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The rain was drumming an annoying beat against the windows of Leblanc, which matched the pounding in Akira’s head. He was buried under three blankets, feeling like a total mess, while Morgana paced around on the duvet looking worried.
"Akira, you're burning up. I told you that last Palace run in the rain was a stupid idea," Morgana hissed. His voice felt way too loud in the quiet attic.
A bell chimed downstairs. The shop was closed, but the door clicked open anyway. A few moments later, Akira heard the floorboards creaking as someone walked up with a very specific, familiar step.
"Kurusu? You're ten minutes late for our match. If this is some tactic to throw me off my game..."
Goro Akechi stopped at the top of the stairs. He wasn't wearing his usual tan princely coat. Instead, he had on a dark, sharp turtleneck. He looked like his normal high-stakes detective self until he actually saw the state of the bed.
"Oh," Akechi said, his voice getting lower. "You look pathetic."
Akira tried to sit up, but the whole room started spinning. "Goro. Forgot... jazz club."
"Clearly." Akechi crossed the room, smelling like expensive cologne and rain. He reached out,
hesitating for a second before pressing the back of his hand to Akira’s forehead. His skin was shockingly cold and felt like heaven.
Akechi pulled back quickly as if he’d been burned. "You’re a biological hazard. Stay down."
"I've got it handled," Morgana chirped, though Akechi ignored the cat completely.
"I didn't spend months cultivating a rivalry with a 'Wild Card' only for him to be defeated by a seasonal flu," Akechi muttered, already pulling off his gloves. "Stay there. Don't die. It would be a PR nightmare for me."
For the next hour, the attic was full of the sounds of Akechi being aggressively efficient. He didn't just bring water. He brought a specific brand of sports drink he’d found at the pharmacy down the street. He didn't just bring a towel. He spent five minutes at the sink making sure it was the exact right temperature.
The real struggle happened downstairs. Akira could hear the clatter of pots and the occasional muffled curse word.
When Akechi finally came back, he was carrying a tray with a bowl of rice porridge. It was meticulously arranged, topped with a single, perfectly sliced plum and a sprig of green onion that looked like it had been measured with a ruler.
"Eat," Akechi commanded, sitting on the edge of the bed with a stiff posture. "I had to look up a video. The instructions were unnecessarily vague."
Akira took a shaky spoonful. It was actually good. "Did you... garnish this?"
Akechi’s face turned a faint, dusty pink. "Presentation matters, Kurusu. Even when my audience is a delirious shut-in."
Akira leaned back, the heat of the food making him sleepy. Because of the fever, his filter was totally gone. He reached out, his hot, clumsy fingers catching Akechi’s wrist.
"Goro," Akira mumbled, his eyes half-closed. "You’re really... soft when you’re not trying to kill me."
Akechi froze. He looked down at Akira’s hand, then at his red face. For a moment, the "Detective Prince" mask cracked, revealing something raw and exhausted underneath. He didn't pull away.
"You’re delusional," Akechi whispered, his voice unusually quiet. "Go to sleep, Joker. I’ll be here to mock you when you wake up."
As Akira drifted off, the last thing he felt was a cool, steady hand brushing a stray curl away from his damp forehead.
The rain had stopped by morning, replaced by a thin, sharp sunlight filtering through the attic windows. Akira blinked, his head feeling heavy, but that weird static-buzz of the fever was finally gone. He shifted under the blankets, expecting the usual weight of Morgana on his chest, but the bed was empty. Instead, his gaze drifted to the wooden chair pulled up beside him.
Goro Akechi was still there.
The "Detective Prince" was a complete wreck. He was slumped sideways, his head resting against the back of the chair at an angle that looked genuinely painful. His expensive turtleneck was wrinkled, his hair was a mess of chestnut cowlicks, and most incriminatingly, his hand was still resting on the edge of Akira's mattress, his fingers curled loosely near Akira’s shoulder.
On the nightstand sat a half-empty glass of water, a discarded damp towel, and a neatly folded receipt from a 24-hour pharmacy.
Akira sat up slowly, the floorboards creaking.
Akechi’s eyes snapped open instantly. He didn't yawn or stretch. Instead, he bolted upright, his hand instinctively twitching toward his side as if reaching for a weapon before he remembered where he was. He looked at Akira, then at his own rumpled clothes, and his face went through a fascinating cycle of confusion, realization, and pure, unadulterated horror.
"You're awake," Akechi said, his voice raspy and sharp. He stood up so quickly the chair nearly toppled over.
"I am," Akira said, offering a small, tired smirk. "Did you stay all night, Goro?"
Akechi began frantically straightening his shirt, his movements jerky. "Don't be absurd. I simply... lost track of time while monitoring your vitals. I couldn't have you dying and leaving me as the primary suspect in a neglect case."
He grabbed his coat from the railing, swinging it over his shoulders with a flourish that was meant to be cool, but it was slightly undercut by the fact that he missed the sleeve on the first try.
"The porridge is in the fridge. Heat it up. Don't touch the coffee machine; you're still too weak to handle caffeine," Akechi commanded, heading for the stairs without looking back. "And Kurusu?"
Akira tilted his head. "Yeah?"
Akechi paused at the top step, his back turned. "If you mention a single word of this to the others, specifically the blonde one, I will ensure your next 'accident' in the Metaverse is not a fever."
The bell at the door chimed a few seconds later. Akira laid back down, breathing in the lingering scent of Akechi’s spicy cologne and the sterile smell of cold medicine. He felt significantly better.