You weakly threw the thermometer to your side. A clatter on the floorboards. Where it disappeared concerned you little; another test would not evade the predicament that plagues you in the present. Your throat hurts, your head spins, and you swear you can feel every microfibre of your bed sheet and duvet rubbing painfully against your skin.
Someone is banging on your door. From the hurried pounding and the way it reverberates all the way to your bedroom, you can tell that it was a certain cleaner. He wasn’t doing it intentionally to cause a raucous or disturbance. He is just… absurdly strong, when others would have to throw their entire bodies on the door to recreate the same sounds. Then, again, he is tame considering Noi broke your door hinge by accident last time.
Nevertheless, you had scolded him about this before.
You close your eyes. Which is more painful? Walking to open the door in your current state, or keep listening to him knock?
You chose the latter almost immediately, and thus began to count down.
More violent knocking ensues.
“I thought they said they’re home!” Shin’s distant grouching echoes in your ear. “I left my spare pair of glasses in the living room…”
“Wait, I have their spare key.”
Three. He will soon realise it is the one with a red enamel heart tag attached, you thought.
The key clicks into the lock.
The front door creaks open.
Despite your weakened state, you still break into a round of muted applause. For yourself, mostly, because you knew your boyfriend so well.
The door to your room burst open abruptly, forcing a glaring flood of light into your dark room. You would squeal in agony if you had the vitality to do so.
“You’re home?” Shin exclaims. “Why didn’t you open-“
You wave your hand dismissively at him. “…Give me a break.”
Even talking makes your head pound harder. You close your eyes, trying to calm your swimming vision, wild with static and dots. “…grab your glasses and go... I’m happy to see you, but… shoo for today.”
“What’s wrong?” His voice is nearer and much lower now.
You like it when he talks like this. It was gravelly, and the timbre so lovely you want to rub your ears. But most importantly, Shin talks like this when he is worried. You could smell the familiar, deep, musky, and metallic scent on him. It gives you some solace amidst the discomfort.
You hold your palm flat towards him. There's but a blur of his figure. Creamy yellow, black and white. When you feel the large hand rest on top of yours, and the scratchy sensation of the stitches on his fingers brushing against your skin, you guide it to your forehead.
“You’re burning.” Shin murmurs, feeling your skin with surprising tenderness. Then he did so with the back of his hand, to double confirm his conclusion, as if the palm and knuckles are two independent sensory limbs.
If you are healthy, a snarky quip akin to ‘no shit, Sherlock’ would follow his obvious comment. But you are completely at both the fever and his mercy today. Your fingers play with a stray seam poking out at the end of his sleeve. What a strange thing it is when he touches you this way. One squeeze from the cleaner and your skull would be reduced to dust, and your brain would explode and squirt out from the pressure.
You whine weakly. A non-committal answer.
“Your immune system is ass.” The weight on your forehead lifts, and he steps away.
“Just close my bedroom door… find your glasses… don’t make too much noise when you do it…” You croak in defeat. “… And say hi to dearest Noi for me… Fujita and Ebisu are darlings too… Say hi… say hi…”
“Do it yourself!” He grumbles, fixing his glasses. Even so, dichotomous to his terse reply, the door to your room closed quietly.
You shut your eyes and welcome the embrace of eigengrau. You can hear Shin trying his best to walk soundlessly around your apartment. There is some muttering. He is probably taking calls. He’s always taking calls because work calls him all the time.
Then you hear a click, and the electrical buzz of your kettle springs to life. Oh, must Shin make himself a latte in the process, just to find his stuff? Licking your dry lips, you turn over. That action in itself burns. Everything: skin, muscle and bone throb a dull ache as if this flesh is no longer yours. You pray to be lulled to dreamland quickly.
Unfortunately, light soon floods your room again, though not as harshly as before. You squeeze your eyes together tighter, in a desperate attempt to block the whiteness which managed to bleed past your eyelids.
Your room dissolves into dusk again.
"I'm fine, it's just a fever… let the antibodies and immune cells do their job…" You throw the duvet over your head in an attempt to shorten this conversation. "They're not… that ass."
The duvet is promptly ripped off you, much to your chagrin. You are then effortlessly lifted up, so your back is leaning on the bed frame. A warm glass of water is placed into your hands, and two white tablets hover close to your lips.
"Eat it and go to sleep."
You do as he says. Resistance is pyrrhic; it is better to go with the flow. The lukewarm water acts like a soothing balm down your raw throat. He takes the glass from you once you are done drinking.
You sink into your pillow. "Thanks…did you find your glasses…?"
"Yeah." He pulls the duvet to your chin.
A wave of ineluctable dismay washes over you as he stands up to leave.
"…Have fun at work." You close your eyes reluctantly, and this time, slumber finally pulls you in.
You dreamed in fragments, and the fragments were all confusing and burdensome. There were a lot of people in it, none of whom you knew. The scenes were twisting and sinewing together in painful waves. Then you started to see white flicker to black, black to white. Then became words in newspapers. You were rolling newspapers. Now you were running and jumping on a wheel. And then you were not doing anything at all.
You wake up sweaty and scorched. The dreams you have in a feverish state were always delirious and incomprehensible. Sleep did nothing for you except make you thirsty and clammy. You find fevers to be a dehumanising experience. You no longer felt like a person but a thing. A dolorous, unpleasant thing, where one cannot sleep, cannot stand, cannot speak, cannot feel comfortable in one moment, then briefly can in another. You abhor this limbo between sickness and health.
A delicious scent wafts into your room. It smells like the instant chicken noodle soup stashed deep in your pantry.
"…Shin?" You mumble. You thought he left for work. Did you sleep for so long that it had been the next day already? Or is it at an ungodly hour in the morning when he got let off?
Rolling out of bed with some difficulty, you squint and open your bedroom door. The light is searing; you feel as if you could go blind at any moment. The back of your head begins to hurt furiously, similar to someone stabbing you over and over with a blade.
“Shin,” you sniff. You only knew where to go by sheer muscle memory. This is your apartment after all.
Your body soon hit something hard in the kitchen.
Arms wrap around you, and you sink into him. “… Shin, why’re you here?”
“I told En. I’m not taking the job. Noi said she’ll bring you some ice cream or gelato after she’s done on her side.”
“She’s such a sweetheart.” You press your cheek to his chest, and for some reason, the fabric of his shirt does not hurt your hypersensitive skin. Your heartbeat sings and twirls in elation at the unexpected news. “Thanks… you didn’t have to.”
“Save your breath.” He feels your forehead. “…Burning even worse than before. Back you go.”
“But I want to stay with you.”
“I am here already! The fever is frying your brain.”
He picks you up, and you let him. When your arms snake around his neck, you understand just how abnormal your temperature truly is. Shin is usually quite warm, yet you found his body quite cool in comparison to the raging heat from your skin.
“You don’t listen, no wonder you’re sick,” he scowls as he tucks you back into the covers.
You ignore his scolding, holding onto his hand, wrought with reluctance.
He pinches your cheek. “Oi, let go of me, dinner is done. Unless you want to starve.”
“I'd rather starve than let go.”
He pulls your cheek so hard you yelp.
Sickness does something to one’s appetite. It kills the desire for food completely, allowing the body to prioritise more essential organs. Yet, people still must eat, not for themselves necessarily, but almost as a performance, so the people around them feel better. Turns out sickness makes the patient helpless, but that helplessness, like osmosis, diffuses to the people around them.
Hunger was the least of your worries in this state of bodily discomfort. And consequently, Shin had to take measures into his own hands to ensure you obtain some sustenance, upon realising that if he handed you the food, you wouldn’t bother picking up the spoon.
You open your mouth and chew slowly. It was hot, but it did not burn your tongue. Shin had mixed the instant soup with some rice, transforming it into a flavourful congee. Although msg is justice, you still cannot appreciate the flavours properly in your condition.
You feel like you’ve been chewing forever until you swallow. Clearly, Shin thought the same.
He mixed the congee, the next spoonful hovers, and he realises you’re still chewing, the spoon drops back in the bowl. Rinse and repeat, a multitude of times. It must have been foreign to him, considering how fast he eats himself.
On the third spoonful, you presume impatience would override him, and he'd force you to eat by yourself. However, Shin didn’t utter a single word of complaint through the entire process. Not even when the last drop of congee disappeared from the bowl.
He placed the ceramic on the bedside table. “Rest now.”
You latch onto his arm. The thought that he may go home and leave you alone frightens you.
Adulthood is so lonely. When one's wings harden enough to fly by themselves, dependence and the craving for companionship from others feel immature and shameful. It's an inevitable weltschmerz of the human condition. “Stay here.”
“I never said I’m leaving.” He throws his jacket onto the end of the bed and settles down beside you.
He wraps an arm around your torso, and you snuggle closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw. He grunts and begins to pat your back in a gentle rhythm. It parallels a beating heart, as if you’ve returned to being a babe in a warm, tenebrous womb.
“…Feel better,” he says quietly in the darkness.
Shin is the type who acts like he doesn’t care but really fucking cares lmfao.
I was just thinking about the fact that he eats fast and carries out tasks really efficiently. I thought it would be nice to have a story where he slows down willingly. If Shin ever has a significant other (if it isn’t Noi, I enjoy their ship a ton). I headcannon that his partner would absolutely adore Noi so much and always ask Shin to say hi to her for them. Also, I think a clingier person suits him very well, since he’s a bit distant and needs to be shown love and care first for him to feel comfortable enough to show it back.
I suppose a sick fic, along with many other comfort fic prompts like thunderstorm comfort, is all writer induction stuff we all end up writing for eventually. Old but gold, cliché but who cares.
dededos
dailybridgerton
janainaart
jacobvanloon
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