#sickfick

He was supposed to be mad, wasn't he? He should’ve yelled, maybe said the most lewd comment known to mankind.

But instead of a cutting remark, he’d blinked. Blinked and let out the smallest and most dangerous smirk you’d ever seen.

“Guess you’re not a morning person either?” He’d said.

You blinked, halfway expecting to be eaten alive. “Yeah, well. Your fault anyway” you had teased, trying to stifle down a giggle.

“Oh great, you’re delusional. You’ll fit right in” he teased, but he also had a soft little on his face - almost genuine. It made your heart swell.

And that was just the beginning.

The next day, you bought him lunch to apologise for the ruined shirt, and let’s be honest. Who was Gregory House to deny free lunch? Even Wilson didn’t treat him with such joy.

“Oh, I bet you find me irresistible,” He said with a smug little expression, before devouring like he hadn’t eaten anything for days.

You figured that was it. A weird - one-off moment. But it wasn’t.

He kept showing up. In the hallway, in your office. In that space just below the stairs, you liked to hide when things got too loud, too clinical.

At first, he acted like it was a coincidence. Like he just happened to need to pass through wherever you were. But House was many things, and subtle was never one of them.

“I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me,” you teased once, catching him for the third time that week loitering outside your office door.

“Oh please. If I were stalking you, you’d know it pretty face” he shot back, but his eyes lingered longer than they should’ve before he limped off.

Your playful and witty banter only carried on for so long before the tension between you shifted. One day, somewhere along the stolen lunches sarcastic quips over patient charts, House asked you out. Not anything fancy, emotional - just him, looking at you and asking you as casually as if he were ordering takeout.

“Dinner?” No punchline followed. Just that.

You were stupid not to agree. Dinner turned into breakfast, turned into weekends, which turned into toothbrushes left behind and arguments over who stole whose sweatshirt. (you obviously? you loved his clothes)

Now it’s just you, and him. No announcements no big labels, just the strange unspoken understanding of you being his person. Somehow, he’s yours too.

Which is why today, when you show up at work sniffling and obviously running on less than four hours of sleep, House doesn’t let it slide.

“You look like death,” he said in a chirpy voice, hoping to get a small reaction from you. “Stole Wilson’s lunch. Here” He continued, dropping a small lunch box and an orange juice in front of you.

You barely glanced at him. “Can’t. I have clinic duty, consults, and a paper that should be turned in by Friday”

He frowns and then moves quickly. He shuts your laptop down, earning a small “Hey!” from you. “Why’d you do that?!”

“Cause I can’t have you passing out during rounds and embarrassing me”

“Oh, baby. You’re such a romantic” You fret, rolling your eyes - Or attempting to do so. Your head pounded so much even that was difficult for you.

“And you’re—“ He paused, bringing his hand to your forehead to check your temperature. “You have a fever, sweetheart. Take the compliment and lie down before I carry you”

Trying to protest was useless. He’d always get what he wanted.

“You know I’ll make it weird, come on. Up you go”

You muttered something about abuse of power when he helped you to your feet, but the truth was that the room was already spinning, and you were grateful he held you.

“Where are we going?” you asked, leaning into him slightly as he looped an arm around your waist.

“My office. Big chair. Nap. You’re banned from thinking for the next few hours.” he said, leading you down the hall like it was routine.

“No - Not your office. Smells like sarcasm and regret” you mumbled.

“Exactly. Suits you”

When he settled you on the worn-out leather chair, he didn’t tease you about the way you curled up immediately, or how fast your eyes fluttered shut. Instead, he pulled his coat from the rack and draped it over your body.

He doesn’t follow after the team immediately. He sits back at his desk, grumbling as he twiddles with his cane.

“Unbelievable. I get you lunch, save your life and the thanks I get is… Are you sleeping? Tsk tsk, sweetheart” He grumbled, but his words held no anger.

From the couch, he heard your muffled, drowsy voice.

“Love you too”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips said it all.

After a few minutes, he walked over to you— placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. You were still warm.

“Goddamn hopeless romantic”

He stood there for a moment, just watching you. Your features weren’t totally relaxed— the crease between your eyebrows was still there. The sight made something in his chest tighten, some old reflex he tried not to name.

With a sigh, he turned back to his desk, settling into his chair and spinning lazily in it once before grabbing a pen. Diagnostics could wait a little longer. He pulled your laptop toward him, flicking it open despite your earlier protests.

“Clinic duty, consults, paper due to Friday” he muttered to himself, scrolling through your emails and files. “I don’t remember agreeing to date an overachiever”

Then, he started canceling. One email, then another - until your inbox and calendar were empty. But halfway through the process, Wilson walked in, probably ready to ask something - until his gaze landed on your sleeping form, curled up on House’s chair with his coat.

“Really?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

House didn’t look up from your laptop. “She’s sick”

“And you’re… playing secretary?”

He vaguely gestured with his pen, as if saying Go away. “She’s annoying when she’s dying. This is self-preservation”

Wilson chuckled, muttering a small “Whatever you say” before turning to leave.

“Oh and tell Cuddy if she needs rheumatology, she’ll have to drag her away herself”

“Fine, just don’t fall in love with her”

House didn’t answer. He just kept typing. Because if he had answered, he would’ve said something like, “Too late”

By the time you’d woken up, the sun had set and soft lamps were flickering in the office. You were groggy and unaware of how long you’d been sleeping, making House turn his attention to you the minute you shifted a little.

“Sleeping beauty is finally awake, hm?” He said softly, coming to sit near your feet.

“Yeah. How long was I out for?”

“Long enough for me to hack into your email account” He smirked, noticing how your expression went from sleepy to mortified.

“You did what?!” you croaked, sitting up straighter despite his coat being wrapped around you.

“Oh relax, you didn’t have any dirty secrets. Just a lot of boring consults and an unholy amount of calendar reminders. Honestly, it was more disappointing than I expected”

“You canceled my day, didn’t you?”

“Mhmm,” he popped a pill bottle open, handing it to you. “You’re still feverish,” he said softly, concern etched on his features.

You took the pills reluctantly, eyeing the water bottle he passed next like it had personally wronged you. “You know, you’re supposed to be the world’s biggest jerk. This is very off-brand for you”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, resting his chin on his cane while watching you sip the water. “I’ll go back to bullying residents and making interns cry the second you stop looking like a Victorian ghost.”

You sighed, melting back into the chair. “I was fine”

“No you weren’t, sweetheart”

You blinked at the endearment - voice sounding much more softer than usual. It always came up low and tired, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it slipped out from somewhere unguarded.

“I’m not fragile you know” You murmured, averting your gaze from him, focusing on his cane.

He gave you a look, deadpanned but affectionate. “You fell asleep on my chair, wrapped up in my coat like a burrito. Forgive me for assuming you’re not at full strength”

“Such a sap, Greg”

“Yeah, I’m such a catch” he drawled. “You’re staying at my place tonight”

“What? Why?”

“Which part of “you can’t stand up straight without help” don’t you understand? I’m not leaving you alone. You might spiral into working again”

“I have an apartment,” You said softly, even though deep down you wanted to be with him.

“Sure. But I have better snacks”

You tried to protest—really, you did. But your head was still heavy, your limbs achy, and the thought of curling up in his too-big clothes, in his bed that smelled like him, was more comforting than you’d admit.

“Okay, doctors orders,” you said, giving in. “But I’m taking your Princeton sweater”

He stood up, putting his cane aside just to help you up and take your bag. “Fine. But the movie’s on me. And if you fall asleep, I promise to take a picture and save it as my contact photo”

You sighed, pressing your fingers on your temple to stop the throbbing in your temples. “You wouldn’t dare”

“Sweetheart” He whispered when he saw your face contorting in pain. “I would”

He opened the door for you, watching every single reaction you had. And despite the pounding in your head and the burn in your throat, you smiled. Because somehow, being lovingly bullied by Gregory House was the safest you’d felt all week.

By the time you reached his apartment, you’d been dozing on and off in his car, head lolling with every turn he took. He didn’t comment on it. Just glanced every now and then, turning the music down.

Inside, the lights were low. His place smelled like burnt coffee and old books, and maybe… comfort. Tossing your bag on the couch, he headed to his room - emerging with a soft, worn-out t-shirt. No way he’d give you the Princeton hoodie. That would be saved for special occasions.

Without a word, House helped you sit on the edge of the couch - hands on your waist to steady you. “Arms up” he instructed.

He moved carefully—fingers brushing lightly over your fever-warm skin, gaze never straying lower than your face. When he slipped the shirt over your head, he smoothed it down your arms like he was folding something delicate.

You didn’t bother with pants—he wouldn’t care, and you were already sinking into the couch as your bones had dissolved. He followed a second later, dropping beside you with a quiet grunt. His hand found your back automatically, warm and steady, tracing gentle circles like it was second nature.

“You gonna pass out on me again?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“No, unless you feed me anything. Maybe soup and oh - maybe grilled cheese?”

He snorted. “You’re getting a cold sandwich and you’re gonna love it”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. “You’re insufferable” you spoke, breath fanning over his skin. It almost made him shiver.

“And yet,” he said, grabbing a blanket and draping it over your body. “You’re here, on my couch, in my clothes… In my arms”

“…and kind of in love with you”

It wasn’t meant to slip out. It just did. Fever loosened your tongue, and your heart as well.

His breath hitched - and the cogs in his brain started running. It was the medicine, wasn’t it? It was making you bleary… and saying things you didn’t mean.

But what if you did mean it?

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked at you, really looked at you. Your lashes clumped from sleep, cheeks flushed and lips plump - all in your feverish state. You looked as if you hadn’t realised what you’d just said. He found it adorable.

It would be easier to laugh it off. Deflect. Say something cruel and clever, to ruin the moment.

Instead, House reached up - carded his fingers through your hair, noticing how you let out a quiet, but content sigh.

“You’re kind of high on ibuprofen,” he said finally, voice rough.

“Maybe. I meant it either way” you said, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

A beat passed.

Then another.

House didn’t look at you when he answered—just let his hand trail down your arm before lacing his fingers with yours.

“I’m kind of in love with you too,” he muttered. “Unfortunately.”

You huffed sleepily, snuggling closer to him. “Tragic. Can’t have you become a softie now”

“Oh, you’re an evil woman,” he said teasingly, squeezing your hand.

For a moment, you didn’t move. His free hand continued its soothing motions on your back, making you feel safe, kept. Like even if he wasn’t good with words, he was still choosing you, quietly, in all the ways that mattered.

Eventually, he shifted - manoeuvring you so you were lying on his chest with your legs entwined.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he said in a hushed tone, pressing a kiss to your warm forehead. “Maybe I’ll make you grilled cheese tomorrow”

You smiled against his chest, the warmth of his body lulling you under again.

“You better” you whispered.

Nakahara Chuuya was not weak. Not in any sense of the word. He was one of the youngest Port Mafia executives in the organization’s decorated history, a skilled fighter, and possessed one of the most powerful abilities currently known. He was certainly not one to be messed with.

But of course, he was still human. Mostly, anyways. 

Human. With all of the embarrassment, pitfalls, and messy vulnerabilities that come with the condition.

And that’s how the all-powerful Nakahara Chuuya had found himself reminded of his humanity: pathetically bedridden by nothing more than the flu. 

It had come on suddenly; the mildly annoying sore throat that creeped in during the evening had blossomed into a twisted amalgamation of the most irritating symptoms possible with only a night’s worth of sleep. It was truly a bummer; Chuuya hadn’t been able to sleep well before that at all for almost a week, and the one night he could only led to him waking up even worse in the morning.

Immediately upon waking up, he knew that something was wrong. His limbs felt heavy, and after lifting an arm that felt as though it was made of lead up to his forehead, Chuuya had found his skin feeling flush—feverishly hot against his ice-cold fingers. He sighed, exasperated. Of course this would happen when he least needed it to. As if his life couldn’t get any worse right now, his own body had caught in on the action. Reaching for his phone with the least possible movement he could, Chuuya swiped open the display with shaky fingers to a familiar contact.

“Hello? Chuuya-san?” a deep, monotone voice answered. 

“Akutagawa, hey,” Chuuya choked out, his voice painfully hoarse. Nasally, too. His heavy mouth breathing could definitely be heard over the line. He punctuated the greeting with a cacophony of coughing.

“Are you okay?,” his voice suddenly tensed, “is there an emergency? Where are you?”

“No, no…” Chuuya immediately reassured. The sudden reflexive response had taken a toll on his throat, it stung intensely and Chuuya’s face contorted. “I just… I need you to tell Mori that I’m out sick today.”

Akutagawa fell quiet. The only sound on both sides of the call was the buzz of static and Chuuya’s sniffles.

“That’s it?” his voice dropped, losing any hint of compassion it just had. He sounded angry, almost mocking.

Chuuya hummed in response, voice already fatigued.

“You called me at seven in the morning for… that?” Akutagawa asked, thinly veiled irateness peeking through even the gritty quality of the phone speaker. Chuuya had assumed Akutagawa would have more sympathy for him, given that the boy had his own frequent bouts of illness, but he was frigidly uncaring toward the circumstances of Chuuya’s current condition.

“Please. I really don’t think I can deal with him in this state.”

After an audible sigh from the other end, Chuuya had finally gotten a response from the boy. 

“Fine. But you owe me one,” Akutagawa muttered, hanging up the call before Chuuya could even begin to move his finger toward the red button.

Now with that matter taken care of, Chuuya finally had the blessing to spend the day at home recovering. Too sick to partake in his favorite vice, working, he settled for binge watching pointless sitcoms on his laptop. It made the time go by slightly better, the dumb jokes and repetitive plotlines blurring together into one amorphous haze as Chuuya periodically drifted in-and-out of a painful and somewhat hallucinogenic cough syrup and fever induced sleep. Two excruciating days passed, with absolutely no work done and two-going-on-three seasons of a show Chuuya couldn’t quite remember the name of under his belt. 

Chuuya hated being sick. It rarely happened, but when it did—it took its course on his body. This bout of the flu had left Chuuya helpless; shivering feverishly in delirium as hot tears, cold as they rolled down his scorching skin, filled his burning eyes. And the pain, the pain was the rotten cherry on top of the whole pile of garbage. 

Nobody in the mafia was a stranger to pain. That was just the nature of the job. But the aches that tore through Chuuya’s body were of another caliber—maybe it was just the state he was in to begin with, but the random yet constant pain in each and every inch of his body was mind-numbingly torturous. There was a base layer of dull ache that often faded into the background, but was always there to remind him when he thought the worst of it had died down. Then, the random shooting pains in random muscle groups at various parts of the day. Those were the worst, by far. Then, the headache—to be expected from the flu, but still unwelcome anyway. And finally, the burning buried deep into his core, a painful sensation lining the tubes of Chuuya’s lungs from all the violent coughing. This was second to the random muscle pains, but only by a small margin—the lung pain left Chuuya clutching at the bony wall of his chest after particularly bad coughing fits.

He didn’t even want to get started on the coughing. It could count as an exercise at this point. Chuuya was dead tired, drained and worn out from the coughing—rattling, deep, constant— that plagued him constantly. The cough medicine wasn’t very effective, neither were lozenges. And not only was his body tired of expending that much energy from the constant constricting of his chest, but his bronchial tubes, deep in the core of his body, were left in searing pain with each violent cough that pushed out of his weakened body.

How could a simple virus bring down such a man to his knees? It was a truly sick and twisted thing, the flu.

Two days had passed like that, with Chuuya spending the majority of the day agonizing in bed. As evening began to fall, Chuuya took another dosage of cold medicine for the night, before popping another cough drop as the lung pain grew unbearable. He choked down the dark liquid. Bitter and sickly sweet, it coated the membrane lining of his pharynx in such a way that he could finally suppress an oncoming cough threatening to rattle his already worn body. It was a nice relief. He lay back again, sinking his head into the head-shaped indent in his pillow, pulling the covers up as chills crashed over his feverish body like an icy wave crashing onto snowy shores. Chuuya was spent, dead tired as he drifted into sleep with a medicated ease.

In the middle of the night, Chuuya stirred awake, feeling his body freezing as he found himself shivering under layers upon layers of blankets. His throat was bone-dry—and when he tried to swallow, the little saliva that made its way down seared painfully. And his mouth had a faint aftertaste of the minty honey-lemon lozenge that had once been in his mouth when he was awake, now dissolved in his sleep. His mind felt hazy, tired from sleep and foggy from the medications he’d been choking down. Yet, he could make out wisps of sound from the foyer: someone fumbling with the front door. Finally, that familiar sound rang out in the air.

The front door had been opened.

But how? Chuuya had sworn he’d left it locked when he last came home, not to mention he always double-checked if it was locked before going to sleep. Was this another hallucination, or a legitimate threat?

Quickly, as if on instinct, Chuuya reached for the bedside table, sliding the top layer of lacquered wood on the rail. He’d opened a secret velvet-lined storage compartment. This nightstand was an amazing Facebook marketplace find, and an even better place to keep emergency weapons for situations like this. Chuuya chose a reliable pocket knife from the assortment of various small items in the compartment: an assortment of his valuables, important legal documents, a metal key on a string, a handgun, a small worn leather diary—and of course, the pocketknife. The rustling of furniture and items from Chuuya’s part had masked the sound of the footsteps getting closer and closer. They were certainly faint, as the intruder attempted to be as quiet as possible, but the creaking of Chuuya’s old floorboards had betrayed them.

The footstep sound had stopped, growing louder and louder in Chuuya’s congested ears until it had silenced. They should have been right in front of his bedroom door by now, if Chuuya’s somewhat impaired senses were to be trusted. He wanted to push himself up, and stand alongside the wall to ambush the attacker, but the adrenaline wasn’t working its usual magic. Chuuya was still bedbound by the fever, pain, and weakness that’d accompanied both. The time it’d take for him to move all his body weight would have put him in a vulnerable position. So the bed had become his fort, and he was set on defending it however he could.

After a second, the door opened quietly, although the old wood had still creaked despite the intruder’s cautiousness. Chuuya swallowed a cough away, desperately trying to keep silent. He gripped tighter to the knife, still hiding under the covers.

The side of a head peeked through the doorway, staring intensely at him—fixed onto Chuuya’s wide eyes and terrified yet determined expression peeking through the sheets. The intruder’s features couldn’t be made out in the faint lights peeking through the window from the city street below.

“Don’t come any closer if you want to live,” Chuuya warned, the threat coming out far weaker than he’d hoped. His voice was strained, gravelly—almost gone. 

After a second of silence, a voice rang out in the eerie stillness. Chuuya was convinced he had fully lost it when he heard that familiar din. This wasn’t just a fever dream—it was a fever nightmare.

“You’re awake? How unusual!” a rather cheerful voice rang out, closing the door behind them as their figure came into view. So tall. The shadows had made the slender figure look even more disproportionate. If this shadow-figure didn’t possess the one voice Chuuya was more than painfully familiar with, then he was certain it was some nightmare hallucination manifested from diphenhydramine overuse. 

Of course, seeing Dazai as a shadow lurking in the corner of his room could definitely count as a waking nightmare. 

Chuuya pulled the covers over his head, trying to keep his burning eyes closed so he could go back to sleep and hopefully end this fever dream. The fever had manifested his defected partner a couple of other times, too—amongst other things. It wasn’t the most improbable thing that this was just another episode of his brain being cooked into delirium, but for some reason this just felt so much more real than every other time.

*****

Dazai was shocked that Chuuya hadn’t replaced the locks to his apartment. He wasn’t necessarily opposed to the idea of climbing up the fire escape, as he usually did to check on his ex-partner through the window, but this saved him the trouble of climbing the often wet corrugated iron in the dark. 

But it was still kind of surprising. Chuuya wasn’t lazy, nor was he careless. After almost two years of Dazai being a traitor, Chuuya hadn’t bothered to replace the front door lock that he’d given Dazai the spare key to. And Chuuya should’ve been well aware that Dazai had possessed a spare key after all the random visits he’d received during their partnership. Plus, Chuuya had the spare key to Dazai’s apartment—he’d moved out a while ago for the Armed Detective Agency dorms, but Dazai assumed Chuuya still had the key hidden somewhere, even despite being aware that Dazai had found himself a new gig as a detective. Dazai figured he’d probably taunt or chide him about it, seeing it as a massive downgrade from the decorated position of executive in one of the most elusively notable underground organizations in not only Japan—but the world as a whole. 

Regardless, Dazai saw his still-working key as a sort of unspoken invitation. Why else would Chuuya refuse to change the lock if he didn’t still want Dazai to find his way through the front door at some point? He would never admit that kind of thing out loud with words like a normal person, Dazai figured, it was through his actions that he expressed himself—albeit cryptically.

Now, face-to-face with the man himself, Dazai found himself taken aback at the abject terror in his face as he shivered, mostly shrouded in blankets. His face bore an  expression that was clearly not mocking, not anger… but fear.

He’d heard that Chuuya was sick, but he wasn’t expecting it to be so bad that he was nowhere near in his right mind.

Dazai licked his lips, and apprehensively walked toward Chuuya. He let the little glimpse of streetlight from the window fall onto his face so that Chuuya could see that it wasn’t anyone besides his other half in the room with him. 

“Don’t you recognize me, chibi?” Dazai cooed with an irritatingly fake sympathetic tone. He was finding this amusing. Chuuya covered his ears under the blanket, curling up into a ball with the knife still grasped in his fingertips. He did, unfortunately, recognize him. Chuuya could be in a coma, and his heart rate would still go up when he’d sensed that chaotic presence in his vicinity. Of course, Dazai kept talking. “I heard from a little birdie that you were sick, and of course, I wanted to see for myself!”

Dazai crept closer, placing his tan-colored coat onto the back of Chuuya’s desk chair before sitting down on the bed. The mattress sank under his weight. Chuuya peeked, one eye peering out from the blanket. “Wh-What are you talking about?” he stopped to cough, “Who?”

“I saw some of your cute little subordinates yesterday, so I obviously was curious as to where their big important executive was,” Dazai mused, blasé about the whole deal and mockingly aggrandising when referring to Chuuya’s title.

The implication was that there was some altercation with the mafia and the agency. Chuuya understood it in some part, instinctively frowning at the thought. Yesterday should’ve been Thursday, owing to whatever lucid part of Chuuya’s mind being able to find the scraps of clarity needed to correctly remember what day it was. That meant that he would’ve been out on a deal at the port. Akutagawa had texted him that evening, mentioning how the mission had fallen through—and it was a cruel twist of the knife that irony cruelly presents itself as that right here in front of him was the culprit of the failed mission—what was supposed to be his mission—sitting pretty on the foot of his bed. Watching him in his pitiful state. Mocking him with his sarcastic words and a gaze that only barely disguised his amusement. 

Chuuya felt the weight shift closer to him on the big bed as Dazai crept closer. He curled himself under the blanket until the skin of his knees brushed up against his cheek, still shaking from how cold he felt.

“Get…” Chuuya weakly called out, “get the hell away from me.”

A coughing fit overcame him, the searing pain in his lungs only encouraging his body more, the dry coughs began to turn into wheezing until he lay back limp on the bed. Everything hurt.

“You’ve gotta stop smoking, slug. You’ve been doing it more, recently. It’s no good for you, especially with your asthma and all,” Dazai chided, his tone lighthearted; but deep down, the message was sincere. “I don’t want you dying on me anytime soon, chibi. If you’re gone, then who’s gonna be my wingman to pick up pretty ladies for a romantic double-suicide date night?”

Chuuya wanted to protest, argue back, but his mind was too tired to think of anything to retort back. Plus, he’d just end up hacking up another lung before he got out what he wanted to say. 

But Dazai was right, though. It was a bad habit he had; he’d gone from an occasional social smoker to making it a near daily ritual. Losing his partner in crime had only put more stress upon him as the number of executives available to take care of all the Port Mafia’s mountains of work had been knocked down a peg thanks to their defector dearest. The newfound vice was his solace, the momentary calm in the storm in the whirlwind of chaos and stress from his job.

But that wasn’t on Chuuya’s mind. Nowhere near it. The only thing that was processing was the immense physical discomfort coursing through his body and the disorientation of whatever waking dream was going on around him.

The worst part about fever dreams is that they always felt so painfully real, all of the distorted mirages—acid trip colors and spinning skies—could have been as realistic and detailed as a recent notable memory from just days before. Not to mention they were always about the one thing that was on your mind before you fell asleep. Chuuya had found himself, years ago, sick and falling asleep to a Minecraft playthrough, only to awake in a dream world that felt awfully real where he was trapped in a loopy, horrifically scary acid-shader version of the game. It was so oddly terrifying it turned him off of the game for months after that dream. Tonight’s dream revolving around Dazai was not unexpected, but certainly unwelcome.

Yet the rush of cold air hitting Chuuya’s skin felt real, awfully so. Dazai had pulled the blankets only slightly so he could take a look at Chuuya’s face, covered in part by Chuuya’s ice-block fingers. Dazai felt his breath catch in his throat, and he swallowed as he collected his shock. Even under the covers of darkness, it was obvious that Chuuya was seriously ill—his skin had taken a sickly pallor, and his body was covered in a glimmering sheen of sweat despite the fact that he was shivering like he was trapped outside in the middle of a snowstorm. 

Reaching out his hand, Dazai placed his fingertips on Chuuya’s forehead—pushing strands of soft hair stuck to his forehead from sweat aside. 

“My God…” Dazai’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Chuuya, you’re burning up,”  Too astounded by the sudden sensation of searing heat hitting his fingertips, he hadn’t even added a nickname or anything silly or condescending; nothing but concern was on his mind in that moment. It was no fun to banter with Chuuya when he was too incapacitated to retort.

Chuuya groaned in response. He lifted his hand limply, trying to push Dazai’s freezing digits off of his face, not able to muster up enough energy to meaningfully move them off of him. Dazai lifted his hand up off him, getting up off the bed and walking out of the room. 

Was that the last of it—of him—that Chuuya had to see tonight? Could he fall back asleep, and when he did, would he wake up in reality or trapped in another feverish nightmare? He closed his eyes, stinging from the heat burning inside his body, and placed a hand over his eyes. The cold skin making contact with his face had made his body automatically try to contort further into itself, trying to warm himself up. 

No, of course it wouldn’t be the last of him that Chuuya was going to see tonight. The door creaked open again, and the footsteps got louder until there was a person-sized mass crawling on the bed next to him. He was ruffling through a box, too. He was talking, albeit quietly. Yet every noise in the room felt annoyingly loud. Was there any part of Dazai Osamu that wasn’t obnoxious? Chuuya wondered.

Before Chuuya could answer ‘no’ to his own complaint/question, he felt cold fingertips snaking their way under his chin, pressing up against his throat. The cold stabbed into his skin, prickling and making him shiver even more. Dazai held Chuuya’s face up in the palm of his hand. His hands were so big, Chuuya’s face fit into them perfectly like two puzzle pieces conjoining into perfect alignment.

And if it couldn’t get worse, Dazai’s thumb slid up to Chuuya’s mouth, opening his pale, chapped lips slightly before he shoved something inside Chuuya’s mouth. He fiddled with the cool plastic and metal stick as he tried to get it positioned comfortably under Chuuya’s tongue. After he was satisfied with where he’d placed the thermometer, Dazai waited, unable to take his eyes off the shivering body that lay next to him.

It was an awkward silence, just Dazai’s quiet breathing and the sound of Chuuya’s labored snivelling breaths filled the air until the thermometer broke the silence with beeping. Dazai turned on the bedside lamp so he could read the number. Chuuya covered his eyes with the blanket again, the warmly dim lighting feeling overbearing on his senses.

“39.6,” Dazai recited, voice dropping into a low, monotone tone. His usual bounciness had completely deflated, being fully replaced with serious concern as he reread the numbers over and over again in his head. It was an awfully high fever.

Dazai had noticed the knife lying on the bed by Chuuya’s hand. He placed it onto the table. Then he got to work, digging through the box again to fish out a bottle of something. The shaky shaking of the little pills against the plastic walls of their container was just so loud in Chuuya’s mind. He tried to bury his head under the pillow. Dazai had noticed, muttering an apology before scurrying off the bed and out of the room again. 

It was finally quiet, although the lamp was still on. But that wasn’t that big of a concern to Chuuya, who found himself drifting back into something that was almost sleep but fell too short of the mark—delirium. An uncomfortable, surreal feeling washed over him, the room spinning around his closed eyes. Chuuya muttered something under his breath, the exact words inaudible. He wasn’t too sure what he’d said either, it had just escaped. It could have been anything: a cry for help, for mercy, a prayer, or just some exclamation of suffering. He didn’t know, and didn’t really care at this point.

Dazai had come back to the room, placing a glass or porcelain object with some heaviness to it onto the lacquered antique wood surface of the nightstand before climbing back into the bed and fiddling with that loud container of pills again.

“Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice was strangely soft as it broke the stillness of the nighttime air. If Chuuya was fully lucid right now, he’d be pissed about being patronized. But in his incapacitated state, he could only give a weary ‘ mmmh’ in response.

Dazai moved the pillow from Chuuya’s face, and supported his weight as he helped Chuuya sit up against the bedframe. Vision blurry, Chuuya watched as Dazai held up a small pill to his face.

“It’s a fever reducer and painkiller,” he explained, handing Chuuya the tiny cylinder. Chuuya looked at it, analyzing it as best he could; it seemed like generic paracetamol upon further inspection. Apprehensively placing it in his mouth with shaky fingers, Dazai grabbed the cup of water off the table, and placed it in Chuuya’s hands. 

Chuuya whimpered, the glass was so damn cold against his feverish skin. Dazai whispered apologies. Despite the discomfort, Chuuya took a sip anyway, the room-temperature water feeling like a glacial river as it coursed down his throat. It felt strange against the soreness. He wasn’t quite sure if it was a good or bad sensation.  

Placing the glass back onto the nightstand, Chuuya sank further into the shroud of blankets wrapping him. Still so cold, it would only be a matter of time before the medicine would kick in again. Chuuya shuddered, looking through a bleary gaze—watery eyes threatening to cry—at Dazai, who looked more concerned and confused than anything else.

“I’m so c-cold…” Chuuya choked out, mouthing it more than speaking. He knew what he wanted, even if subconsciously. Dazai must have understood too, turning the lights off as he slipped himself into the cocoon that covered Chuuya. He wrapped his arms around the smaller body, becoming another layer in the shroud.

Chuuya sank into his touch, pressing his face into Dazai’s chest. Despite the apparent coldness of his extremities, Dazai’s body was warm; he’d become a space heater, and Chuuya could finally stop shivering so violently once he was securely in Dazai’s embrace. It just felt good to be held like this, the solid physical form surrounding Chuuya—with his face pressed up to a wall of warm skin with a living, beating heart underneath it—it had brought a primal sense of security to him.

Dazai ran his fingers through Chuuya’s hair. It was still soft, albeit slightly tangled from a sick Chuuya neglecting it. 

He’d missed this, the closeness. The sharp contrast to being around Chuuya all the time to only catching glimpses of him on the opposite side of the street, or through his bedroom window—it was torture. It was as though he’d left half of himself behind when he’d left the mafia. If there was one thing he actually missed about that godforsaken organization, it was the short-tempered executive that’d begrudgingly never left his side. Nothing else. Nothing more. 

He’d certainly taken Chuuya and his companionship for granted, that’s for sure. That was one of his biggest regrets—even out of Dazai’s long list of regretful decisions.

It was as if Chuuya had read his mind from his touch alone, as he murmured into Dazai’s chest: “I missed you.”

Heart sinking, Dazai moved his mouth down near Chuuya’s ear, unable to help himself from leaving little butterfly kisses on the side of his neck. “I missed you too. More than you could ever imagine.”

After a second of comfortable silence, Chuuya worked up the energy to lift his face up, unexpectedly. Dazai looked down in surprise, his honey-brown eyes going wide before softening. They’d both found each other being pulled to each other without even trying to by a force that felt like gravity. Chuuya’s hot lips melted into Dazai’s, kissing him hungrily in spite of the fatigue that’d overtaken him. Dazai took in the taste of him, the faint taste of bittersweet cough syrup and the numbing buzz of honey-lemon cough drop aftertaste lingering on his tongue. It was inebriating, intoxicating—neither wanted to pull away. 

Chuuya had to break the kiss first, pulling off Dazai's face for breath and sliding back down into the comfort of his chest. He was dead tired, and the medication had finally started to kick in enough so that the fever was starting to break as his body was on the verge of giving out. He’d fallen asleep so fast that it was akin to passing out.

“Wow, chibi—you’re not half-bad looking when you’re sleeping peacefully without that awful expression that’s always on your face,” Dazai teased, brushing his fingers through the knots of Chuuya’s silky hair. “I just know you’d kill me if I was still here in the morning.” 

*****

Chuuya had woken up sweaty, hot under the layers upon layers of blankets. The wisps of early morning sunlight poured through the translucent curtains, and Chuuya blinked his tired eyes open to find himself where he’d remembered falling asleep last night. The fever had broken, and he was feeling slightly better, now—finally able to lift himself up, and rub the tiredness out of his eyes. The memory of the night’s events had flashed through his mind, and quickly dissipated like a firework; the only traces of it left in his now-clear mind was nothing more than a faint afterimage of a strange fever dream he couldn’t quite remember fully—the ash settled into nothingness, becoming one with the darkness. 

Did that really happen? Chuuya wondered, trying to salvage the scraps of memory slipping out of his mind like sand. He looked around the room; nothing seemed out of place. No tan trench coat hanging on the desk chair, no box of medicine and first aid supplies on the side of the bed, nothing. No evidence that anything out of the ordinary had happened during the nighttime. Chuuya sank back into bed, rolling his head to the side to get into a more comfortable position. The movement had felt much easier than before, his muscle aches were definitely going away—although he was still annoyingly fatigued. 

He couldn’t escape shitty Dazai, not even in his sleep.

And then it caught his eye. A glass of water on the nightstand. His stomach dropped, and a creeping feeling of uneasiness had placed a twisting, big hand on his shoulder. Chuuya didn’t remember placing it—but it was such an ordinary item. It meant nothing, he tried to assure himself. He’d placed it there himself and had just forgotten about it. 

‘It happens. It just means nothing’ , he reminded himself silently. It meant nothing. It meant nothing at all.

*****

“Kunikida-kun,” Dazai whined into the phone microphone, his bright voice sounding unusually flat.

“Good morning, Dazai,” Kunikida’s stern voice responded. He was already late to work.

Dazai coughed loudly into the microphone. Kunikida shoved the phone away from his ear, as if on instinct. Ranpo glanced over at the sudden noise before getting distracted by the happy beeping of the microwave; his breakfast was ready!

Kunikida took a deep breath, leaning against the back of his swivelly office chair as he braced himself to hear the rest of this call. He took a sip of black coffee. Bitterly hot, it was a reliable comfort on irritating mornings like this.

“Kunikida-kuuun,” Dazai began again, “I’m siiiick!”

Sighing, Kunikida opened his notebook. Flipping to a page bookmarked with a small colored tab sticking out of the page, he glanced at the writing before pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He could hear sniffling through the line.

“Dazai…” he said, sighing. “You’ve already used up all of your sick leave for the year.”

“You’re kidding,” Dazai complained, a newfound congested sound peeking through his usual tone of voice. “It’s only March!”

“Should’ve thought of that when you used up all of your leave when you weren’t actually sick.”

“Kunikida-kun is so mean!” 

“See you in…” Kunikida checked his watch, “...twenty minutes.”

Akechi‘s eyes went wide as he properly entered Akira‘s makeshift living space and his gaze wandered over the horrendous amount of used tissues, lying around like it was the newest interior design trend.

“Hey.“ is all Akira could say before a coughing fit took over his entire body, shaking him until everything hurt.

Akechi only stood there, holding onto his case with gloved hands, blinking and trying to process the chaos before him.