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Grian wakes up already exhausted.
Not the normal kind, not the stayed‑up‑too-late editing kind, not the “Scar dragged me into a project again” kind. This is the kind that sits behind his eyes like a weight, pressing down every time he tries to blink. His throat aches. His skin feels too warm. His head is full of cotton.
He knows exactly what it is. And he refuses to acknowledge it.
He pushes himself upright, breath catching at the sudden wave of dizziness. “Nope,” he mutters to himself. “Not happening. I have things to do.”
He doesn’t. Not really. But admitting that would mean admitting he’s sick, and he’s not doing that. He shuffles into the living room, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He’s halfway through trying to make tea when the kettle slips from his hand and clatters onto the counter. He winces at the noise.
He’s pale. He knows he is. He can feel it in the way the cold air bites at his cheeks. But he’s fine, he’s handling it.
Gem shows up first. She knocks once, then lets herself in like she always does. “Grian? You didn’t answer my message.”
He freezes in the kitchen doorway, blanket still around his shoulders like a guilty child caught out of bed.
Gem’s eyes narrow. “You look awful.”
“I’m fine,” he says immediately, voice hoarse.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s warm in here.”
Gem walks right past him, touches the kettle, and frowns. “You didn’t even turn it on.”
Grian swallows. “I… was going to.”
She doesn’t argue. She just turns it on, grabs a mug, and starts making tea like she’s done it a thousand times. “Sit down before you fall down.”
“I’m not going to fall-”
He sways.
Gem catches his elbow. “Sit.”
He sits.
She doesn’t push further. She doesn’t lecture. She just sets the tea in front of him and starts tidying the kitchen in that quiet, unobtrusive way she has, the way that says I’m here, but I’m not going to make you talk about it. He hates how grateful he is.
Scar arrives next. Loudly. There’s a crash outside, followed by Scar’s voice: “Grian! Buddy! I brought soup!”
Grian groans. “No. No, no, no-”
Scar bursts through the door with a pot of soup and a grin that falters the moment he sees Grian’s face. “Oh. Oh no. You’re dying.”
“I’m not dying.”
Scar sets the soup down and crouches in front of him, eyes scanning his face with a seriousness Grian isn’t used to. “You’re pale as the day, my friend.”
Grian tries to laugh, but it comes out weak. “It’s just the flu.”
Scar’s expression softens. “Then let us help.”
“I don’t need-”
Scar gently presses the back of his hand to Grian’s forehead. Grian flinches at the touch, not because it hurts, but because it’s too kind.
“Grian,” Scar says quietly, “you’re burning up.”
Grian looks away. Scar doesn’t push. He just stands, moves to the kitchen, and starts ladling soup into bowls while humming under his breath. He’s loud, but he’s trying to be gentle. Grian notices.
Mumbo shows up last. He knocks politely. Waits. Knocks again.
Gem opens the door for him. “He’s pretending he’s fine.”
Mumbo sighs. “Of course he is.”
He walks in, sees Grian curled on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders and a bowl of soup untouched in his hands, and his whole posture softens.
“Mate,” Mumbo says, sitting beside him, “you look terrible.”
Grian groans. “Why is everyone saying that?”
“Because it’s true.”
Mumbo nudges the soup closer. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
Grian’s hands tremble. He hates that they tremble. He hates that Mumbo sees it. He hates that Gem is pretending not to watch and Scar is hovering like a worried bird. He hates that they’re right. He takes a small sip.
Grian wants to be annoyed. He wants to push them away. He wants to insist he can handle it. But he can’t.
He sleeps for nearly twelve hours after eating a bit. When he wakes, the fever has broken enough that he can think again, though everything still aches. His throat feels raw, his limbs heavy, but the sharp edge of misery has dulled. He blinks blearily at the room.
Someone, probably Gem, has cracked the window just enough to let in cool air.
Someone, definitely Scar, has left a ridiculous bouquet of mismatched flowers on the table.
Someone, Mumbo, without question, has tidied the entire living room.
He’s wrapped in two blankets he doesn’t remember agreeing to. He tries to sit up. His body protests. He does it anyway.
Gem appears in the doorway like she’s been listening for movement. “You’re awake.”
Her voice is soft, but not pitying. Just relieved.
Grian clears his throat. “I’m… better.”
Gem raises an eyebrow. “You’re upright. That’s not the same thing.”
She walks over, checks his forehead with the back of her hand. He doesn’t flinch this time. He’s too tired to pretend he doesn’t need it.
“You’re cooler,” she says. “Still warm, but not boiling.”
He nods, eyes drifting shut again. “Good.”
He bursts in with a tray of food, toast, soup, fruit, and something that looks suspiciously like a cookie. “Breakfast for my recovering friend!”
Grian groans. “Scar…”
Scar sets the tray down and crouches beside him. “You don’t have to eat all of it. Just something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Scar smiles, gentle and earnest. “You don’t have to be hungry. You just have to try.”
Grian sighs, but he picks up the toast. His hands shake less today. Scar watches, but not in a way that pressures, more like he’s ready to catch the toast if it falls.
When Grian manages a few bites, Scar beams like he’s won a prize.
He’s in the kitchen, quietly washing dishes that Grian doesn’t remember dirtying. He moves softly, like he’s trying not to disturb the air.
When he comes over, he doesn’t fuss. He just sits on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and studies Grian with that calm, analytical concern he gets when he’s troubleshooting something delicate.
“How’s the head?” Mumbo asks.
“Foggy.”
“How’s the chest?”
“Hurts.”
“How’s the stubbornness?”
Grian glares weakly. Mumbo smiles.
“Still high, then.”
But he reaches out, adjusts the blanket around Grian’s shoulders, and doesn’t comment when Grian leans into the touch.
Gem sits nearby, knitting something small and soft, the quiet click of needles filling the room.
Scar sprawls on the floor, sketching designs for a build he insists Grian will help with “when you’re not dying.”
Mumbo tinkers with a redstone contraption on the table, the gentle clink of components oddly soothing.
They’re not hovering in a loud way. They’re just… present.
Every time Grian drifts off, one of them adjusts his blanket.
Every time he wakes, someone is there with water.
Every time he coughs, someone looks up, just to check.
He hates how much he needs it.
He loves that they don’t make him say so.
He wakes from a nap and finds Gem reading, Scar doodling, Mumbo half-asleep in a chair. The room is warm, quiet, safe.
His chest doesn’t hurt as much.
His head isn’t pounding.
His body feels heavy, but not collapsing.
He whispers, voice rough, “Thank you.”
Gem looks up first. “For what?”
“For… all this.”
Scar grins. “We’re your friends, G. This is what we do.”
Mumbo nods, sleepy but sincere. “You don’t have to handle everything alone.”
Grian swallows, throat tight. “I know.”
He leans back into the cushions, lets the blankets settle around him, and breathes without fighting it.