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Silver was sick. Of that, Gold was certain.
He had skipped the training session with Lance in the Dragon’s Den, then failed to show up for the cave exploration with Gold and Kris. Silver had never been particularly reliable when it came to anything that involved other people’s schedules, but there were limits even to his usual brand of rudeness. Missing one commitment might have been excusable. There might have been a delayed train or a sudden errand. Maybe Silver simply hadn’t been in the mood to deal with anyone. Gold knew better than most how often Silver’s moods could sour without warning.
Two missed commitments, however, were a glaring red flag.
Gold was used to Silver brushing him off. He was used to unanswered messages, abrupt departures, and the occasional insult delivered with enough venom to make even Kris raise an eyebrow. He was used to Silver acting as if accepting help would cost him one of his limbs. What Silver never did was miss a training session with Lance.
Everyone knew Silver would rather crawl across broken glass than let Lance think he was slacking. Silver could be exhausted, injured, furious, or halfway through a personal crisis, and he would still show up to the Dragon’s Den on time. He would arrive with his hair tied back, his gloves secured, and his expression arranged into a mask of grim determination. Lance’s approval mattered to him. Probably more than Silver would ever admit.
So, as the hours passed without a single snarky text from Silver, Gold had taken it upon himself to kick open the door to Lance’s home. He was probably far too comfortable doing that by now. In one arm, he carried a bag of groceries. In the other, he carried absolutely nothing, which meant he had no excuse for failing to knock.
The heavy door struck the wall with a hollow crack. “Silver?” Gold called out into the foyer.
When no answer came, Gold’s grip tightened around the grocery bag. The house was far too quiet. Usually, Silver’s presence announced itself even when he wasn’t trying to be noticed—the scrape of a chair, the sharp slam of a cabinet, or the muffled, argumentative drone of a television program he claimed not to be watching. Lance’s home was rarely this still, but today the silence settled over every room like dust.
“Silver?” Gold called again, moving farther in.
Still nothing. He kicked the front door shut behind him, his sneakers squeaking against polished tile as he stepped through the entryway. He glanced toward the kitchen first, then toward the stairs. A half-empty glass of water sat abandoned on the counter, and beside it lay a plate with two cold pieces of toast, both untouched.
Gold’s stomach tightened. Setting the grocery bag down on the island, he pulled out his phone. His messages to Silver sat in a neat, humiliating row:
You alive?
You better not have ditched us because you forgot your boots.
Kris says you owe her an apology.
I say you owe me lunch.
Silver hadn’t read or responded to a single one.
Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Gold headed straight for the living room. The sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks.
Silver was curled defensively in the corner of the couch, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He was usually all sharp angles and restless, coiled energy—even when sitting still, he carried himself like a Houndoom prepared to bolt at the slightest provocation. Today, he was folded inward with his knees drawn tight to his chest and one shoulder pressed heavily against the armrest. His phone hung loosely in his limp fingers, the cold blue screen illuminating the dark, sunken hollows of exhaustion beneath his eyes. A thin, worn blanket was draped over his lap, doing nothing to conceal the violent shivers running through his frame.
At the sound of Gold’s footsteps, Silver glanced up, his brow immediately twisting into a scowl. The glare would have been far more effective if his crimson hair hadn’t been flattened sleepily on one side and his cheekbones weren’t flushed an angry, mottled pink with fever.
“You missed training,” Gold said, setting his hands on his hips as he crossed the floor.
Silver didn't look up again, his thumb dragging sluggishly across the glass. “I’m aware.”
“And the cave exploration.”
“I’m also aware of that,” Silver muttered, staring resolutely down at the glowing screen.
Gold stopped in front of the couch and folded his arms. “You know, most people call ahead when they’re too sick to show up.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Right.” Gold leaned closer, unimpressed. “And I’m the Champion of Kanto.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious.”
“You’re loud.” Silver winced faintly as the syllable scraped against his raw throat.
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.” Gold started to retort with his usual grin, but Silver’s narrowed glare lacked any of its customary bite. Silver blinked slowly, struggling to keep his eyes focused through the fever haze, his knuckles bloodless where he gripped the thin blanket. Gold’s lingering irritation began to dissolve beneath a sudden, cold knot of concern. He knew Silver’s tells too well. He knew the way Silver’s jaw clamped shut to keep his teeth from chattering. He knew the glassy sheen in his eyes and the faint tremor in his hands. He knew the subtle, defensive curl of Silver’s shoulders that practically screamed, I feel awful, so don’t look at me.
Without a word, Gold reached down and pressed the back of his hand flat against Silver’s forehead.
Silver slapped it away instantly. The movement was fast enough to be threatening, but not fast enough to hide the way his hand shook afterward.
“I don’t need anyone taking care of me!” Silver snapped. The venom in the words was undercut by the harsh rasp in his throat, and he swallowed hard, wincing as fire dragged down his tender skin.
Gold stared at him. Silver glared back, breathing heavily. For three long seconds, neither of them moved.
Then Gold rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said flatly.
Silver’s brows drew together. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I heard you.”
“I’m serious, Gold.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, yes. You don’t need anyone taking care of you,” Gold interrupted, throwing both hands up in mock surrender. “You’re very independent. Very terrifying. Nobody has ever been more capable of suffering alone.”
Silver’s mouth fell open in indignant shock, but Gold turned on his heel before Silver could summon a retort. Gold didn’t buy the tough-guy routine for a fraction of a second. He knew what Silver looked like when he was genuinely furious—real anger sharpened him, made him dangerous, precise, and impossible to distract. Sickness just made him defensive. Sickness made him small.
Gold headed down the hall toward Silver’s bedroom without asking for permission. Behind him, he heard the frantic rustle of blankets.
“Gold!” Silver called, his voice rough. Gold kept walking. “Gold, what are you doing?”
“Taking care of you.”
“I just told you not to!”
“And I ignored you.”
“You can’t just come in here and—”
Gold shoved Silver’s bedroom door open. The room was predictably orderly in that austere, impatient way only Silver could manage: clothes folded in precise stacks, boots lined neatly beneath the sill, and a few reference books angled on the desk as if Silver had read until he simply ran out of fuel to put them away. The bed, however, was a tangled mess of sheets.
Evidence, Gold noted. Without hesitation, he stripped the heavy comforter off the mattress and tucked two dense pillows beneath his arm.
“Gold!” Silver’s voice echoed down the hall.
“What?” Gold called back cheerfully.
“Put that back!”
“No.”
“You can’t just steal my blankets!”
“I’m not stealing them. I’m relocating them.”
“Put them back right now!”
“Come get them, then.”
The utter silence that followed was answer enough.
Smirking faintly to himself, Gold carried the bedding back into the living room. Silver had pushed himself upright, glaring at him from beneath the thin throw, though the minor exertion had left him panting. One trembling hand was pressed flat against his ribs, as if he could physically hold his aching body together.
Gold’s amusement vanished on the spot. “Don’t do that,” he said, his tone leveling out.
Silver’s expression hardened. “Don’t do what?”
“Pretend you’re fine so aggressively that you make yourself worse.”
“I’m sitting on a couch.”
“You’re breathing like you just sprinted up three flights of stairs.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not!”
“Silver.”
The quiet, unteasing weight in Gold's voice caught Silver off guard, making him freeze.
Gold dumped the pillows onto the cushion behind Silver, eased him back, and draped the thick comforter over his trembling legs. Then, grabbing the heavy charcoal blanket draped over the armrest, Gold tucked it firmly around Silver’s sides, sealing in the warmth before Silver could summon the coordination to shove it away. The effort earned him a murderous glare that, under normal circumstances, might have made Gold reconsider his life choices.
Today, however, Silver looked far more like a damp, hissing Totodile than an intimidating rival. His hair stuck up in disheveled spikes, his flushed cheeks burned bright, and the mountainous pile of wool swallowed him so completely that only his head and one white-knuckled hand remained visible.
Gold sat back on his heels, watching him. Silver’s glare only sharpened.
“Keep glaring,” Gold remarked. “Maybe you’ll burn that fever out faster than the Tylenol will.”
When Silver’s eyes narrowed into slits, Gold couldn't help a sudden bark of laughter. He knew he shouldn’t—Silver looked thoroughly miserable, and laughing at someone’s illness was notoriously bad form—but the sight of the boy buried beneath a textile fortress, looking personally offended by the concept of warmth, was simply too much.
Silver made a low, rough sound in the back of his throat. “Was that supposed to be a threat?” Gold asked.
“It was an observation.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You say that like it’s breaking news.”
Silver attempted to push himself further upright to give the insult some teeth, but the shift threw his center of gravity completely off. He swayed precariously to the left. Gold lunged forward, catching Silver firmly by the shoulder before he could tip sideways into the coffee table.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Through the thin cotton of Silver’s shirt, Gold felt the scorching heat radiating off his skin, paired with an involuntary, fine tremor in his muscles. For half a second, Silver sagged heavily into Gold’s grip before pride took the wheel, forcing himself rigidly upright again.
“I’m fine,” Silver muttered, averting his eyes.
Gold let his hand fall away slowly. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then you won’t mind when I check your temperature.”
Silver’s face twisted in disgust. “I’m not five.”
“Five-year-olds are significantly more cooperative.” Gold rose to his feet. “Stay there.”
“Get out.”
“No.”
“I’m serious, Gold.”
“So am I.”
Gold turned and headed for the kitchen. Behind him, the bedding rustled violently as Silver tried to follow his movements. “Where are you going?”
“To make food.”
“I don’t want any.”
“You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I had toast.”
Gold cast a pointed glance toward the dry, intact slices sitting on the counter. “You had the opportunity to eat toast.”
“Same thing.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“I’m not hungry!”
“Fever, sore throat, chills, and total loss of appetite,” Gold rattled off, opening the refrigerator. “You’re a walking medical textbook.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Not if I keep you hydrated, you won’t.”
Gold began pulling supplies from his grocery haul, setting them out along the counter. He had come prepared, though he would vehemently deny it if questioned: bottled spring water, chamomile tea, raw honey, menthol lozenges, electrolyte drinks, soup stock, saltines, fruit, and enough instant noodles to weather an apocalypse.
He also unboxed the digital thermometer, setting it down beside the cutting board with a distinct plastic clatter.
A moment later, Silver materialized in the kitchen doorway, dragging the charcoal blanket behind him like a tattered velvet cape. He had managed to salvage one pillow beneath his arm, his stubborn posture declaring that standing upright was a deliberate act of war.
Gold pointed at him with a dripping wooden spoon. “Back to the couch.”
“I can stand.”
“That wasn’t the instruction.”
“I’m not an invalid!”
“No, you’re a sick idiot who’s throwing a tantrum because your immune system dared to be human.”
Silver’s eyes flared with anger. “I said I’m fine!”
“And I said back to the couch.”
“You don’t get to order me around, Gold!”
Gold set the spoon down, turning around to face him fully. “You skipped training with Lance.”
The single sentence hit Silver like a physical blow. He stiffened, the fiery bravado draining from his posture in a heartbeat. The anger lingered in his eyes, but beneath it shifted something raw—guilt, humiliation, and vulnerability. His knuckles whitened around the hem of the blanket.
“I had a reason,” Silver said quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“Then tell me.”
Silver looked away, jaw working silently. Gold waited, letting the soft hum of the refrigerator fill the space between them. In the living room, Silver’s phone chimed with another neglected alert.
“I woke up late,” Silver admitted at last, the confession dragged out of him like teeth.
Gold raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“I was tired.”
“That’s not a reason you miss Lance, and you know it.”
“I know.”
“You could have at least sent him a text.”
“I know!”
“Did you?”
Silver’s lips pressed into a bloodless line.
Gold softened his voice, stepping closer. “Silver.”
“I tried,” Silver whispered, so low Gold had to strain to hear it over the stove. “I picked up the phone. I just... I couldn’t focus on the letters. The screen was swimming.”
Gold’s expression softened completely.
Silver seemed to realize the magnitude of what he’d just admitted, snapping his head up to claw back his defenses. “It doesn’t matter! It’s nothing.”
“It matters if you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick!”
“Stop lying to me.”
“Stop acting like I’m dying!”
“I’m not acting like you’re dying, Silver,” Gold sighed, exasperated but steady. “I’m acting like you have a burning fever and you’re running on fumes.”
Silver’s eyes flicked past Gold's shoulder, landing on the small digital thermometer on the counter. “You actually brought that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I have common sense.”
“You have paranoia.”
“Also true.”
Silver’s mouth gave a microscopic twitch—the faintest shadow of a smirk that vanished as quickly as it came. Gold picked up the device and held it out between them. “Come on. Ten seconds.”
“No.”
“Silver.”
“I said no.”
Gold set it back down on the granite. “Fine. I’ll just hold it against your head while you’re passed out asleep.”
Silver’s chin jerked up. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“By me.”
“Frequently.”
Silver glared at him for three agonizing seconds, weighing his dwindling options, before snatching the thermometer off the counter with an irritated hiss. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
Silver shoved the probe under his tongue with far more force than strictly necessary, leaning heavily against the doorframe to keep his knees from buckling. Gold turned back to the stove, setting a pot of water over the flame and chopping carrots and celery in a steady, methodical rhythm.
Behind him, the rustle of the blanket lingered. Gold glanced over his shoulder. “You’re still standing there.”
“I’m waiting,” Silver mumbled around the plastic stem.
“For what?”
“For you to stop hovering.”
“I’m cooking, not hovering.”
“You keep checking on me.”
“Because you look like you’re about to kiss the linoleum.”
“I’m not—”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Silver yanked the thermometer from his mouth, squinting down at the LCD screen. Gold extended an open hand.
Silver hesitated, pulling it back slightly. “It’s nothing.”
“Silver. Hand it over.”
“It’s barely elevated.”
Gold plucked it straight from his fingers and angled the display toward the light. His eyebrows shot up. “Thirty-nine point three.”
Silver’s posture instantly bristled. “That’s not that high.”
“That is a hundred and two point seven, Silver. You are cooking.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That does not make this better!” Gold shook his head, pointing a firm finger toward the living room. “Couch. Now.”
Silver’s jaw tightened stubbornly. “I can stay here.”
“No, you can’t. You’re standing on cold tile in your socks, shivering so hard you’re making the damn blanket flutter.”
Silver looked down, mortified to see the hem of the charcoal wool vibrating against his ankles. A darker flush climbed up his neck, blending seamlessly into the fever-burn on his cheeks.
“Couch,” Gold repeated, dropping the commanding tone into something quiet and gentle.
Silver looked like he wanted to fight, to scream, to demand that Gold leave him alone in the dark. Instead, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned and dragged his blanket back down the hall toward the sofa. Gold stood watch until the cushions dipped under Silver's weight, and only then did he turn his attention back to the simmering broth.
The plan was simple: keep Silver hydrated, get some real nutrients into his system, and make sure he didn't collapse out of pure, unadulterated spite. Gold added chicken, carrots, celery, and noodles to the pot, tasting it carefully to check the seasoning. He kept the salt low, avoided heavy garlic, and kept the flavors clean; Silver would rather starve to death than eat something that tasted too rich when he was nauseated.
Gold remembered these quirks with effortless clarity. He told himself it was just basic pattern recognition—that dealing with a prickly rival meant memorizing his triggers to avoid pointless arguments. He firmly refused to analyze why he knew exactly how much honey Silver took in his chamomile, or why he knew Silver always slept with his left hand tucked beneath his jaw.
In the living room, the moment Gold’s footsteps faded into the steady clatter of kitchen pots and running water, Silver let his rigid posture completely collapse.
He buried his face into the thick wool of the comforter, pulling the edges right up to the bridge of his nose with a muffled, shuddering exhale. For all his furious protests, he couldn’t fight the sheer, blissful relief the heavy fabric brought to his aching limbs. The bone-deep chill that had been rattling his ribs all morning began to soften beneath the trapped heat. The cushions cradled his sore back, and one of the pillows smelled distinctly of fresh laundry detergent and Gold’s leather jacket. It was annoying enough that Silver should have hurled it across the room.
Instead, he curled tighter around it, pressing his cheek into the cotton.
Worse than the comfort, though... Gold was taking care of him. And Silver liked it.
The realization settled in his gut like an anchor, far more terrifying than the fever spiking behind his temples. Silver bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, staring unseeingly at the dark television screen. He would rather choke on gravel than admit it out loud.
Lance had looked after him before, of course. Lance did it with the calm, unflinching authority of a Clan elder, bringing food, dressing training wounds, and standing in the doorway with folded arms until Silver conceded defeat. But Lance was a mentor, an authority figure bound by responsibility. Silver understood duty.
This was completely different.
This was a peer. An equal. Someone who didn't owe him a single damn thing. Gold had every excuse in the world to be furious about the missed plans, to drop off a sarcastic text and go home, or to let Lance deal with the fallout later. Instead, Gold had shown up with bags of groceries, stolen blankets from his bed, forced him into a nest, and started cooking soup from scratch.
Silver didn’t know what to do with that kind of unearned kindness. It made his throat tighten with an ache that had nothing to do with being sick.
He rested his chin on the rim of the blanket, listening to the ambient noise drifting from the kitchen: the scrape of the knife, the hiss of boiling water, and Gold humming under his breath—terribly off-key and completely unbothered by his lack of rhythm. The steady cadence was intoxicating. Silver’s eyelids grew heavy, the room drifting toward sleep.
Then, the kitchen floorboards creaked.
Silver stiffened instantly, his heart lurching into his ribs as he scrambled to throw his defenses back up. He dragged his chin free of the wool, jutting his jaw forward to assemble his sharpest, most dismissive glare before Gold rounded the corner.
Gold appeared carrying a lacquered wooden tray. “You know, glaring like that is going to permanently ruin your face.”
Silver’s eyes narrowed further.
Gold set the tray down on the coffee table with a soft clatter. “There. That’s better. I was worried the fever had burned all the attitude out of you.”
Silver braced his palms against the cushions, pushing himself higher. “What is that?”
“Medicine.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you’re making tremendous progress.” Gold shook two Tylenol tablets from the plastic bottle into his hand, offering them alongside a tall glass of ice water.
Silver eyed the pills like they might detonate. “You expect me to take those?”
“No, I expect you to frame them as an artistic statement.”
Silver snatched the tablets from Gold's palm. “You are deeply annoying.”
“And yet you haven’t kicked me out in the last ten minutes.”
“I’m conserving my strength.”
“Naturally.”
Silver tossed the pills back and took a heavy gulp of water. He winced sharply, his hand trembling around the glass as the cold liquid dragged across his raw, sandpaper throat.
Gold noticed instantly. Before Silver could question the rest of the tray, Gold swapped the water glass for a steaming ceramic mug and a foil-wrapped lozenge. “Tea. Drink it.”
“I don’t want tea.”
“You’re already holding it.”
“I am not—” Silver looked down. His fingers were, in fact, wrapped tightly around the warm ceramic. Heat seeped through the glaze into his chilled palms, chasing away the numbness in his wrists.
A sharp spike of mortification hit him, and a low, involuntary growl scraped out from his raw throat.
Gold’s reaction was instantaneous. He threw his head back, cackling like an amused Murkrow. “Did you—” Gold wheezed, clapping a hand over his knee. “Did you just growl at a mug of tea?”
Silver opened his mouth to deliver a searing retort, but the sudden rush of cool air into his airway triggered a catastrophic spasm.
The first cough tore through his chest, harsh enough to make his ribs ache.
The second doubled him completely in half, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as his ribs caved inward. By the third racking cough, his lungs felt as though they were lined with broken glass, tears of strain pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Gold was on the couch in a fraction of a second. He swept the steaming mug safely onto the table with one hand while his other arm hooked securely around Silver’s trembling shoulders, hauling him upright.
“Shh. Hey, breathe,” Gold coached, his voice dropping all trace of mockery, replaced by steady, low calm. “Easy, Silver. Don’t fight it.”
Silver gasped, but his windpipe locked in another spastic bark. Gold’s arm tightened, anchoring Silver firmly against his side, preventing him from pitching forward onto the floorboards while his hand rubbed slow, grounding circles between Silver's shoulder blades.
Silver hated how soft Gold’s voice sounded. He hated how warm Gold felt against his shivering side.
Most of all, he hated that his battered body leaned into the touch without his permission.
“Catch your breath,” Gold murmured near his ear. “Let the spasm pass. Then take a tiny sip. It’ll coat the throat.”
Silver gave one final, rattling cough, his chest hitching as he wiped furiously at his damp lashes with the heel of his hand. Gold politely looked away, reaching over to retrieve the mug.
“It’s chamomile with honey,” Gold said, holding it out. “I promise it isn’t poisoned.”
“How reassuring,” Silver rasped, his voice shredded to a faint croak.
“I can test it for you if you’re that suspicious.”
“I’m not suspicious.”
“You look terrified.”
“I look sick.”
Gold smiled softly. “Finally, an honest answer.”
When Silver hesitated, Gold nudged the rim closer. “Don't make me hand-feed you, Silver. I will.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Gold’s grin turned wicked. “Try me.”
Silver scowled, snatching the mug with both hands. The warm steam curled against his nose, smelling of sweet honey and dried flowers. He brought the rim to his mouth, taking the most cautious, smallest sip he could manage. The hot liquid slid over his scorched vocal cords, soothing the raw, burning itch in his trachea.
He lowered the mug an inch, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
Gold hadn’t moved. His arm remained resting over the back of Silver’s shoulders, keeping the heavy blankets tucked securely against Silver’s frame.
Silver looked sideways at him, completely stunned by the transition. One second Gold was laughing at him, and the next he was steadying him through a coughing fit with effortless, quiet grace. The shift was so natural that Silver wondered if the bickering was just the noise they used to keep the silence from feeling too heavy.
Silver stared into the amber surface of the tea for a long beat, his thumb tracing the ceramic handle. The bite had drained completely from his tone.
“Shut up,” Silver muttered softly into the steam.
Gold smiled, keeping his arm right where it was. “Whatever you say.”