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“Winry?” Dyle’s voice was soft as he called out to the dazed wine glass in front of him. Winry faded in and out of consciousness, his silver glasses off-kilter on his face.
“Winry, stay with me, okay?” Dyle murmured, making sure Winry was seated up right, his hand on his chest as he righted the Toon properly. Winry felt ichor pool in his mouth, spilling beyond his lips as he barely registered Dyle’s look of shock.
“Winry, don’t close your eyes, I’m gonna call someone-” Dyle said urgently, turning to a phone and desperately dialing a number. Winry swooned, hardly able to keep awake.
“You do not have to do this.” Winry muttered, feeling his head be filled with some foul-scented medicine, judging the taste in his mouth. Dyle sighed as he moved the bottle away from the open top, closing the bottle and setting it down on the nightstand. “I understand that, but I feel responsible for you getting sick, therefore, I am responsible for nursing you back to health.”
“You could’ve left me to Sprout and Cosmo.” Winry muttered, his brow furrowing as he squinted at Dyle’s face, seeing the colored tick marks blur together. Dyle leaned closer to fall into his vision. “Sprout and Cosmo are inexperienced with ichor vomiting. Neither of them had even heard of it before I told them of your case, therefore, I am the only option.” Dyle said matter-of-factly, waving a hand dismissively to Winry’s statement. Winry groaned, his head thumping against the pillow. “Alright, fair enough. But was it necessary to hold me in your room?” He asked, and through his blurry vision, he saw the white of Dyle’s face tint pink.
“... Yatta would have been insistent on breaking in if we quarantined you in your room. That, and other factors. You know how Sprout is.” Dyle huffed, lifting a cold, wet towel and laying it upon Winry’s head to soothe the fever. Winry hissed in protest before relaxing. “It sounds like you are making excuses. My room has nothing of interest for Yatta, and Sprout knows full well that I would chuck a wine bottle at him if he dared to enter my room without my express permission.”
Dyle snorted. “You’ve got quite the crass attitude towards that strawberry.”
“He’s too possessive.”
“I wouldn’t call him possessive,” Dyle hummed, turning the towel over. “He’s just very caring for his fellow toons.” He murmured, reaching to grab a glass of water. “How is your throat? It isn’t sore, is it?”
Winry pursed his lips. “It is… Still displeasant, but I can manage it more easily now.” He hummed, watching Dyle’s hands smooth out the blanket on top of him. His face warmed.
“And your stomach? Do you feel the need to throw up again?” Dyle asked, hand ready to swiftly grab a paper bag. Winry waited a moment before answering. “I am okay. It feels more empty than overfull.”
Dyle relaxed slightly. “I’ll make you some soup then. Just hold tight, Winry.” He said, standing up and moving out of the room. Winry laid alone in the bedroom, gazing at the walls that surrounded the bed high off the ground, before he turned over and glanced at the floor below. The ladder that led down to the ground was wooden, worn from years of climbing up and down, and the desk underneath the bedframe was illuminated by a single lantern. He felt nausea build in his throat as he processed the height of the bed above the ground and he quickly turned back onto his back, staring at the ceiling and taking deep breaths.
Moments later, Dyle returned, climbing the ladder and setting a bowl of soup gently upon his lap as he sat right next to Winry. Winry turned his head to face him as Dyle spooned some food in front of him. “Open up, it’ll help your fever.” He coaxed, and Winry gave him an irritated look. “I am not a child.” He muttered defiantly, and Dyle chuckled. “You’re acting like one. Now open up before I shove this spoon in.”
Winry sighed, admitting defeat as he opened his mouth and let the soup spill onto his tongue. It was savory, warm, and as he swallowed it down, he felt the fever recede slightly. Dyle smiled as he noticed the change. “There we go, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Eat shit.” Winry retorted, and Dyle snorted again. “I’m afraid that is unsanitary. Now let’s try to finish this soup.”
Winry opened his mouth again, and Dyle fed him the soup again. The slow process continued for about 10 minutes before there was little food left in the bowl, and Dyle descended down the ladder to set it down on his desk before returning to the bed. “Alright, we’ve done everything for today’s checklist; Medicine, the towel, food… Ah, we’re forgetting to rest.” Dyle turned back to Winry. “Are you feeling fatigued at all?”
Winry shook his head. “Not at all. I just feel very childish.” He muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance and a hint of self-deprecation. Dyle’s brow furrowed as he moved carefully to lay beside Winry, his hand moving to his cheek to turn his head towards him. Winry’s eyes widened.
“Do not feel childish,” Dyle muttered, “I am taking care of you the way you currently deserve. If I had any qualms against this arrangement, I would’ve said it outright. I am not one for subtlety like Dandy is.”
That pulled a weak chuckle from Winry. “You have a way with words, I wonder who could’ve taught you those…” He laughed, tilting his head down and into Dyle’s palm. Dyle smiled. “I taught myself. How dare you assume I got it from someone else?” Winry laughed again.
“You should probably lay somewhere else,” Winry hummed, “Else you’ll get sick and Dandy will chew us both out.” He hummed, and Dyle shook his head, scooting closer to Winry by just an inch. He moved his chain to drape over both of them, acting as a grounding weight in case Winry felt lightheaded. “Nonsense, I have faced worse than ichor vomiting. Now close those eyes and rest, I will be right here.”
Dyle watched Winry’s eyes shut, his breathing evening out, and he felt a warmth spread in his chest as he pulled the toon close, cradling his fragile glass head as he too drifted off.