Work Text:
Mason Kane was convinced of three things in life:
1. Werewolves don’t get sick.
2. Kieran was unbearable.
3. And under no circumstances would he ask for help.
Too bad all three things collapsed on the same Tuesday.
The fever had him trapped like he’d been hit by a train of liquid silver. Everything hurt. Even blinking. He was sweating, delirious, and his voice was so hoarse he sounded like he’d smoked an entire chimney. Still, when his family left for an urgent meeting and asked if he needed someone to take care of him, Mason scoffed proudly:
—I'm a werewolf. I don’t get sick.—
What a joke.
What an idiot.
He tried to stay strong, like the alpha wolf he dreamed of becoming. He lay on the couch in his house, wrapped in a blanket he’d stolen from his sister covered in little wolf cubs, because the universe has a sense of humor, and surrounded by a bunch of mugs of tea he didn’t know how to make, watching an action movie at low volume while sweating like he was about to shift.
(Spoiler: he wasn’t.)
In his delirium, he did the unthinkable. He called Marcella.
Marcella, a kind human, slightly crazy, and best friend of HIM… She had been his escape plan from the mystical fate he didn’t want to share with an emotionally damaged bloodsucker. But Marcella didn’t answer.
She was rehearsing. She replied with a quick message, full of emojis: “I’m in a fight scene between Romeo and Tybalt! 💀⚔️💔 Now?? LOL. I’ll call you later, ok?”
Now? Fight scene? What kind of violent Shakespeare was that?
But he didn’t complain.
Not out loud, at least.
Defeated, he sank back onto the couch and muttered:
—I’m not alone… I have pride… I have… strength… I have…—
His phone buzzed.
With clumsy fingers and sweaty hands, he opened the messaging app. He didn’t think, didn’t look carefully.
He just typed: “I feel horrible. I’m alone. I don’t know what to do.”
And sent it.
Only afterward did he check who he’d sent it to.
Kieran.
The vampire.
His annoying mystical connection he totally didn’t like (deep in denial).
—...Shit.—
First of all, Kieran wasn’t expecting messages.
Second, definitely not from Mason.
He was in the library, like the good cliché vampire he was, sketching a scene from a book he’d read five times, when his phone buzzed.
He sighed. Maybe it was Marcella with some note about the project script. But no. It was Mason.
Mason Kane. The dramatic werewolf, the one who hated him, the one who looked at him like he was an immortal cockroach, the one who smelled like forest, pride, and questionable decisions. And now… the one who’d sent him a message that said: “I’m alone. I don’t know what to do.”
Kieran frowned so hard it was basically a threat of eternal wrinkles.
He got up reluctantly, put away his sketchbook, and muttered in his usual elegant-funeral tone:
—If he dies, I’ll get blamed. Or worse… Marcella will cry. During rehearsal. In front of the Director.—
And that was unacceptable.
He stopped by the pharmacy. Living among humans gave him certain knowledge, and certain resources. Then he crossed through the security of Kane Zone, the werewolf clan’s territory, with the grace of someone who’s committed petty crimes and has no regrets (even though all this, in his head, was completely unnecessary drama).
He knocked on the door with a bag full of medicine, and an expression that said: “I’m here against my will and demand emotional compensation.”
Mason opened the door, wobbling. He was wrapped in the wolf cub blanket, his face red as a tomato, glassy eyed. And with the aura of someone who had lost a battle against a teabag.
—What… are you doing here?—
He muttered.
—You sent a message. To me. Don’t be dramatic. I just brought medicine… and contempt.—
—I’m not sick…—
—Oh really? Then why does it smell like fever, sweat, and burned pride in here?—
Mason growled. Kieran gently pushed him back onto the couch with the authority of someone who’s fed up.
—You can’t take care of me…—
—Oh, please. If you could take care of yourself, you wouldn’t be half dead, wrapped in a ridiculous blanket, with a mug of tea that smells like detergent. What did you do, boil a kitchen sponge?—
Mason muttered something that sounded like a threat, but it got stuck in his throat. Kieran took off his coat, went into the kitchen and… cooked.
COOKED.
A soup.
With garlic, ginger, herbs, and contained malice.
Mason sniffed it like it was sacred elixir.
—You cook?—
—Vampire. Not dead. Not useless. Learn the difference.—
—You don’t drink soup.—
—I don’t. But you do. And if you don’t drink it, I’ll inject it straight into your vein with a DIY syringe.—
Mason, defeated by the soup and life, drank. He muttered under his breath:
—It’s good… but not because you made it.—
Kieran rolled his eyes, offended. But he stayed.
Hours passed.
Kieran changed the compresses on Mason’s forehead. He read fragments from Marcella’s script in an exaggeratedly theatrical voice just to make fun of him.
—Oh, Tybalt, you infamous wielder of cheap knives! En garde, clown of Verona!—
—You’re ruining Shakespeare…—
—Shakespeare’s already dead. He’s thanking me from the grave.—
Mason complained, but didn’t kick him out.
At one point, half-asleep, he murmured:
—You’re annoying… but your hands are cold… and that helps…—
Kieran replied, dry but with less edge:
—You have a fever and you’re delirious. Doesn’t count.—
Silence.
One of those awkward ones, full of hidden meanings. Full of things neither of them dared say.
Then Mason, barely audible:
—Thanks… for coming.—
Kieran sighed. Didn’t look at him.
—It wasn’t for you. It was for Marcella. She hates when I hate you.—
—Liar…—
—Shut up, pup.—
And Mason, sick, proud, but with a heart warmer than his soup, fell asleep.
Kieran looked at him for a moment.
Sat beside him.
Took out his sketchbook.
And drew him.
Not as an enemy.
But as someone who, maybe… just maybe… wouldn’t be the worst to share another soup with.
The next morning, Mason woke up with less of a fever.
And a page on the table. A drawing of him sleeping, wrapped in his ridiculous blanket.
And a note written in elegant handwriting:
“Next time, learn to ask for help without turning it into a soap opera. And change that blanket. It’s secondhand embarrassment. –K.”
Mason smiled. Very secretly.
And then, purely out of pride, texted Marcella: “Kieran is a terrible nurse. Almost killed me with garlic.”
She didn’t believe him.
And Kieran, from afar, probably knew it.