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Romeo woke up annoyed. That, at least, was familiar.
Romeo was sick of idiots on a near-constant basis. He was sick of sloppy accounting, of second-years who thought bluffing counted as strategy, of the way Taiga treated danger like a flirtation instead of a threat. He was sick of noise, of incompetence, of people touching his things without permission.
But this—This was different. Romeo was sick. It took him a full ten seconds to realize something was wrong.
Not pain. Not exactly. Romeo catalogued pain the way other people catalogued wine—sharp, dull, transient, ignorable. This wasn't pain. This was heaviness. A leaden pull behind his eyes, a faint pressure in his chest like someone had set a hand there and forgotten to remove it.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling of his room, listening to the distant din of the casino. The way the building breathed. Machines whirred. Somewhere, money changed hands.
Normally, that sound grounded him. Reminded him that everything was as it should be. Today, it grated. It was too much. God. Everything was too much.
Romeo inhaled—and paused. His breath hitched. Just a fraction. Barely worth noting. Except everything about Romeo Lucci was worth noting, and his body did not misfire without permission.
He pushed himself upright. Bad idea. The room tilted. Not dramatically, nothing so gauche, but enough that he had to brace a hand against the mattress, jaw tightening as irritation flared hot and immediate.
"…Unacceptable," he muttered.
He pressed his fingers to his temple. Warm. Too warm. His skin felt wrong—oversensitive, like his nerves were turned up a notch too high. The silk sheets felt abrasive against his palms.
Romeo did not get fevers. Romeo did not get weak. There was too much to be done. He swung his legs over the side of the bed anyway, posture immaculate out of pure spite, and stood. The floor swayed. That got his attention.
He froze, breath shallow now, eyes narrowing as he took stock. His heartbeat was louder than it should've been. Too fast. Too present. His mouth tasted faintly metallic.
This was not something he could bully his way through.
Slowly, carefully, Romeo lowered himself back onto the bed—not collapsing, never that—and stared at his hands. They were steady. Perfectly groomed. Cuticles immaculate. No tremor.
Good. If he was going to be sick, he was going to do it correctly.
He reached for his phone. Paused. Then, with visible distaste, set it back down. No witnesses. Not yet.
Taiga noticed because Romeo hadn't said anything.
By nine in the morning, there should have been at least three messages. One correcting something Taiga hadn't technically done wrong. One about margins. One about tone, because Taiga's existence apparently had one and it was always incorrect.
But there were no messages. Taiga stared at his phone, thumb hovering. Refreshed the screen. Nothing.
"Huh," he said to no one.
This was… not normal.
Romeo did not sleep in. Romeo did not forget. Romeo did not wake up and decide to grant the world mercy. If Romeo was silent, it meant something had gone wrong—or something was being calculated.
Taiga rolled out of bed anyway, pulled on a jacket, and headed upstairs with the easy confidence of someone who assumed he was about to be yelled at and was fine with that outcome.
He knocked. Once.
No answer. Taiga's shark-toothed grin thinned, just slightly.
"Lulu…" he called, voice light and sing-songy. "It's uh… nine-oh-seven. If this is some kind of power play, I respect it, but I don't know what the angle is here."
Nothing. He knocked again, sharper this time.
"Hey!"
Still nothing. That was when the unease crept in, slow, irritating, unwelcome. Taiga didn't like that. Romeo heard everything. Even when he pretended not to. Especially then.
Taiga tried the door. Locked. That was good at least.
He let himself in the usual way, which, to Romeo's irritation, did not involve a key. But once Taiga had gotten the door open, he wasn't immediately met with the usual barrage of protests. That was bad.
The room was wrong. That was worse.
Not messy. Romeo's version of wrong was never chaos. It was stillness. The curtains were half-drawn, light spilling across the bed where Romeo sat upright, back straight, hands folded loosely in his lap like he was waiting for a verdict.
Taiga stopped short.
"…Okay," he said carefully. "Either you're about to skin me alive, or you're dying."
Romeo lifted his head.
His eyes were sharp, focused—and yet, glassy in a way Taiga had never seen before. His skin had a faint flush to it, color where there shouldn't be any.
He did not look amused.
"Don't be dramatic," Romeo said, voice steady, which somehow made it worse.
Taiga stepped closer, grin gone now, gaze flicking fast. "You didn't text."
"I was occupied."
"With what," Taiga asked, "contemplating mortality?"
Romeo's jaw tightened. That was answer enough.
Taiga closed the distance in three strides and reached out before thinking better of it, pressing the back of his fingers to Romeo's forehead. Hot.
"Yikes," Taiga muttered. "You're burning up."
Romeo recoiled immediately, batting his hand away. "Don't touch me."
"You're on fire."
"I'm fine."
"You're sitting on your bed like you're waiting for a priest."
Romeo's lips pressed thin. "If you're done diagnosing me—"
Taiga crouched in front of him, eyes level now, uncharacteristically serious. "You look like hell."
Silence. Romeo exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. "I am experiencing… a temporary inconvenience."
Taiga blinked. Then laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "Did you just call being sick an inconvenience?"
"I don't get sick."
"Well," Taiga said, glancing at the flush creeping up Romeo's neck, "congrats on your first time."
Romeo's hand clenched in the sheets.
Taiga softened, just a fraction. "How long?"
"…This morning."
"And you didn't call anyone."
"I didn't need to."
Taiga straightened, decision made. "Yeah. You do."
Romeo looked up at him, eyes narrowing. "You're not calling Mortkranken."
"I wasn't planning to."
"You're not calling that PMS either."
"I might."
"You're not—"
Taiga leaned in, close enough that Romeo had to focus to keep his balance.
"You don't get to be terrifying and fragile," Taiga said quietly. "Pick one. Right now, you're losing the second fight."
For a long moment, Romeo said nothing. Then, very softly, he muttered, "…I don't like this."
Taiga's expression shifted to something unreadable. "Yeah," he said. "I figured."
Romeo inhaled, sharp and measured, and pushed his hands against the mattress. "I'm late," he said.
Taiga blinked. "…For what?"
"Class." Romeo swung his legs forward, already moving, already deciding. "Get out of my way."
"Lulu—"
He stood. And to his credit, for exactly half a second, it worked.
Then the world lurched. It wasn't dramatic. There was no collapse, no flailing. Just a sudden, undeniable betrayal—his balance evaporating, his vision blurring at the edges like someone had smeared oil across glass. Romeo swayed. His knee buckled.
"—shit," Taiga breathed, lunging forward just in time to catch him.
Romeo's weight hit him harder than expected—solid, unyielding. His hand fisted instinctively in the front of Taiga's jacket, knuckles white, grip furious rather than panicked.
"I said I'm late," Romeo muttered, jaw clenched like he could argue gravity into submission.
Taiga tightened his hold, one arm around Romeo's back, the other braced at his hip. He could feel the heat through the fabric, radiating off him in waves.
"You're not late," Taiga said softly. "You're horizontal-adjacent."
Romeo made a low, displeased sound in his throat. "Let go."
"No."
"I don't miss class."
"Today you do."
Romeo tried to straighten again. Tried. His legs didn't cooperate. The effort stole his breath, left him leaning fully into Taiga's chest despite himself. For a terrifying second, he just… stayed there. Still. Breathing unevenly.
"I have a schedule," Romeo said, quieter now. Not pleading. Just stating a fact that had always been true. "People expect me."
Taiga shifted his grip, firmer, grounding. "Yeah. And right now, I expect you to sit back down before you faceplant and haunt me forever."
Romeo scoffed weakly. "I would never haunt you."
"Good," Taiga said. "I don't know how to fuck a ghost."
He guided Romeo back toward the bed. Romeo resisted on principle, dragging his heels like defiance alone might hold him upright, but the moment he sat, the tension bled out of him in a way that made Taiga's chest tighten.
Romeo stared at the floor. "…I'm late," he repeated, like if he said it enough times, the universe would correct itself.
Taiga crouched in front of him again, hands resting loosely on his knees this time—present, but not crowding.
"Hey," he said, softer than he'd ever admit to. "Lulu. Look at me."
Romeo didn't at first. Then, reluctantly, he did. His pupils were blown wide. Fever-bright. Annoyed and unfocused and very, very human.
"You don't miss class," Taiga said. "I know. That's why this is scaring me."
That got a reaction. Romeo's lips pressed thin. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"…I don't like being like this," he admitted again, barely audible.
Taiga nodded. "Yeah. I know." Then, gentler, but unyielding, "You're not going anywhere. Not until you can stand without arguing with the floor."
Romeo closed his eyes. Just for a second. Didn't protest.
He let himself be guided back onto the bed, movements stiff but compliant, like the effort of resisting simply wasn't worth the cost anymore. When Taiga pressed him down gently by the shoulder, Romeo went—no sharp comment, no snapped reprimand. Just a slow exhale.
His head tipped back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded now, lashes too dark against flushed skin. The fire in him had dimmed, banked low, leaving only heat and exhaustion behind.
Taiga stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching his chest rise and fall.
"…You good?" he asked.
Romeo's eyes cracked open. "Define good."
"Conscious."
"Yes."
"Not actively trying to escape?"
"…Give it time."
Taiga snorted, relief threading through it despite himself. He reached for the blanket and tugged it up over Romeo's legs.
Romeo frowned faintly. "Don't—"
"Too late."
The complaint died halfway out of his mouth.
Taiga glanced at the nightstand. Then at the phone lying there, screen dark, face down. Sleek. Expensive. Untouched since morning.
He hesitated. Then he picked it up.
Romeo noticed—not immediately, but enough. His eyes sharpened just a fraction. "Put that back."
"No."
"That's not yours."
"You're burning up and you missed class," Taiga said, already unlocking it with practiced ease. "We're past 'mine' and 'yours.'"
Romeo frowned. "How did you—"
"Taiga Hoshibami, Blundering Thoughtless Hooligan," Taiga laughed. "You think I don't know your passcode?"
"You should not—"
"—use your birthday? Yeah, I know. Bad security. We've discussed this. You, however, using mine? I'll be sure to give you shit about that later."
He was already scrolling. Messages. Notifications. Missed calls. Romeo's world, laid bare in tidy rows. Taiga's thumb hovered over one contact.
Romeo's eyes fluttered closed again, lashes trembling. "Don't text anyone important."
Taiga paused. "Define important."
"…Everyone."
That earned a quiet huff of laughter.
"Relax," Taiga said. "I'm not tanking your reputation. I'm preserving it."
He opened the class thread.
Unwell. Will be absent today. Materials to be reviewed independently.
He stared at it for a second. Too stiff. He erased it. Typed again.
Fever. Out today. I'll catch up.
Sent. He locked the phone and set it back down exactly where it had been.
Romeo's eyes opened. "…You're going to ruin me," he murmured.
"You're welcome," Taiga said. "Also, if anyone asks, you're violently contagious."
Romeo made a sound that might've been a laugh if he'd had the energy. "I don't need a keeper."
"Good," Taiga replied. "Because you got one anyway."
Romeo didn't argue.
His eyes drifted shut again, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, breath evening out despite the heat radiating off him.
Taiga sat back in the chair beside the bed, arms folding loosely as he watched.
Just in case.
Romeo's eyes slit open again, unfocused but sharp enough to aim. "…I'm shocked," he murmured, voice rough, "that you actually tried to sound like me."
Taiga glanced over from the chair. "Now's not really the time to fuck around."
A corner of Romeo's mouth twitched. "Oh. So you do know the difference. Despite acting like you don't."
Taiga snorted, the sound breaking into a laugh he didn't bother to suppress. "Yeah. But with any luck, the fever'll make you forget this conversation ever happened."
"Hilarious," Romeo muttered.
Still, he settled back into the pillows a little more, tension easing out of his shoulders. Not asleep. Not relaxed. But no longer braced for impact.
Taiga watched it happen. Then Romeo's brow creased. Just slightly. Enough to register.
Taiga straightened. "What."
Romeo hesitated. That alone was damning.
"There was," he said carefully, "a small shipment of poker chips arriving today. Custom set. I was meant to oversee the changeover. Coordinate the floor, the tills, the tables."
Taiga waved a hand. "I can handle it."
Romeo's eyes flicked to him. Suspicious. Assessing. "You?"
"Me."
A pause.
"…You'll follow the ledger?"
"Yes."
"The color sequence?"
"Yes."
"The count discrepancies?"
"Yes."
Romeo exhaled, sharp and dissatisfied, but nodded. "Fine."
Taiga didn't relax. He could feel it—something still caught under Romeo's ribs, some last splinter of unease.
"There's more," Taiga said.
Romeo looked away. "…I was looking forward to it," he admitted, quietly enough that it almost slipped past.
Taiga blinked. That was not the answer he expected. "Yeah?"
Romeo swallowed. "New run. Clean edges. Perfect weight. The sound is different when they're fresh." He sighed. "It matters."
Taiga's expression shifted—something warm and unreadable. "You're adorable."
"I am not—"
"I'll do better," Taiga cut in. "I'll find the package, keep it untouched, and bring it up to the VIP room. You can distribute them yourself later. When you're not… melting."
Romeo looked at him. The tension in his face loosened. Just a little. Enough that when his mouth curved this time, it was unmistakable. Weak—but a real smile.
"…Acceptable," Romeo said.
Taiga smiled. "Oh no."
"What."
"Now you're delirious. Smiling at my suggestion?"
He leaned in and pressed the back of his hand to Romeo's forehead. Still hot.
Romeo swatted him away with more indignation than force. "I said don't touch me."
Taiga laughed again, low and fond despite himself. "Get some rest, Lulu. The casino will survive a day without you."
Romeo closed his eyes. This time, he didn't argue.
"Lulu."
No reply. Taiga waited a minute. Two.
"…Romeo."
Nothing. No sharp inhale. No irritated correction. No complaint about volume or tone or familiarity.
Taiga leaned closer, peering at him. Romeo's breathing had evened out, lashes resting against flushed skin, mouth parted just slightly like his body had finally decided it was done negotiating.
"Huh," Taiga murmured.
He straightened and cleared his throat. "Just so you know," he said conversationally, "I'm seriously considering shooting up your curtains."
That should've done it. Romeo loved the curtains. They were custom. Heavy. A lovely shade Romeo had paid quite a bit to commission. Once, he'd gone on a ten-minute rant about how they repelled heat and complimented the light balance in the room.
Taiga waited. Nothing. Not even a twitch. Taiga barked out a laugh, quiet and startled. "Wow. You're really out."
He stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, looking down at him. At the way his brow had smoothed, the tension finally leeched out of his posture. At how small he looked like this—unarmed, unarmored, not watching the world for slights and errors.
He leaned forward before he could think better of it and pressed a brief kiss to Romeo's forehead. Hot. Still too hot.
"Pretty thing," Taiga whispered, fond and worried all at once.
Then he straightened, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he paused.
"…Fuck," he muttered under his breath. "I should've asked where the fuck packages get delivered to here."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Romeo slept.
Properly this time—deep and unguarded, breath slow and even, the sharp edges finally sanded down by exhaustion. The fever hadn't vanished entirely, but it had loosened its grip enough to let him sink instead of fight.
His phone lay on the nightstand, face up.
It lit the room softly with several messages in sequence.
So. Someone thought it would be funny to deliver the chips to Hotarubi.
I made sure to tell them exactly how funny it was.
Unrelated but I'm not allowed to go to Hotarubi for a month.
Good news: all the chips are here.
Bad news: they're all wet.
I've got a bunch of first-years laying them out to dry in the VIP room.
They'll be ready to go before you wake up.
I think.
[image attachment: Rows upon rows of poker chips covering every available surface in the VIP room]