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love is real because kiyoomi would fight influenza like it insulted your mother and stole your lunch money.
the universe betrays you on a random thursday.
one second you’re a functioning adult with hopes and dreams and a stomach lining, and the next you’re curled up on the couch under three blankets, your nose clogged enough to qualify as a federal disaster zone. the air tastes like defeat. you swear you can hear sad violins playing somewhere (probably in your sinuses).
sakusa stands in front of you like a dramatic victorian husband seeing his wife faint for the first time. except he’s your real-life boyfriend, not an underpaid actor, and he’s staring at you with the kind of intensity usually reserved for things he vows to protect forever—like hand sanitizer and the last pack of disinfecting wipes during flu season.
“you’re burning up,” he mutters, voice low, brows furrowing in that soft, worried way that transforms your insides into lukewarm syrup. “why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
you sniff pathetically. “because i knew you’d go into crisis mode.”
“this isn’t crisis mode,” he says, dead serious, wiping your forehead with one of his outrageously fancy cooling pads. “if i were in crisis mode, there would be charts.”
you let out a groan that sounds like a dying walrus. “oomi, i feel like my soul is trying to exit my body through my left nostril.”
he presses his lips together, trying (and failing) to hide the tiny twitch of amusement. “drink this.”
you stare at the mug he hands you. “what is it?”
“ginger tea. lemon. honey. a thousand years of love.”
“oomi.”
“i added the honey,” he clarifies.
you take a sip and immediately sink into the couch, the warmth filling your chest like a gentle hug. sakusa kneels next to you with the grace of a man performing a sacred ritual. every few minutes, he adjusts your blanket, fixes your pillows, presses another cooling pad to your forehead, or gives you a sip of water. he even wipes your nose when you get too tired to do it yourself—not because you ask, but because the moment you sway even slightly, he’s already reaching for a tissue like a reflex.
the devotion in his touch is ridiculous. unfair. too tender. it makes your heart ache in a way that has nothing to do with your fever.
“kiyoomi,” you mumble, eyes half-lidded. “i feel gross.”
“you could never be gross,” he says instantly. too instantly. “you could sneeze directly on my face and i’d say thank you.”
you blink. “…that’s concerning.”
he clears his throat. “i take it back.”
“no you don’t.”
“…no. i don’t.”
you giggle weakly, and it sounds frail enough that sakusa leans in and kisses the side of your head like he’s afraid you’ll crumble without it.
he spends the rest of the day tending to you like you’re made of spun sugar and fragile moonlight. he brings you soup (freshly made, because delivery food has “insufficient bacterial certainty”). he massages your temples until you admit you’re sleepy. he reads aloud from your favorite book, voice steady, warm, and so gentle you forget for a moment that your lymph nodes feel like swollen marbles.
at some point, you drift off. when you wake up, sakusa is still there—hair mussed, eyes soft, hand wrapped loosely around yours like he’s anchoring you to life itself.
“how long was i out?” you whisper.
“three hours and twenty-two minutes,” he says, without shame.
“were you… watching me sleep?”
“yes. in case you stopped breathing.”
“oomi, babies don’t get this level of monitoring.”
“babies aren’t you.”
your chest squeezes. “come here.”
he lies beside you, pulling you into his arms carefully—as if your fever might bite him. his hand strokes your spine with slow, methodical tenderness. he kisses your forehead again. and again. and again. until you fall asleep inside the safest place you’ve ever known.
—
miraculously, you wake up the next morning feeling like a reborn deity. the fever breaks. your lungs cooperate. the world no longer resembles a damp tissue.
you fling yourself at sakusa as soon as he walks into the room.
“oomi! i think i’m cured!”
he catches you effortlessly, relief washing over his face like a tidal wave. “finally,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “i hated seeing you like that.”
“thank you for taking care of me,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “you’re the best.”
he melts. fully melts. like a snowman in july.
but then—tragically, poetically, stupidly—the very next morning:
sakusa kiyoomi, pillar of hygiene, antibacterial warlord, undefeated king of avoiding human contact, is sick.
and not just any sick.
miserable sick.
he’s curled in bed, blanket pulled up to his ears, nose red, lashes damp, hair sticking up in about eight different directions. he sniffles once, and the sound is heartbreak incarnate.
“oomi,” you gasp, cupping his cheek. “oh no…”
his eyes narrow weakly. “don’t you dare say ‘i told you so.’”
“i didn’t,” you insist. “yet.”
he groans, burying his face in your stomach. “this is humiliating.”
“you’re adorable.”
“don’t say that while i am dying.”
you stroke his hair. “you’re not dying.”
“i am,” he mumbles. “i can feel my life force leaving my body. i should’ve worn a mask. or gloves. or a hazmat suit.”
“you kissed me like twenty times yesterday.”
“that was strategic. calculated. worth it.”
you laugh and press a kiss to his forehead, which is hotter than your entire apartment heater. sakusa lets out a small sound—not quite a whine, but dangerously close.
“pour me ginger tea,” he whispers dramatically. “lemon. honey. everything you like.”
“oomi, you’re mixing metaphors.”
“i’m delirious, let me live.”
you become his nurse instantly.
blankets fluffed. pillows adjusted. water refilled. you wipe his nose gently, the exact way he did for you. every time you touch him, he leans into your palm like a sleepy cat.
when you feed him soup, he opens his mouth with the slightest pout, eyelashes fluttering. you swear he’s doing it on purpose to look cute. his voice gets raspy in that unfair way that makes you want to wrap him in ten more blankets and never let him go.
“will you stay with me?” he asks quietly, fingers curling around your wrist. “just… stay.”
“of course,” you breathe.
sakusa nods like he feared you’d say no. he grabs your hoodie sleeve, tugging weakly until you lie beside him. he wraps himself around you with surprising strength, face tucked into your neck.
“you smell good,” he murmurs. “i hate that i can’t smell properly right now but i know you smell good.”
“oomi—”
“don’t move.”
“i wasn’t going to.”
“good.”
you stroke his cheek, tracing the warmth beneath his skin. “you took care of me. now it’s my turn.”
he looks up at you with bleary eyes, expression soft beyond words. “i love you so much it hurts.”
your heart collapses. disintegrates. turns to flower petals.
“i love you too,” you whisper.
he sniffles. “kiss me.”
“you’re sick.”
“i don’t care. i’ll get sick again if it means you’ll keep taking care of me.”
you sputter. “kiyoomi—”
“please.”
you give in instantly.
he sighs into the kiss like it’s the cure to everything wrong in his body.
you spend the rest of the day wrapped up together, trading warmth and whispered confessions. sakusa keeps squeezing your hand, pulling you close, bumping his forehead against yours just to feel you there. he kisses you every time you adjust his blanket, every time you stroke his hair, every time your voice dips into that soft tone that only he gets to hear.
by nightfall, he’s drifting in and out of sleep against your chest. you brush your fingers through his curls, memorizing the way his breathing evens out.
when he murmurs, half-asleep, “stay forever,” you press a kiss to his temple.
“i’m not going anywhere.”
sakusa smiles—slow, small, impossibly tender.
and right there, in the dim light of your bedroom, he looks at you like you’re the cure, the fever, the oxygen, the sanctuary he’d cross oceans for.
and maybe that’s what love is—two idiots trading the same cold back and forth because they can’t stop holding each other close.
a: nighteye and nanami are alike in someways, deceased and attractive.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
at first glance, sakusa kiyoomi would be perceived as a tall, mean, antisocial boy who'd spray zonrox in your face if you get too close; dare i say a tsundere. but no, absolutely not.
ever since you started dating, he was the opposite of what people think of him. he isn't some germaphobe who'd assault your face with cleaning agents in hopes of giving you chemical burns.
he's a simple boy who likes to be clean. and he'd rather stay that way. he absolutely despised getting sick. it ruins his physique, he'd quote.
he isn't some mean guy who'll laugh at you if you trip. maybe look at you in sheer disgust because of the dirt, but he's gonna help you up either way.
"you are so dumb. how'd you even trip over a pebble? now you have a scratch on your knee." he sighs dejectedly, brushing off the dust and dirt on your wound. he grimaced at the blood, goosebumps crawling down his spine.
nevertheless, he carried you back to your shared apartment, where he'll rinse your wound with some mild soap then treat it with betadine. he'd add a band aid of your choice, wash his hands thoroughly with the soap you picked out, and cuddle with you until you both fall asleep.
y'know what, maybe he is some sort of meanie. he absolutely despises atsumu. you'd laugh at their constant bickering, but at court? jesus christ.
in short, he's just some softy with a mean facade. only you will ever know that though, and he has no intention to let you go. mainly because you saw everything of him, but because he loves you too.
