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Yuuichirou was dying. Or so he claimed.
Wrapped in two blankets, sniffling aggressively, and scowling at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him, he was the very picture of someone refusing to admit they had the flu.
“I’m fine,” Yuu croaked for the fifth time that morning, even though his voice had gone hoarse and his nose was a disaster.
“You have a fever of 38.9°C,” Mika said flatly, standing at the foot of the bed with a bowl of steaming soup in his hands. “And you tried to get up to mop the kitchen twenty minutes ago.”
“It was my turn to do the chores,” Yuu muttered.
Mika exhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the overwhelming urge to throw the soup at the wall and scream into the void. “You’re not mopping anything. You’re staying in bed and eating this.”
Yuu crossed his arms defiantly, which was significantly less intimidating when he immediately broke into a coughing fit. Mika didn’t even flinch—he simply set the bowl down on the bedside table and waited for Yuu to finish his dramatic wheezing.
“I don’t want soup,” Yuu rasped once he recovered, glaring at the wall like it was all its fault.
“I don’t care,” Mika replied with the patience of a saint and the cold, stubborn fury of someone used to dealing with this exact situation. “You’re going to eat it, and then you’re going to sleep. Or I swear to god I’ll pin you down and spoon-feed it to you.”
Yuu’s cheeks flushed—not just from the fever this time.
“You wouldn’t.”
Mika raised an eyebrow and calmly dipped the spoon into the bowl. “Try me.”
Yuu stared him down, breathing heavily through his mouth, and for a second, Mika thought he might actually win this round. But then Yuu muttered, “Fine,” and grudgingly accepted the first spoonful.
It was warm. Savory. Comforting.
Infuriatingly good, because of course it was—Mika had made it.
Mika watched him eat in silence for a moment, only moving to blow gently on the spoon before offering it again. There was a kind of focused tenderness in the way he did it—careful not to spill, never rushing Yuu, always watching to make sure he was okay. It made something in Yuu’s chest ache, a little more than the fever already did.
“…You made this yourself?” Yuu mumbled after a few bites, voice softer now.
Mika shrugged. “Of course. You won’t eat unless I force you. And you only like that weird spicy miso blend anyway.”
Yuu blinked at him, sniffled once, then muttered, “You’re such a mum.”
Mika rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into a smile. “And you’re the world’s worst patient.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re a menace,” Mika corrected, offering him another spoonful. “But you’re my menace, so I guess I have to take care of you.”
Yuu looked away quickly, his ears turning red. “Shut up.”
Mika chuckled. “Gladly. If you finish the rest of this.”
Yuu did, grumbling the whole time, but Mika could tell he was secretly enjoying the attention. Afterward, Mika gently pressed a cool hand to his forehead, checking his temperature again. Yuu leaned into the touch, just barely, and Mika’s expression softened.
“You need rest,” he said quietly.
Yuu hesitated, then flopped dramatically onto his side. “I hate being sick.”
“I know.” Mika pulled the blankets up around him, tucking them under his chin with a gentle touch. “But I’ll be here. So just rest.”
“…You’ll stay?”
“Of course.”
There was a pause.
“…Thanks, Mika,” Yuu whispered.
Mika didn’t say anything—just brushed Yuu’s bangs away from his forehead and pressed a soft kiss there, lingering for a second too long.
Yuu, already drifting off, didn’t complain this time.
And Mika? Mika just sat by his side, hand resting lightly on Yuu’s blanket-covered arm, watching over him like he always did—quietly, fiercely, and with every ounce of love he had to give.