#man flu

(Who could resist a whiny and clingy sick Liam.. all fluff)

Masterlist

The house was quiet when you came in, too quiet for a place that usually hummed with Liam’s restless energy. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and padded into the kitchen.

The snack drawer was open, its contents ransacked. A half-empty packet of crisps and biscuit crumbs scattered across the counter. Clear evidence of a raid. You amusedly shook your head, and reached for a glass to fill at the tap.

The water was just at your lips when you heard it: a pitiful, drawn-out groan drifting down the hall, long and theatrical, like a wounded animal making its last stand.

You sighed, already knowing, and followed the noise into the living room.

Liam was sprawled across the sofa like a man waiting for his doom. Parka zipped to his chin, hood pulled tight and three blankets thrown haphazardly over him. A box of tissues sat on the floor, and an untouched glass of water rested on the table.

“Bloody hell, Liam,” you sighed, loosening your scarf. “How are you doing?”

He cracked one bleary eye open. “I’m dyin’, me. It’s the plague.” he rasped, voice hoarse. “This is it. Tell me mam I love her.”

You blinked. “You’ve got a cold.”

“Cold?” His head snapped up with sudden energy. “Cold? This is fatal, this. Every breath feels like me last. Might as well ring the undertaker now.”

You raised a brow. “Funny, because your snack massacre in the kitchen tells a different story.”

“That was me final meal,” he said gravely, collapsing back into the cushions with a groan so theatrical you almost applauded.

Shaking your head, you walked out and returned with a steaming mug of tea. You set it down on the table. “Here. Cures the plague, apparently.”

He lifted his head with great effort, and clutched the mug dramatically to his chest. “Knew you loved us. You’ve saved me life. I’ll put this in me memoirs, y’know. ‘Chapter 27: The mercy that brought me back from the brink.’”

“Drink it before it goes cold,” you deadpanned, sitting beside him.

Instantly, he slid sideways into you, sprawling across your lap like an oversized lapdog, mug wobbling dangerously until you steadied it.

“Don’t leave me,” he mumbled, eyes shut. “If I go in me sleep, at least I’ll be held by the woman I love. Proper poetic, that.”

“Jesus Christ, Liam,” you muttered, stroking his hair despite yourself.

For a while, he lay there dramatically sighing every few minutes, thumb rubbing circles into your wrist like he was the tragic hero in an opera. Just before his breathing evened out into sleep, you caught him whispering, half-dreaming:

“Love ya. Don’t let ‘em forget me.”

Your chest tightened with fond exasperation. “Love you too, you ridiculous man.”

Liam went quiet in your lap, drifting in and out, muttering the odd bit of nonsense between shallow sighs. You stroked his hair a few more times, watching his eyes flutter, before leaning down to brush your knuckles across his cheek.

“Come on,” you coaxed softly. “You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

“M’fine here,” he mumbled, voice muffled against you.

“You’re not. You’ve been playing martyr on this sofa since I got back,” you teased gently. “Let me look after you properly.”

It took a bit of coaxing, and a lot of groaning, but eventually he let you tug him upright. He leaned heavily against you on the walk to the bedroom, as though every step required monumental effort.

“You’re makin’ a fuss,” he rasped.

“You love it,” you said with a small smile, pulling back the duvet.

He collapsed onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh. You tugged at the zip of his parka until he let you peel it off, revealing a rumpled T-shirt underneath. Without the layers, he looked smaller somehow, softer, more himself.

You pulled the blankets up around him, slipped a hot water bottle against his side, and smoothed the sheets into place.

“There,” you said, stroking his hair back. “Civilised.”

His eyes were already closing, voice stripped of bravado. “Don’t deserve ya, y’know.”

Your heart tugged. You pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Get some sleep, Liam.”

When you slid into bed beside him, he immediately curled in, one arm hooking around your waist and his face nuzzling into the curve of your neck as you both nodded off.

Somewhere around midnight, you stirred to find the space beside you empty. You rose and padded out in the hallway. The faint flicker of the telly drew you out to the living room, where you found him again: bundled on the sofa, blanket cocooned tight around him and his cheek pressed into the cushion.

“Liam,” you whispered, crouching beside him.

He stirred, eyes barely opening. “Didn’t wanna wake ya,” he slurred. “Was coughin’. Sofa’s fine.”

Your chest squeezed. You tucked another blanket over him. “Stubborn,” you murmured, shaking your head.

“Mm,” he hummed, already sinking back under, too weak to argue. “Don’t move me.”

So you didn’t move him. You just stood there for a moment, watching the way he’d curled himself into the corner of the sofa, blanket tangled around him and mouth parted slightly as he breathed through sleep. The telly cast a faint glow over him, and something in your chest pulled tight from fierce and aching love for him.

You bent down, tucking the blanket higher around his shoulders, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “Idiot,” you whispered softly, pressing a kiss there before retreating to bed alone.

But once you were under the duvet, the emptiness pressed in around you. The sheets felt too cold, the silence too wide without the weight of him curled into you. You rolled from one side to the other, trying to settle, but it wasn’t the same.

You missed him. His warmth, his heavy arm slung over your waist, the steady sound of his breathing beside your ear. Even his restless tossing and muttering.

And so you lay awake longer than you meant to, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come. Missing his closeness.

When you finally drifted off, it was shallow and uneasy. When you woke later to find him still on the sofa, you weren’t surprised at all. Just relieved he was still there to find, curled up on the sofa, blanket cocooned, the telly flickering quietly in the corner. He looked up at you with glassy eyes.

“Morning,” you murmured, setting a plate of toast and a mug of tea on the table.

He groaned. “Don’t think I’ll survive the day.” His voice was hoarse, threadbare.

You smiled softly. “You said that last night. You’re still here.”

“Barely,” he rasped. He shifted under the blankets, then reached out a hand toward you, weak but insistent. “Come here. Please.”

You sat down, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Eat something first.”

“Don’t want it,” he whined, tugging weakly at your wrist. His voice cracked, rough from coughing, but he played it up with a pitiful groan. “Me throat’s killin’ me. Feels like someone’s shoved a bloody cactus down there. Can’t swallow, can’t talk, can barely breathe. Tea’ll just make it worse. Don’t make us, love… just stay here with me.”

With a sigh, you gave in, easing back into the nest of blankets. His arms were around you immediately, guiding you down until you were lying on your back against the cushions. Before you could even settle, he crawled over you, tucking himself between your legs and laying his head heavy on your chest.

“There,” he whispered, voice muffled against your shirt. “Perfect. Don’t move.”

Your arms went around him instinctively, cradling him close. One hand stroked slowly through his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles over his back. He melted almost instantly, the tension draining out of him in a long, shaky sigh.

“See?” you teased quietly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You could’ve had this in bed last night. Why sneak out here?”

He shifted, burrowing closer until his nose brushed against your throat. “Told ya, didn’t wanna wake ya.” The words came soft, almost embarrassed.

“Liam..,” you whispered, stroking his hair again. “You should’ve woken me. You know I don’t mind fussing.”

He shook his head faintly against you. “Didn’t need fuss. Just… this.” His hand clutched weakly at your jumper, holding on like he might vanish without the anchor.

You held him tighter, kissing the crown of his head. “Then stay here. I’ve got you.”

For a while, it was just the rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first but slowly deepening as he drifted. His body sagged heavier against yours, his thumb brushing idly at your side until even that motion stilled.

Right before he slipped under, he managed one last faint flicker of drama: “If I don’t wake up… bury me in the navy parka. Classy.”

You smiled, tears of fondness catching in your throat, and pressed your cheek to his hair. “Sleep, my love. You’re not going anywhere.”

And with your arms around him, Liam finally let go, sleeping soundly against your chest like he belonged nowhere else.

When you blinked awake again, the room was hazy with late-morning light. The rain had softened to a drizzle, tapping lazily at the window. You tried to stretch before remembering the weight pinning you down.

He was sprawled completely over you, head pillowed on your chest, arms snug around your waist, legs tangled with yours under the heap of blankets. His breathing was deep and slow, warm against your shirt. He must’ve shifted while you slept, because now he felt impossibly heavy, like he’d melted entirely into you.

“Liam…” you whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

A low groan rumbled out of him. He burrowed further into you, cheek pressing against your chest. “Don’t. M’comfortable.”

“You’re crushing me,” you murmured, though your hands had already found his hair, stroking it gently.

“Not movin’,” he mumbled, hoarse but stubborn. “This is medicinal. Doctor’s orders.”

You smiled faintly. “Oh, really? Which doctor prescribed clinging to me like a limpet?”

“Best one,” he muttered. “Me.”

You laughed softly, kissing the crown of his head. “Thought you said you were better?”

“Am better,” he rasped, though he made no move to lift himself. “Fit as a fiddle. Just… need a bit more recovery time. Here.” His arms tightened around you, as if to prove his point.

“You’re hopeless,” you teased gently, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

He gave a huff of a laugh that turned into a small cough, sagging heavier against you until you hushed him with gentle fingers in his hair. When the fit passed, he sighed, a sound so raw and unguarded it tugged at your chest.

“See?” you whispered. “Not quite ready for a tour just yet.”

“Shut it,” he muttered into your chest, though his voice was soft. “Hard as nails, me. Just… like it here.”

“Mm.” You brushed your lips against his temple. “Admit it.. you love being fussed over.”

“Don’t,” he mumbled, nuzzling deeper until his nose brushed your throat. But after a pause, he said quieter, almost embarrassed: “Just… it feels safe here. With you.”

Your arms wrapped tighter around him, your heart aching at the rare vulnerability. “Good,” you whispered. “Because you’re not going anywhere.”And so you lay there in the quiet, with Liam heavy and warm on top of you.

By the time you stirred again, the house was flooded with mid-day light. The rain outside had picked up, a steady rhythm against the glass, while the telly flickered faintly across the room. You stretched beneath the heap of blankets, only to realise why you couldn’t move: Liam was still sprawled across you. Heavy with intention.

He was awake now, arms firm around your waist and his chin tilted just enough to watch you with a smug little half-smile.

“Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” he rasped, voice still hoarse but carrying a spark of mischief. “Nice nap?”

You blinked at him. “Nice nap? You’ve been welded to me since morning.”

He grinned wider, nuzzling back into your chest as though to prove your point.

“Potato, tomato. Still counts as me holdin’ you.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing your fingers through his messy hair. “How are you feeling? Honestly.”

“Better,” he admitted, the word grudging but real. Then, with a dramatic sigh: “Starvin’ though. Fadin’ away by the second. Gonna need soup. Toast. Grapes. Hand-fed. Like a Roman emperor.”

You huffed a laugh. “So you’re well enough to be cheeky, but not well enough to make your own dinner?”

“Exactly,” he said, snuggling closer and tightening his arms. “Doctor’s orders. Can’t risk movin’. Might collapse. Best stay right here.”

“Convenient.”

“Brilliant,” he corrected, smirk audible in his voice. “This sofa, you strokin’ me hair. I could live here.”

You softened at that, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Awfully soppy for a man who doesn’t like fuss.”

“Oi,” he muttered into your chest. “Still hard as nails, me. Just… nails that appreciate a cuddle now and then.”

You couldn’t help laughing, your hand never stopping its slow rhythm through his hair. “If anyone else heard you say that..”

“They won’t,” he interrupted quickly, looking up at you with mock-serious eyes. “Swear on it, yeah? Don’t ruin me reputation. I’ll deny everything.”

“Of course you will,” you said fondly.

For a moment, the only sound was the rain, steady and soft. Then his voice dropped, quieter, rougher. “Love ya. Proper mean it.”

Your chest squeezed. You held him closer, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Love you too, Liam.”

He hummed, content, cheek pressing deeper against you. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your jumper, resting warm at your side in a gesture more grounding than possessive.

After a long, quiet stretch, you tried to shift. “If you’re really starving, I could..”

“Nope.” His arms locked tighter. “Don’t move. I don’t care if I waste away. This is better.”

You rolled your eyes again, though your smile gave you away. “Impossible man.”

Vanessa and Klette: *sniffle and cough a bit*

Lyana having had the flu before: Oh gods no, what have we done?

Wren, an absolute baby: I think I'm dying. I'm too young to die.

Lyana to herself: I love my husband, I love my husband, I love my husband. I will not smother him with a pillow

Wren: What was that?

29 "I've got you."

@flufftober

The Kasugai crow curiously peered at the piece of paper Kyoujurou unfolded, tilting its small head while watching him. Kyoujurou grinned at his crow and held the paper out to it. “Wanna read it out to me?” he asked and laughed when his crow shot him a look that could only be described as indignant.

His crow cawed at him, apparently not considering his joke worth an actual reply. And while still grinning to himself, Kyoujurou looked back at the letter the crow had brought him. While that was not unusual in itself, Kyoujurou was used to his crow telling him who the sender was. This letter though was decidedly mysterious as even his crow did not know who had sent it to him. Apparently, it had been brought to him by another crow who had only told him that the letter was urgent and had to reach Kyoujurou as quickly as possible.

Curious, Kyoujurou held the letter close to his face, squinting while he tried to make out the scrawny letters sprawled over the paper. Somehow, the handwriting seemed rather familiar but he could not place it. Instead, he focused on the short message scribbled onto the paper.

“Kyoujurou,” he read out loud, smiling to himself when his crow hopped onto his shoulder, peeking at the letter, “my time has come. If you want to see me one last time, meet me where we used to watch the sunset. I shall be waiting.”

Kyoujurou paused and exchanged a confused glance with his crow. “That does seem rather dramatic,” he murmured. “And it’s not signed. What do you think who sent the letter?”

His crow moved its wings as if it tried to shrug. “An idiot,” it cawed and tilted its head, looking at Kyoujurou with an amused sparkle in its dark eyes. “Your idiot.”

Kyoujurou stared at his crow speechlessly for a moment which evoked a croaky laugh. “You mean … Tengen?” he asked, just to be sure, and his crow nodded decidedly.

Kyoujurou thought about it for a moment, torn between protesting and laughing. While a bit mean-spirited, the suspicion was indeed spot on. And now that he thought about it, the ominous remark about watching the sunset also fit his crow’s guess as he vividly remembered many nights of him and Tengen watching the sunset from the roof of Tengen’s house.

“Well, to Tengen’s mansion then,” he said with a grin and his crow rolled its eyes. “You don’t have to accompany me, Kaname. We’ll meet up later.”

And when he smiled at his crow, it nestled up to his cheek and cawed softly before carefully pushing off his shoulder and soaring into the sky. Kyoujurou watched his companion fly away with a smile before he turned the other direction and started on the path leading him to Tengen’s home. While walking, he took another good look at the letter and involuntarily asked himself whether this was just another one of Tengen’s jokes or whether he was actually being serious for once. And somehow, this thought unsettled him just enough to quicken his pace until he raced along the street, blowing up dust.

Less than an hour later, Kyoujurou finally reached Tengen’s mansion that was equally as flashy as Tengen himself was. Even though he was fairly certain that the letter was just one of Tengen’s many theatrics he could not shake off the urge to see for himself, just to make sure that Tengen was alright after all. When he knocked at the door, he was surprised to notice that his heart was beating a bit faster than he would expect, even after a sprint like this. He glanced down at his hands and paused when he saw them trembling slightly. Confused, he clenched them to fists and then slowly relaxed them again but they still felt a bit shaky.

This endeavor distracted him enough that he only realized after a moment that nobody had answered the door. Kyoujurou furled his brows and knocked again, this time more firmly. “Tengen?” he called out. “It’s me, open up.”

But the mansion stayed silent. Kyoujurou held his breath when his heart started beating even faster. He looked down at his chest skeptically, unsure of what to make of it. He knocked again, this time with so much force that the door shook in its hinges. But again, nobody came to the door. Absentmindedly, Kyoujurou pulled the letter from his pocket and read it again, wondering whether he had misread where to meet Tengen. A small voice in his mind whispered that he might have even been mistaken in his assumption of who wrote the letter, but Kyoujurou pushed it aside. “Meet me where we used to watch the sunset,” he muttered to himself, helplessly staring at the letter.

When the words did not change, he sighed and looked up at the sky that was now slowly turning a beautiful shade of red as the sun sank down to the horizon. And when Kyoujurou looked at the sun, his head shot up. Where they watched the sunset, that could only mean one thing. At first, he had simply thought of Tengen’s mansion but now that he thought about it, they had always made themselves comfortable on the roof deck of the house when watching the sunset.

Kyoujurou shot the door a pensive look before he shrugged and turned around, leaving it behind. He walked along the wall lining the property to a point where he could easily climb it. When he was on top of the wall, he balanced on it and walked back to the house, climbing up its side with slow and steady movements. In less than five minutes, he had made it to the roof and carefully walked over it to the other side of the house where the roof deck faced the backside of the mansion, overlooking the garden and the lake that lay behind it.

From where he stood, he could not view the deck and thus, he laid down, back facing the garden, and carefully lowered his body from the roof down until his feet touched the deck. And when he had found safe footing, he let go of the roof and safely landed on the deck.

“Ah, fair friend,” a voice behind him said weakly. “You’ve made it in time.”

Kyoujurou turned around – and flinched when he saw Tengen laying on a cot, his hand hanging down to the floor. While Kyoujurou still stared at him entirely bewildered, Tengen slowly sat up, his face twisting with exhaustion. “I am glad that I can see your beautiful face one last time.”