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It started subtle.
Rui had been quieter than usual that morning.
Not his usual sleepy, blanket-burrito kind of quiet, but the sort that clung to the air like humidity, heavy and wrong.
Hyun noticed first thing, as he always did. He was standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, butter melting on the pan, when he realized he hadn’t heard the familiar pitter-pat of bare feet or the small, sleepy mrrps that usually announced Rui’s morning routine.
“Rui?” he called out, glancing toward the couch.
No response.
The mug of warm milk sat untouched on the table, the steam curling into thin air.
Hyun frowned. “Rui?”
He found him curled up by the window, half hidden by the pale curtains, wearing one of Hyun’s hoodies that looked comically large on him. The hybrid’s tail was limp, draped along the floor like a ribbon without life, and his ears were drooping low.
“Hey,” Hyun said softly, crouching down beside him. “You skipped breakfast. That’s not like you.”
Rui blinked slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused. His mismatched pupils struggled to focus on Hyun. “Rui’s fine,” he mumbled, voice thin and small.
“Fine?” Hyun’s brow furrowed. He pressed the back of his hand to Rui’s forehead, and his stomach immediately dropped.
“Rui,” he breathed. The heat under his palm was alarming. “You’re burning up.”
Rui made a soft noise of protest, swatting weakly at Hyun’s hand. “No, Rui’s okay. Rui just tired.”
Hyun sighed, voice trembling between patience and worry. “You’re not okay, kitten. You’re sick.”
He moved to scoop Rui up, but the hybrid flinched hard, his body tensing under Hyun’s hands.
“Hey, hey, easy,” Hyun started, but Rui’s reaction was quick and defensive.
When Hyun’s arm slid under his knees and another under his back, Rui suddenly gasped, a sharp, wounded sound that didn’t sound like him at all, and his body jerked.
Then came the sob.
It was raw, unexpected, and loud enough to make Hyun freeze mid-motion. Rui’s hands shot up, gripping Hyun’s shirt, his ears flattened completely against his head as tears welled fast in his mismatched eyes.
“Rui?” Hyun’s voice broke. “Hey, what’s wrong? I didn’t—”
But Rui was already crying, clutching his side in panic. His breath came in shallow, quick bursts, tail thrashing weakly as he tried to twist away.
Hyun swore under his breath, the curse spilling out before he could stop it. “Shit, Rui, I’m sorry.”
The word hit harder than he expected. Rui’s entire body flinched at the sharp tone, eyes wide with fear. He stopped struggling but not from comfort. His breathing hitched, and he looked at Hyun like he’d just been struck.
“Rui,” Hyun whispered, guilt flooding him instantly. “No, hey, no, sweetheart, I wasn’t mad at you.”
But Rui’s instincts had already taken over. The hybrid wriggled out of Hyun’s hold, stumbling as he scrambled backward onto the bed, dragging the blanket up to his chest like a shield. His small hands trembled as he tugged it over his head, curling tightly underneath.
“Rui, no, please,” Hyun said, heart twisting as he reached forward, then stopped himself. The last thing he wanted was to scare him more.
The lump of blankets quivered slightly, a tiny sound escaping, not quite crying, not quite breathing, somewhere in between.
Hyun sank down onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. His pulse was still racing, his chest tight with guilt.
He took a slow breath, forcing calm into his voice. “Rui, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, okay?”
No response.
Just the faint rustle of the blanket, and a small, choked sound that broke his heart cleanly in half.
“Sweetheart, I wasn’t mad,” Hyun continued softly. “I just got scared when you cried. You scared me, that’s all.”
He reached a hand out but stopped just short of touching the blanket, afraid to push too far. “Can you tell me what hurts?”
Nothing.
Then, so faint it was barely there, a whisper. “Rui’s tummy and back.”
Hyun exhaled shakily. “Okay. Okay, I hear you.”
He stayed still for a long moment, just listening to Rui’s uneven breathing. Then, in a voice softer than the rustle of the curtains, he said, “Can I check? I promise I’ll be gentle this time.”
Another pause. Then, a hesitant twitch under the blanket, the smallest nod.
Hyun slowly lifted one corner, careful not to move too fast. Rui’s face was blotchy and tear-streaked, his nose pink, ears still trembling. His pupils were small with fear, but there was recognition there now, a fragile thread of trust.
“Hey,” Hyun whispered, brushing his thumb gently over Rui’s cheek. “You’re safe, kitten. I’ve got you.”
Rui blinked, tears spilling silently. “Hyun sounded mad.”
Hyun’s chest ached. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry, Rui. I’d never be mad at you.”
Rui sniffled softly. “Rui thought Hyun would hit.”
Hyun froze. The words hit like a cold slap.
He shook his head immediately, eyes wide. “No. No, never. Rui, look at me.”
It took a few seconds, but Rui finally lifted his gaze. Hyun cupped his face carefully, thumbs tracing over damp skin.
“I will never hurt you,” Hyun said, voice low but steady. “Not ever. You can cry, you can yell, you can bite my arm if you need to, but I will never hurt you.”
Rui’s lip trembled. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
That seemed to be enough. Rui’s shoulders relaxed, the tension slowly draining out of him. He sniffled again, wiping his eyes clumsily with his sleeve.
Hyun moved carefully now, coaxing Rui to lie back against the pillows. He adjusted the blankets, pressing the back of his hand to Rui’s cheek again. The fever was still there, but his breathing had steadied.
“Okay,” Hyun murmured. “Let’s cool you down a bit.”
He fetched a damp cloth from the bathroom, wringing it out carefully before returning to sit beside Rui. The hybrid watched him the whole time, quiet but no longer afraid.
When Hyun placed the cloth on his forehead, Rui flinched lightly but didn’t pull away. His ears twitched, tail curling around his thigh.
“Too cold?” Hyun asked.
Rui shook his head. “Feels nice.”
Hyun smiled faintly, brushing a few strands of hair away from Rui’s face. “Good.”
Minutes passed in soft silence. Only the hum of the fan and Rui’s shallow breathing filled the air.
Then, quietly, “Hyun?”
“Yeah?”
“Rui’s sorry.”
Hyun frowned. “For what?”
“For making Hyun worry.”
Hyun’s chest tightened again. He reached down and stroked behind Rui’s ear, gentle and rhythmic. “Don’t be. It’s my job to worry. You just focus on getting better, okay?”
Rui’s tail twitched once, then settled. “Okay.”
When Rui drifted off again, still curled beneath the blanket, Hyun stayed beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The pale light through the curtains made his fevered skin look even more fragile.
Hyun reached for Rui’s hand, intertwining their fingers loosely, thumb tracing small circles against the back of Rui’s knuckles.
“Never again,” Hyun murmured under his breath. “Never that tone, never that look.”
He leaned forward, brushing a faint kiss across Rui’s temple.
The fever would pass. The fear would fade.
But Hyun knew the sound of that sob, the way Rui’s body had trembled in his arms, would stay with him for a long time.
So he stayed right there, quiet and unmoving, until Rui’s breathing evened out and the sunlight shifted into the soft gold of late afternoon.
When Rui finally stirred again, the first thing he saw was Hyun, still sitting beside him, tired but smiling softly, one hand resting protectively over his own.
“Hyun stayed,” Rui murmured weakly.
“Of course I did,” Hyun whispered back. “Always.”
And this time, when Rui’s small hand reached out from under the blanket to clutch at Hyun’s shirt, there was no fear, only trust.
Only warmth.
And every time Rui got sick, that tendency came back.
It always came when he was feverish, head foggy, and patience worn thin. His teeth would ache, jaw tightening like he needed something to hold onto just to stay grounded.
It started small. A soft whine muffled into his pillow, the sheets crumpled in his grip. But the ache didn’t stop there. It crept up through his gums, an itch under his skin. His body didn’t know what to do with all the energy trapped inside him.
He rolled over, face flushed, hair plastered to his temple.
Hyun, half asleep on the chair beside the bed, stirred at the sound of Rui’s restless shifting.
“Rui,” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep. “You okay?”
Rui didn’t answer. He just gave a quiet, frustrated noise, something between a groan and a growl, and reached for the nearest thing within reach—the old monkey plushie Hyun had given him months ago. Its ears were already frayed from nights like this. Rui bit down on it, just enough to keep from gritting his teeth too hard, eyes squeezed shut as if the pressure helped dull the throbbing in his jaw.
Hyun blinked, watching him for a few seconds. Then, quietly, he got up. “You’re doing it again,” he said softly, almost fondly.
Rui’s reply came out muffled. “Can’t help it.”
Hyun sighed, tugging the blanket up higher over Rui’s shoulders. His hand lingered there, thumb brushing against the fabric—steady, grounding. Rui leaned into that touch without thinking, the way someone leans toward warmth in the cold.
When Hyun sat down on the edge of the bed, Rui shifted closer again, eyelids drooping. He mumbled something incoherent, half apology, half plea. Hyun didn’t catch the words, but he understood anyway.
“Alright,” Hyun whispered. “I’m here. Just breathe.”
Rui’s teeth brushed against the edge of Hyun’s sleeve, testing. Then, like muscle memory, he bit down gently, just enough to feel the resistance, not enough to hurt. Hyun didn’t flinch. He just let him, resting a hand in Rui’s hair, letting the boy’s trembling settle.
It was strange, maybe, how this had become part of their quiet language. Rui didn’t need to explain. Hyun didn’t need to ask. It was the only way Rui could ease that strange, aching restlessness when sickness got the better of him.
Hyun stayed there until Rui’s breathing evened out, until the grip on his arm loosened and the monkey plush slipped from Rui’s fingers to the blanket.
By the time dawn crept through the curtains, Rui was asleep again. Hyun watched him for a moment, brushing stray strands of hair from his face. There was a faint mark on his own sleeve where Rui had bitten, and somehow, it made him smile.
“Bite marks again,” he murmured, voice low but warm. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Rui didn’t stir. Just breathed, slow and steady, as the fever finally began to break.
By midafternoon, Rui’s fever had gone down, but his attitude had not.
If anything, the improvement in temperature only made room for his usual streak of impossible stubbornness.
Hyun had been expecting it, really. The moment Rui had enough energy to start complaining, it meant he was recovering. Still, that didn’t make it any easier.
“Rui, please,” Hyun said for what felt like the tenth time, arms crossed in front of the couch. “You need to stay in bed.”
“Rui hates bed,” came the immediate whine. The hybrid was standing halfway between the couch and the kitchen, still wrapped in his blanket like a cape. His tail flicked from side to side, ears angled back in visible irritation. “It’s boring. Smells like medicine.”
“That’s because you spilled your syrup on the sheets yesterday,” Hyun replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Rui didn’t spill it! Gravity did!”
Hyun gave him a look. “We’re not blaming gravity again.”
Rui huffed, turning away dramatically and tugging the blanket tighter around himself. He looked every bit like an indignant cat—tail puffed slightly, shoulders squared in defiance, but feet bare and wobbling a little from exhaustion.
Hyun sighed and approached, softening his tone. “You’re still dizzy. You’ll fall if you keep walking around like that.”
“No,” Rui mumbled, eyes darting away. “Rui’s fine now. Rui wants milk.”
“I’ll get you milk if you get back in bed.”
Rui’s ears twitched. “Warm milk?”
“Of course.”
For a moment, it looked like he might obey. But then Rui’s pink-and-black eyes narrowed mischievously. “Rui wants watermelon too.”
Hyun exhaled. “No watermelon while you’re sick.”
“But Rui wants watermelon.”
“Watermelon is cold. You’re sick. You’ll make it worse.”
“Rui promises to chew slow.”
“That’s not how it works.”
Rui’s tail lashed once, the picture of a sulking cat denied a treat. He plopped himself onto the floor instead of the bed, curling up dramatically in his blanket nest like some sort of tragic figure.
Hyun just stared for a moment, speechless. “You’re really testing my patience, you know that?”
Rui mumbled something that sounded like “patience is weak” and buried his face into the blanket.
“Unbelievable,” Hyun muttered under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
He fetched the promised warm milk anyway. When he returned, Rui was still on the floor, though now he had somehow rolled halfway under the couch, the blanket tangled around his legs.
“Rui,” Hyun said, fighting back a laugh. “What are you doing?”
“Rui lives here now,” came the muffled reply. “Rui is floor cat.”
“Floor cat doesn’t get milk.”
There was a pause, followed by a quiet “…Fine.”
Rui wriggled out reluctantly, hair sticking up in all directions, and climbed onto the couch. Hyun handed him the cup. Rui took it with both hands, sniffling once before sipping slowly.
The moment the warmth hit his tongue, his entire expression softened. His ears perked slightly, tail curling lazily around his thigh.
Hyun sat beside him, watching with amused fondness. “Better?”
Rui nodded, cheeks puffed. “Warm milk forgives all things.”
“Good to know,” Hyun said, chuckling. “Does it forgive taking medicine too?”
Rui froze mid-sip. “No.”
“Rui.”
“Rui already took some earlier.”
“That was ten hours ago.”
Rui looked everywhere but at him. “…Still counts.”
“Alright,” Hyun said patiently, reaching for the small bottle on the table. “You can either drink it now, or I’ll have to give it to you myself.”
That earned him a suspicious squint. “What does that mean?”
Hyun didn’t answer, just opened the bottle and held the spoon steady. Rui leaned back on the couch cushions, ears flat, tail flicking in protest.
“You’re evil,” he said accusingly.
Hyun smiled faintly. “If I were evil, I wouldn’t have warmed your milk.”
Rui pouted, then sighed dramatically. “Fine.” He took the spoon, swallowed, and immediately made the most exaggerated face Hyun had ever seen. “Bitter! Evil!”
Hyun laughed, wiping a small smear of syrup from Rui’s chin. “It’s strawberry flavor.”
“Lies.”
“Real strawberries don’t make you better,” Hyun said simply, leaning back against the couch.
Rui didn’t answer. He just curled closer, resting his head against Hyun’s arm. His tail flicked once, then settled across Hyun’s lap. The quiet stretched out between them, softened by the hum of the ceiling fan and the muted sounds of the city outside.
When Hyun looked down, Rui’s eyes were half-shut again, the milk cup resting on his stomach. He wasn’t asleep, not quite, but his breathing had gone slow and even, like he was pretending not to give in.
“Go on,” Hyun murmured. “You can sleep now.”
Rui mumbled something under his breath. Hyun leaned closer.
“…Hyun won’t go, right?” Rui asked softly, voice thin and uncertain.
Hyun blinked, surprised by the question. “No,” he said immediately. “I’ll be right here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Rui hummed, eyes closing fully this time. His hand found Hyun’s sleeve, fingers clutching lightly, like he needed to confirm that the warmth beside him was real.
As minutes turned into hours, Rui drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes mumbling half-dreamed words, sometimes twitching his ears when Hyun moved too fast. The fever had left him weak, but his stubbornness hadn’t dimmed at all.
At one point, Hyun stood to grab a towel, and Rui’s sleepy voice drifted after him. “Where going?”
“Nowhere,” Hyun said gently. “Just getting something to cool your head.”
“Stay,” Rui murmured, barely audible.
Hyun paused. Then he went back, sitting down again. He set the towel aside and brushed his fingers through Rui’s hair instead, watching the hybrid’s body relax almost instantly.
He smiled. “See? Not going anywhere.”
Rui’s tail gave one lazy flick of satisfaction.
---
That night, Hyun barely moved from his spot. Every time he tried, Rui’s ears twitched and his fingers found him again, clinging in sleep.
By dawn, Rui’s fever had finally broken. His breathing was normal again, color returning to his face.
Hyun stayed awake just long enough to make sure of it, then leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, exhaustion catching up.
When Rui finally woke for real, the first thing he saw was Hyun, fast asleep beside him, hair messy, jaw slack from exhaustion.
He blinked slowly, tail flicking once, and whispered softly to the still room, “Hyun’s tired ‘cause of Rui.”
Then he smiled, small and content, before curling back into the warmth beside him.
By the third day, the fever was gone.
Hyun knew before the thermometer confirmed it; he didn’t even need to check. The signs were obvious.
For one, the apartment was no longer quiet.
“Hyuuuun,” Rui’s voice sang from the living room, stretched into three whole syllables. “Can Rui play with the pink yarn now?”
Hyun froze mid-sip of his coffee. There it was—the telltale sign of recovery.
The Rui who’d been curled up and sleepy the last two days was gone. In his place stood a fully recharged, restless cat hybrid whose energy had come back all at once.
“No yarn yet,” Hyun said automatically, not even turning around.
“Why not!” Rui protested immediately, tail flicking in indignation. “Rui feels fine! Rui’s fever’s gone! Rui is perfectly healthy and full of energy!”
“You’re also still wearing your blanket like a cape,” Hyun replied, looking over his shoulder.
Rui blinked, looked down, and huffed. “That’s fashion, Hyun. Rui is a trendsetter.”
“Rui is going to trip.”
“Rui never trips!”
That claim was immediately disproven when Rui turned too fast and nearly sent himself face-first into the couch. Hyun didn’t even blink; he’d seen worse.
“See?” Rui said quickly, regaining his balance with a sheepish grin. “Graceful. Rui lands on his feet.”
Hyun shook his head, hiding a smile behind his mug. “You’re unbelievable.”
Rui padded closer, ears flicking forward in curiosity. “So, can Rui play now?”
Hyun set his mug down. “Not yet. You’re still weak. Your claws could snag, and you’ll end up coughing again.”
Rui’s entire face scrunched up. “Hyun’s so mean! Rui’s been a very good patient!”
“Good patients don’t sneak out of bed to chase dust bunnies under the table.”
Rui gasped, feigning outrage. “That was for exercise! Rui needs to stretch after lying down all day!”
“That was at 3 a.m.”
“Rui’s internal clock is artistic.”
Hyun stared at him for a moment. “That’s not how clocks work.”
Rui puffed his cheeks, crossing his arms with an exaggerated sulk. His ears flattened slightly, not angry, just frustrated in that childish, post-sickness way. The kind that meant he was finally strong enough to argue again.
“You’re sulking,” Hyun said lightly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“…Maybe.” Rui mumbled, his tail curling in tiny, restless flicks. “Rui just wants to play.”
Hyun softened at that, sighing. “You will. Just not yet. One more day.”
“One more day is forever.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And it was forever.”
“Rui.”
Rui pouted harder, then finally slumped down beside Hyun on the couch, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Hyun’s cruel, Rui’s oppressed.”
Hyun pretended not to hear it.
After a minute of silence, Rui’s head dropped onto Hyun’s shoulder with a small sigh. “Fine. Rui will wait. But Hyun has to promise something.”
Hyun raised an eyebrow. “What is it this time?”
“When Rui is better, Hyun will play too.”
“Play with the yarn?”
“Yes.” Rui’s ears perked up. “Rui wants Hyun to hold one end. So Rui can chase it properly. Like enrichment.”
Hyun chuckled. “You make it sound like I’m your caretaker.”
Rui blinked innocently. “Aren’t you?”
Hyun gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Rui’s adorable,” Rui corrected with a grin.
“Adorably impossible.”
Rui preened at that, his tail curling lazily in satisfaction. He leaned a little more against Hyun, the sulk already dissolving into soft, sleepy comfort now that he’d gotten some attention.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The TV murmured faintly in the background. Sunlight pooled on the floor, and Rui’s tail twitched every so often like he was half-dreaming about pouncing already.
After a few minutes, Hyun reached over to smooth a stray lock of hair from Rui’s face. “You’re still warm,” he murmured.
Rui tilted his head up slightly, blinking. “But not fever warm, right?”
“No,” Hyun said, smiling. “Just Rui warm.”
Rui beamed at that. “Rui warm sounds nice.”
“It is,” Hyun said quietly.
Rui’s eyes softened. He blinked slowly, a lazy, catlike show of contentment, before mumbling, “Hyun’s warm too.”
“Good,” Hyun replied. “Now stay still, and I’ll make you soup.”
Rui’s ears immediately twitched. “But Rui wants yarn, not soup.”
“Soup first.”
“Rui wants pink yarn in soup.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hyun doesn’t understand art.”
Hyun laughed under his breath, ruffling Rui’s hair. “Eat first, create art later.”
Rui huffed dramatically, but didn’t move away. His tail curled tighter around his thigh, an unspoken sign that he’d given in, at least for now.
When Hyun stood up to head to the kitchen, Rui called softly after him.
“Hyun?”
“Yeah?”
“When Rui gets better,” Rui’s voice softened, almost shy. “Can Rui have blue yarn too?”
Hyun looked back at him and smiled. “You can have all the yarn you want.”
Rui’s eyes lit up, his sulk vanishing in an instant. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
And for the first time in days, Rui didn’t argue anymore. He just smiled, soft, lazy, and entirely content, tail flicking in small, happy motions as Hyun disappeared into the kitchen to make him soup.