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Baek Yuseol noticed it on the third day.
Not the first—because Ma Yuseong was a master of disguise when he wanted to be. Not the second—because Yuseol had convinced himself he was imagining things. But the third day? The third day was undeniable.
Yuseong was absent.
Not from class—that would have been too obvious. No, Yuseong was present in body but not in spirit. He sat in his usual seat, offered his usual lazy smiles, deflected questions with his usual annoying charm. But his scarlet eyes were dulled, their usual sharp gleam replaced by something glassy. His dark blue hair, normally tousled in an artfully careless way, looked genuinely disheveled. And when he thought no one was watching, he pressed the heel of his palm against his temple like it hurt to think.
Yuseol watched him across the cafeteria. Watched him push food around his plate without eating. Watched him laugh at something his companions said, except the laugh was a beat too late and a note too hollow.
Something's wrong.
The thought sat heavy in Yuseol's chest, annoying him. Why should he care? Yuseong was infuriating. He was a menace who derived genuine joy from making Yuseol's life difficult.
So why was Yuseol's fork frozen halfway to his mouth? Why were his amber eyes tracking Yuseong's every movement like a compass pointing north?
"Staring," Flame observed dryly from across the table. "You're doing it again."
"Am not."
"You've been holding that same piece of bread for seven minutes. It's fossilizing."
Yuseol shoved the bread in his mouth aggressively, chewed, swallowed, and immediately regretted it because now he had nothing to do with his hands. He settled for glaring at his plate.
Flame sighed. "If you're going to be weird about him, at least be weird at him. The pining-from-afar thing doesn't suit you."
"I'm not pining."
"You're something."
Yuseol didn't have a response to that. Because Flame was right—he was something. He just didn't know what.
By evening, Yuseol had convinced himself he was being ridiculous.
So Yuseong looked tired. So what? People got tired. People had off days. It didn't mean Yuseol had permission to march across the academy and demand answers like some kind of—of concerned person. Which he wasn't. He was merely observant. There was a difference.
He repeated this to himself as his feet carried him toward the eastern dormitory wing. Repeated it as he climbed three flights of stairs. Repeated it as he stood outside Yuseong's door, fist raised to knock.
This is stupid. Turn around. Go back to your room. Read a book. Forget you ever noticed anything.
He knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder.
This time, he heard movement—slow, unsteady shuffling that didn't sound like Yuseong at all. The door cracked open, and Yuseol's carefully prepared speech died on his tongue.
Yuseong looked awful.
Not in the dramatic, oh-no-I've-been-slightly-inconvenienced way he usually performed. Genuinely awful. His face was pale beneath its usual warm complexion, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His lips were chapped. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp clumps. And when he blinked at Yuseol, recognition took a full three seconds to register.
"Yuseol?" His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual teasing lilt. "What—"
"You're sick."
Yuseong's brow furrowed like he was trying to process the statement. "No, I'm—"
"You're sick," Yuseol repeated, stepping forward without thinking. Yuseong stumbled back instinctively, and that's when Yuseol noticed the sheen of sweat on his neck, the way his hands trembled slightly at his sides. "How long?"
"I don't know what you're—"
"How. Long."
Yuseong's jaw tightened. For a moment, his facade flickered—the mask of indifference cracking to reveal something raw underneath. Then he smiled, and it was the fakest thing Yuseol had ever seen.
"Three days," Yuseong admitted, leaning against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "Maybe four. Lost count."
"Four days?" Yuseol's voice came out sharper than intended. "You've been sick for four days and you've just been—what? Pretending everything's fine?"
"Wouldn't be the first time."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than Yuseol expected. He stared at Yuseong—really stared—and suddenly saw all the things he'd missed before. The way Yuseong's sleeves were slightly too long, hiding how thin his wrists had gotten. The way his shoulders curved inward, making him look smaller. The way his scarlet eyes, usually so bright with mischief, looked like dying embers.
How did I not notice?
"I'm fine," Yuseong said, and the lie was so transparent it was almost funny. "You can go now. Don't want you catching—"
Yuseol pushed past him into the room.
"Hey—"
"Shut up." Yuseol looked around. The room was neat—too neat, like someone had made a half-hearted attempt to tidy but had run out of energy halfway through. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, empty. A blanket crumpled on the floor. And on the desk, a stack of assignments that had clearly been completed through sheer force of will.
Yuseol turned back to face him. "You're an idiot."
Yuseong blinked. "Excuse me?"
"A complete, absolute idiot." Yuseol crossed his arms, but his voice betrayed him, softening despite his best efforts. "You've been running a fever for four days and you've just been... what? Toughing it out? Alone?"
Something flickered across Yuseong's face—surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like he genuinely hadn't considered that anyone would care.
"I'm used to it," Yuseong said quietly.
And that—that—was what finally broke through Yuseol's carefully constructed walls.
He stepped forward, grabbed Yuseong's wrist—ignoring how hot his skin felt, how fast his pulse was racing—and pulled him toward the bed.
"What are you—"
"Sit. No, lie down. Actually, lie down and don't move."
Yuseong stared at him like he'd grown a second head. But his body betrayed him, sagging with exhaustion as he let Yuseol push him onto the mattress. Yuseol yanked the blanket up to his chin, ignoring Yuseong's weak protests.
"This is unnecessary," Yuseong mumbled, but his eyes were already closing.
"It's necessary." Yuseol grabbed the empty glass, refilled it from the pitcher on the desk, and pressed it into Yuseong's hands. "Drink."
Yuseong drank. Small, obedient sips that made Yuseol's chest ache in a way he refused to examine.
"You don't have to stay," Yuseong said, but his fingers curled around the glass like he was afraid the other would take it and leave.
Yuseol sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know."
They were silent for a long moment. Then Yuseong's lips twitched—not his usual smirk, but something smaller, more fragile.
"You're being nice," Yuseong murmured. "It's suspicious."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late."
Yuseol huffed, looking away. His ears burned. The room was too warm, or maybe that was just the proximity to Yuseong's feverish body, or maybe—
Oh no.
The realization hit him like a mana blast to the chest.
He didn't just care about Yuseong. He cared in the way that made his stomach flip and his thoughts tangle and his heart do that stupid skipping thing every time Yuseong looked at him. He cared in the way that terrified him, because caring about Ma Yuseong—complicated, lonely, mask-wearing Ma Yuseong—meant opening himself up to a version of the future he hadn't planned for.
But then Yuseong's hand found his, fingers cold despite the fever, and squeezed weakly.
"Thank you," Yuseong whispered, barely audible. "For noticing."
Yuseol swallowed hard. He didn't pull his hand away.
"Next time," he said, voice rough, "tell me sooner."
Yuseong's eyes fluttered open—just a crack, just enough to meet Yuseol's gaze. "Next time?"
"Don't push it."
But Yuseong was already smiling, that soft genuine one he tried so hard to hide, and Yuseol realized with dawning horror that he was in deep. Terribly, irreversibly deep.
He stayed until Yuseong fell asleep. Then he stayed a little longer.
And when he finally crept out into the cold hallway, pressing his free hand against his racing heart, he had only one thought:
What have I gotten myself into?