Jiro taking care of MC while they are sick 👉👈
Home Remedy
Really, you should've expected him to make a fuss.
pairing/s: jiro kirisaki x mc/reader
content: fem!reader (can be read as gender-neutral) | sickfic, comfort, fluff, light angst, mutual pining.
wordcount: 1150
a/n: my first fic on this blog, yay! i wasn't aiming to include some angst in there, but i couldn't help it. i think given his history with his own illness (and losing a certain someone), jiro would have a lot of anxiety about the worst happening and get very overprotective. especially if its someone he cares about, like mc.
thank you for the request!
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Fifteen minutes into what should be your first period of the day, Jiro sends you a text asking where you are. There's some more messages from the others, too, but you can only bring yourself to reply to him with a one word response: sick.
His reply comes almost instantly. Be there soon.
When he comes through the door, you're cocooned in five different layers of blankets hiding beneath a pile of your dirty laundry, shivering next to an empty bucket you'd found in the closet. There's a chill in the air that you haven't be able to escape no matter how many layers you pile on top of yourself, yet your nose feels like it's burning. You can't even bring yourself to raise your head fully to look at him as he walks in with his supplies; even the slightest movement sends a throbbing jolt down one side of your temple, and the bright lights just worsens the pain.
He kneels down by your bedside and sets the briefcase on the floor, clicking it open as he studies you. His gaze lingers on your lips.
“What are your symptoms?” he asks.
You groan. “Too many...”
He fights the urge to smile at that and turns to his equipment. “I need to know for our records.” He snaps on his latex gloves and picks up a thermometer. “And it can help the recovery process if I know exactly what I'm dealing with. Mouth.”
It's an effort, but you manage to do as he asks. He takes your temperature and his reaction to it is a slight crease in his brow that you know, by now, means nothing good. But then again, you also know that you're ill, so it doesn't come as a surprise.
“Symptoms?” he asks again.
“Cold... chills... headache... throat sore... nausea.”
“When did they start?”
“Hm... last night...”
A low sigh passes his lips – it's subdued, though; he's not the type to show get frustrated so easily. Not like Yuri. You can feel his stare boring into the side of your head as you duck your head under the covers, both to feel some semblance of warmth and to hide away from the light.
He shifts and you hear the clacking of his laptop keyboard. It's so loud with the throbbing pain in your head.
“You should've contacted us then.” Jiro's voice is quieter than usual. “Your health is our responsibility. It's my job to keep you safe.”
You feel something in your chest tighten. It's too stuffy beneath the covers to breath, so you poke your head out just enough to give yourself some air and to whisper, “I thought you were busy.”
“I would've made time for you.”
Before you can say another word, Jiro stands up and pulls all five layers of covers off from your bed, revealing you dressed in your winter pyjamas. You can't yelp, so instead you groan and curl up into a tight ball, squeezing your eyes shut. With the blankets off, everything now feels too light – not to mention, cold. Freezing, even.
“'M cold...”
“I know.” Jiro throws the bundle of blankets up over his shoulder and makes his way to the door. “You have a temperature. You could've gotten heatstroke if you stayed like that. It's better to warm yourself up from the inside. I'll brew some tea.”
He returns minutes later holding a steaming mug, the potent aroma of citrus and ginger wafting through the air. Already you feel as if its soothing your sore throat. He sets it down on your bedside table and hands you another pillow so you can sit comfortably upright. Your eyes meet his and linger for a second too long. Even when you lower your gaze to your lap (it's too bright, you lie to yourself) he's still watching you vigilantly, as if preparing himself for the possibility of your symptoms suddenly worsening before him.
You tentatively pick up the mug, feeling the heat against your hands, and bring it to your lips. The tea is still scalding hot. You only take a small sip, barely more than a drop, but it's enough to feel the burn on the tip of your tongue.
Jiro notices your wince, and he gently takes the mug from your hands to blow on it “Sorry,” he says. “I should've cooled it down more.”
His glasses are completely fogged up when he hands it back to you. You hide your smile behind the mug while he rubs them clean on his shirt.
“Thank you,” you murmur softly. It doesn't hurt to have your eyes open now (alright, maybe it does, but you're not even thinking about the pain anymore).
You don't think he hears you, because he picks up his laptop, sits down at the end of your bed and begins typing (with the brightness turned all the way down, thankfully) without saying another word. Neither of you speak. He works and you sip on your tea, watching his back with longing in your gaze. There's a few moments when you consider calling out to him and starting conversation, but you can't talk much as is. That's at least the excuse you give yourself when your heart leaps into your throat every time you're about to speak up.
Minutes pass. You've finished the tea he brewed for you, and he's still tapping away on his keyboard. You're mesmerised by the subtle movements of his shoulders as he types, the way his hair bounces when he tilts his head to the side, the gentle, rhythmic breathe that passes through his lips.
Finally, he closes his laptop and turns around to face you with an excited sparkle in his eyes that you've noticed has become increasingly more common around you, though the rest of his expression remains as stoic as usual.
“I'm staying here until you're cured,” he declares. “Yuri gave the okay.”
Your breath hitches. “Here...?”
He nods. “It's best if I'm nearby in case something happens. I can prevent the worst that way.” His hands slowly move towards yours, stopping just short before they can touch, and his fingers twitch. “You don't have to worry.”
You don't think you're the one who's worrying right now.
You don't say it out loud, though, in fear that it might trigger an unhappy memory of his. Instead, you focus on the glowing warmth in your chest and the pure joy that manages to cut through your cold and tug the corners of your lips into a smile. Your hand inches closer to his, until your fingers brush against each other. If you weren't so sick in that moment, you would've pulled him into your bed and held him close. As it is, touching his hand is a pretty good compromise.
“Okay,” you say. “I won't worry.”