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Mink was not the kind of man who got sick.
At least, not in a way he ever admitted.
His body had weathered too much — prisons, smoke, hunger, endless nights without shelter or sleep — for him to acknowledge something as ordinary as a fever.
So when it finally caught up to him, it came not with a collapse, but with silence.
He said less, moved slower. His usual patience had thinned to something taut and brittle. Aoba noticed first in the way Mink sat too long at the table, his heavy hand propped against his jaw as though even holding his head upright was a strain. His eyes, usually sharp with some weight behind them, had dulled, glassy in the light.
“Mink,” Aoba started, testing the name like an intrusion. Mink didn’t look up. His breath dragged in a shallow way, and for a long time Aoba thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, finally, in a low rasp, “What?”
“You don’t look good.”
Mink gave a humorless breath, the ghost of a laugh, but the sound broke off into a cough. His shoulders shook, a deep, scraping sound in his chest, and Aoba flinched forward instinctively, one hand halfway raised before Mink waved him off. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t chase away the roughness.
“I’m fine.” The words came as steady as he could manage, but his body betrayed him: the way he leaned heavier into the chair, the slight tremor in his hand when he reached for his cup, the faint sheen of sweat beading at his temples.
Aoba stood his ground. “You’re not ‘fine.’ You’ve been dragging around all morning, and now you can barely talk. When was the last time you ate?”
Mink’s silence was answer enough.
It was startling, in a way, seeing him like this. Mink carried himself like stone, like weather that could not be changed. For him to be undone by something so small — something that couldn’t be fought or reasoned with — felt like watching a wall crumble. Aoba stepped closer and reached out, fingers brushing across Mink’s forehead before the man could pull away. Heat surged against his skin, shocking in its intensity.
“You’re burning up,” Aoba whispered, the words catching in his throat. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Mink closed his eyes, as though the touch itself was something unbearable. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Aoba pressed, lowering his hand but staying close. “You matter.”
Mink didn’t answer. His silence wasn’t sharp this time, but frayed, thin around the edges. His body swayed slightly in the chair, betraying exhaustion, and Aoba hurried to steady him before he could fall. The weight of him was immense, heavy in a way that spoke of surrender. Mink never leaned on anyone. But here, feverish and worn, he allowed Aoba to guide him, one hand curled firmly around his arm.
“C’mon,” Aoba murmured, coaxing more than commanding. “Bed. Now.”
It took effort to move him, though Mink barely resisted. His steps were unsteady, dragging across the floor with an unfamiliar sluggishness. Aoba guided him through the small space of their home, Mink’s breath rasping close to his ear. Every exhale carried heat, sharp and damp, and Aoba’s chest tightened each time he heard the cough shake through him.
When Mink finally sat on the bed, it was with a heaviness that seemed to drag the entire room down. He leaned back slowly, his long hair spilling across the pillow, and let his eyes shut with an expression that bordered on relief. For a moment, Aoba simply stood there, struck by how different he looked like this — stripped of the constant control, laid bare in weakness.
Aoba fussed quietly, bringing water, searching for a cloth to press against his forehead. His hands shook more than he wanted them to, but he forced them steady. Mink’s skin was searing under the damp cloth, the rise and fall of his chest uneven as if each breath cost him something.
Mink stirred at the touch, opening one eye, golden iris dulled but still catching light. “You don’t have to…” he began, voice broken by a cough.
“Yes, I do,” Aoba replied quickly, holding the cloth in place. “You’ve taken care of me more times than I can count. Let me do this for you.”
For once, Mink didn’t argue. His eyes slipped shut again, his jaw unclenching as if he finally let himself rest. Aoba sat close at his side, listening to the harsh rhythm of his breathing, and felt a weight settle in his chest. Mink was supposed to be indestructible, immovable. Seeing him fragile made Aoba ache in a way that was almost unbearable.
Hours stretched quietly. Aoba kept vigil at his bedside, changing the cloth when it grew warm, coaxing Mink to sip water when he stirred. Each time, Mink obeyed with reluctant trust, the effort visible in the way his throat worked to swallow, the way his breath caught after.
As dusk filtered through the window, Aoba brushed damp strands of hair back from Mink’s face, fingers lingering against the fevered skin. “You always try to carry everything on your own,” he murmured, voice almost lost to the creak of the floorboards and the hum of the evening air. “Even this. But you don’t have to anymore.”
Mink stirred faintly, words half-formed in his throat. “Not used to it.”
“I know.” Aoba smiled sadly, tracing the line of his temple with the pad of his thumb. “But I’ll be here until you are.”
The fever broke sometime in the night. Mink woke with a groan, the heaviness in his limbs giving way to a bone-deep ache rather than the fiery burn from before. Aoba had fallen asleep sitting up beside him, his head tilted uncomfortably against his arm, one hand still resting across Mink’s wrist as though to anchor him.
For a long time, Mink lay still, staring at the fragile curve of Aoba’s shoulder, the way his lashes shadowed his cheek. His chest tightened in a way the fever couldn’t explain. He thought of how many times he had driven this boy to exhaustion, to tears, to doubt, and yet here he was — keeping watch over him, even in sleep.
When Aoba stirred awake, he blinked rapidly, confusion giving way to relief as he leaned forward. “Ah, Mink! You’re awake… how do you feel?”
Mink’s voice was rough, but steadier. “Better.”
“Jeez, you scared me,” Aoba admitted softly, fingers curling tighter around his wrist. “I’ve never seen you like that.”
Mink studied him, the earnest worry written across his face, and let out a long breath. “I don’t… get sick. Not often.”
“It’s okay, I’m here,” Aoba replied, meeting his gaze with quiet resolve. “You don't have to do everything alone, y’know."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not empty. Mink reached up, slowly, and brushed his hand across the back of Aoba’s head, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. The contact was warm but not fever-hot this time, grounding in a way words couldn’t reach.
“Thank you,” Mink said simply, the words raw and unadorned.
Aoba closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “Always.”