weretiger whispers, his worried eyes refocusing on the ginger.
At that, Yosano’s scowl deepens. “Sit,” she orders, not unlike commanding an unruly dog. “You shouldn’t have even come in today.”
“It’s a good thing he did,” Kunikida starts, drawing Yosano’s ire. “Naomi is at school today. If he stayed home, there’d be no one to watch over him.”
“I’m not a child,” Junichirou childishly mumbles under his breath.
Kunikida hums. “Duly noted.”
For the next several minutes, Yosano has her way with him. It’s not as brutal as her treatments are. In fact, she’s gentle with her every movement, clinical gestures with a cool touch Junichirou can’t help but lean his feverish skin into. The Agency doesn’t stop her. Instead, they even help her.
Kyoka becomes an errand girl, running to and from Yosano’s office to deliver any supplies the doctor asks for. Atsushi keeps a constant monitor over Junichirou’s vitals, alerting Yosano to any changes in his heart rate or breathing. Surprisingly, Dazai keeps him company, appeasing the kid’s boredom - and anxiety - by distracting him with card games or stories of pranks he’s pulled on Kunikida and Chuuya. Every dose of medication results in Ranpo handing over one of his precious sweets so Junichirou can get the “awful, yucky medicine taste” out of his mouth. Kenji pops by frequently, taking Junichirou’s comfort very seriously, fanning him when his fever spikes or finding a blanket to ease the chills.
And Kunikida? He doesn’t mention Junichirou’s workload even once. He makes sure Junichirou drinks water consistently and ushers Dazai away when Junichirou needs to rest.
It’s when Junichirou goes to the bathroom that it all goes to hell.
In his defense, he tries to call for help, but his words fail him. He’s just finished washing his hands when his world turns blurry. The sounds around him are muffled, reminiscent of being underwater. When his body turns lighter than air, his skin heated to almost boiling, Junichirou knows he’s in trouble. All he manages is a breathy, “Atsushi,” before the ground rushes up to meet him, and Junichirou knows no more.
Atsushi knows something is wrong even before he hears his name. Junichirou’s heart rate changes, his breathing quickens and turns shallow. Atsushi is moving, ignoring Kunikida’s shout.
“Junichirou!” Atsushi shouts as he rushes to the closed bathroom door, praying for a coherent answer.
His response is the gasp of his name, followed by a horrible thump and nothing else.
Any care for the Agency’s property flies out the window. Atsushi slams his shoulder into the bathroom door, not bothering with the lock, and breaking it off its hinges. The weretiger forces his way into the bathroom, eyes landing on Junichirou’s limp form sprawled on the floor. The most horrific part of the sight is the puddle of blood growing around the ginger’s head.
“Fuck!”
Atsushi rushes in, and when he lands on his knees next to his friend, Dr. Yosano is right beside him.
“Heart rate?” Yosano snaps, hands carefully maneuvering Junichirou’s head to inspect the wound.
Atsushi listens carefully for ten seconds, then runs the math quickly in his head. “120 in a minute.”
“Tachycardic,” Yosano hums, “but that’s to be expected. Not great but not surprising. Breathing?”
"Shallow, quick, the rattle’s even worse.” Atsushi pauses. “But there’s another…” His eyes widen. “Turn him on his side!”
Yosano heeds Atsushi’s warning without a comment, just in time for vomit to force its way past Junichirou’s lips. Yosano swears vehemently under her breath but doesn’t seem fazed otherwise.
Atsushi stands and rushes to the sink without orders. Unraveling several pieces of paper towel from the dispenser, he soaks them in lukewarm water from the sink before returning to Junichirou’s side. He instantly starts to wipe at Junichirou’s chin and mouth while blindly handing Yosano her wet paper towels to clean the wound and get a better look.
“Dr. Yosano,” Atsushi starts, careful to keep his voice down to avoid scaring the other Agency members that are undoubtedly eavesdropping, “will he be okay?”
Yosano offers their weretiger a soft smile. When she answers, she speaks opposite of Atsushi, loud and clear as she says, “He’ll be just fine with rest and care.”
When Junichirou wakes, everything is still so…hazy. Every muscle screams at him when he so much as twitches, and his head aches something awful. Above all, gentle but strong fingers card through his hair, his head pillowed by someone’s thighs…?
A soft groan slips from Junichirou’s lips as he cracks open his eyes. The shade to the window next to the couch is lowered, thankfully, and the office is mostly dark, too. Did everyone go home?
No. There’s the person he’s resting on, and he can hear voices and typing beyond the privacy screen. That leaves one major question. Who is he using as a personal pillow?
Junichirou raises his eyes to look above him and thinks it might be best to join Dazai in his suicidal endeavors.
“P-President?” Junichirou wheezes, chest aching and head pounding despite his nearly inaudible yelp, and rises slightly despite his body begging him to stay still. “I…I’m so sorry. I-”
Fukuzawa simply offers a smile so soft, it might as well be made of cashmere. With gentle hands, Fukuzawa guides Junichiro to lay his head back down. Though he knows he shouldn’t indulge, Junichirou can’t fight the President, and he's far too weak to, anyway. In mere moments, Fukuzawa is running his fingers through Junichirou’s hair again.
“I’m glad to see you’re alright, Junichirou,” Fukuzawa murmurs, his voice a soothing rumble. “I’ve been away at a conference all day. I rushed back as soon as Yosano informed me you collapsed.” Fukuzawa places his other hand’s palm on Junichirou’s forehead, then folds his fingers slightly to rest the back of them against Junichirou’s cheek. He hums in discontentment. “Your fever is still there. Lessened but not gone.”
Junichirou’s face goes aflame with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, President. I didn’t mean to cause such trouble.”
It’s then that Fukuzawa frowns, the sight making Junichirou’s heart pound out of his chest. “Trouble? Hardly. We’re very grateful you forced yourself into work today. Heavens forbid you stayed home alone.”
“I…I can handle myself,” Junichirou whispers, averting his gaze from Fukuzawa’s piercing eyes. He can’t bear to see the overwhelming concern written plainly on the President’s face. He hasn’t earned it.
“This isn’t a matter of your independence, Junichirou,” Fukuzawa scolds lightly. “It’s a matter of your safety.”
Junichirou has little to say in response to that.
“You vomited while unconscious,” Fukuzawa continues, and all Junichirou can think about is his shame and who he has to apologize to for making them deal with his mess. “If you were home alone, you could have choked and died, if your fever hadn’t gotten to you first.”
Fukuzawa pauses, then sighs in disapproval. “Even now, you’re not thinking of yourself, only about how to apologize to us, despite it being our decision to care for you when you needed us.”
Junichirou closes his eyes, as if that can hide away his pain and insecurity. “Thank you,” he whispers, knowing very well that everyone is straining to hear their conversation.
Fukuzawa takes a steadying deep breath, and with ease, he maneuvers Junichirou to sit fully on his lap, head tucked into the President’s shoulder. Here, Junichirou’s slightly feverish presses against the President’s comparatively cool skin, a sensation that brings relief Junichirou cannot deny. He shouldn’t accept this, but Junichirou is weak.
“Rest,” Fukuzawa insists softly. “You are not alone with us.”