( 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 ) ; one muse takes care of the other while they’re sick. (for yugao)
Cool fingers trail gently over the part of her hair- the crown of her head is the only thing visible, the rest of her body cocooned tightly in a mass of sheets and duvet. She twitches, and when those clever, cool fingers start to peel the comforter back, she groans at the sudden influx of bright, midday light. The fingers pause, tuck her back in. Footsteps, and then she can hear the blackout curtains being drawn closed.
The next time those insistent fingers try to pull back the blankets from around her face, she lets them go with a soft sigh. The air in her room feels frigid despite the hot flush to her skin, and she blinks blearily up at Hayate as his face swims into focus in the now low light of his own bedroom. She's sweating buckets into his sheets, her long hair tangled and sticking in clumps to her scalp, her throat, and his fingers as he carefully combs some strands away from her face.
"Sorry," she croaks. "I'm gross."
Hayate's already shaking his head, but he lets her finish before he replies, "Don't apologize, and no you're not. I'm glad you're here."
"Don't want to get you sick," she insists, sniffing, and then giving him a miserable smile when he traces the tip of his index finger down her nose. "Didn't think you'd be home for another few days."
He hums at her, doesn't reply until he's satisfied with the way her hair lays against the pillow. "I'll be fine," he says, "I'm glad you came here. Want me to make you something to eat?"
Her stomach twists, and she shakes her head. He hums, and she knows he'll probably already have some nutrient-dense broth heating on the stove. She can't smell it, she's too stuffed-up, but she knows that he could smell her germs as soon as he walked into his apartment.
"Okay," he agrees readily enough. "How about I help you take a shower, and then I'll brush your hair, and put some nice clean sheets on the bed for you?"
"I'm just gonna sweat through them again," she complains quietly, embarrassed at her own childish weakness even as she says it.
"Yeah," he presses his cool, dry lips to her tacky forehead, his own huff of laughter inaudible- she feels it ghost across her skin, half-heartedly reaching up to push at his chin.
"Hayate, seriously. I should just go home, I don't want to get you sick-"
"I'll take my vitamins, I promise," he draws away at her next shove, but he takes with him the blankets, and she shudders at the wash of cold air.
Hayate puts his hands against her hips, his fingers riding up under her tank top, and between her lazy thrashing and him coaxing her up, she stumbles to her feet tucked against his side, her head resting against his shoulder as he walks her to the bathroom. Upright, the world around her swirls and sloshes. Nausea rises in her throat, and even the light from his kitchen reaching the open bedroom door seems to be too much for her. He brushes a hand over her eyes, promises to take care of her. She keeps her eyes closed when he turns on the light, when he steers her and picks her up and carefully sits her on the counter. She shivers when he steps away, but she stares at the back of her eyelids and lets herself zone out, listening to him fuss with the shower, feeling the steam start to fill the room. She sniffles. He returns to her, pressing his palms to her cheeks and then his cheek to her forehead.
"Your fever is pretty high, I think," he informs her quietly. "Can I undress you?"
She nods, and he pulls away enough that he can strip her tank top off, and then grabbing her shorts and pulling them down. With her eyes still closed, he helps her into the shower- it's not hot, but the water isn't cold enough to make her tremble. She stands quietly, listening to him undress as well, and keeps her eyes closed even as he steps into his shower with her. Hayate takes her elbow, and she leans against his shoulder with her cheek pressed to his collarbone as he starts the arduous process of washing her greasy hair and carefully detangling it.
Two shampoos, conditioner, combing carefully, no soap in her eyes. He carefully turns them so the water hits his back, and twists her hair up and out of the way so he can kneel and wash her body from her feet, up her calves, her thighs, her hips. By the time he makes it up over her waist, she's back to leaning on him, and as he brushes up over her breasts and down her arms she lets him hold most of her weight. The soap tingles on her skin, she thinks it's probably the eucalyptus scented stuff she got him for when he's having trouble breathing.
Once she's rinsed, he turns off the water and steps out, then helps her out. She gets his fluffy robe, and he finger combs her hair to remove some of the excess water.
"Um, you wanna try and eat?" He asks, slipping an arm around her waist and ducking his head against her throat, nose pressed to the thin skin over the tendons there.
"I should at least drink some water," she sighs, and he leads her into the kitchen to sit at the table. She feels a little more alive after a shower, and peeling her eyes open to watch him putter around his kitchen doesn't make her feel any more like she's going to puke, so she settles her head in her arms and watches away. He pulls out a tea kettle, a little saucepan, a glass for water. The glass he fills and settles next to her, and she resolves to take a sip or two every minute that ticks down on the stove clock. The kettle he fills and sets to boil, the saucepan gets a carton of bone broth and a scoop of miso paste. He pulls out a box of tea, shows it to her: fennel, mint, eucalyptus and ginger. She nods, and he sets it to the side, and while they wait for the soup and the broth to heat he arranges her hair into a loose braid to keep it out of her face. His fingers feel good on her scalp, and she leans into his touch.
They're quiet, though Hayate hums some song half-under his breath. Yugao doesn't know if it's something he's made up or something he remembers, but she doesn't think she's heard it anywhere before. She's trying to find the words to ask, but he's drifting away from her to pull the broth from the stove, to steep her tea. The way he moves in the corner of her wavering vision makes her feel like she's watching him in a dream. He settles two mugs in front of her, kisses her on the forehead, and tells her: "I'll be back, I'm changing the sheets."
She hums at him, nurses her water for a few more sips before moving on to the broth. It's plain, easy on her twisting stomach, but salted enough to help make up for what she's lost from sweating a lake into his mattress. The tea is good too- she can just about breathe through her nose after a couple of sips. After a few minutes and the sound of his washing machine starting he returns, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck, standing behind her and brushing his fingers over her forehead, sweeping her damp hair back over her crown, trailing down over her ears, under her jaw, over her throat. he works his way back up, and then back down, and every thirty seconds or so she makes herself take another drink of something, knowing she shouldn't lay back down no matter how tired she feels until she starts to rehydrate.
Eventually she is back down to water, and he rinses the mugs and puts them into the sink, refills her glass, and helps her back to her feet. In his bedroom, the new sheets on his bed are light cotton, his softest pair, and he drags the robe off of her shoulders to slide her into a fresh pair of his boxers, one of his more ragged tee shirts, and then he tucks her back into bed.
"The comforter-" she starts, and he shakes his head.
"You need to cool off, my star. I'll lay down with you, let me get you an ice pack first," he slips off again, returns with a hand towel that he tucks carefully against her throat. The ice pack within is cold, but not entirely unpleasant. He slips under the sheet next to her, an arm and a leg thrown over her, and his big dark eyes stare unblinking at her as he looks over the miserable twist to her mouth, her flush, the feverish haze in her eyes.
"You're so beautiful," he tells her. "Let me just look at you for a minute, please?"
Yugao sniffles, gives him a watery laugh, and reaches out to pat his cheek and run a hand through his damp hair. "You can look at me as long as you like, I just don't want you to get sick too."
"I'm not going to get sick," he insists. "The power of love is too strong. I'm going to nurse you back to health in no time."
He does- nurse her back to health, of course. But he does very much also get sick, coming down with her same fever-nausea-congestion. She doesn't tell him she told him so.
