Shinjiro glared at the door with a level of contempt he usually reserved for things that were actively trying to kill him.
It was a bit chilly out here in the hallway, and the steam rising from the bowl of soup he carried was hot against his face. Not to toot his own horn, but it smelled damn good. Good enough that he was worried its aroma might rouse Koromaru from his slumber in Amada's room if he didn't hurry and deliver the soup to its intended recipient.
Unfortunately, he'd overfilled the bowl. It was too heavy to hold steady with one hand. Which meant he couldn't open the door without balancing the whole tray awkwardly on his palm. Which, given that he'd overfilled the bowl, ran the risk of sloshing some soup over the edge.
If he spilled on the carpet, Mitsuru would cover up the stain with his bloodied remains. And if he scalded himself with his own broth, Aki would never let him live it down.
So now he was just standing here, white-knuckling the tray and glowering at the nameplate as if it had just killed his dog.
He could have been in bed right now. To be fair, he probably wouldn't have been―he usually waited until after midnight, since he couldn't sleep through the Dark Hour anyway―but he could at least have been doing something more productive than this. Enjoying a late dinner in rare, luxurious silence. Playing with Koromaru in the absence of prying eyes. Hell, even brooding silently in the corner. Just about anything would be preferable to instigating, and subsequently losing, a staring contest with a door.
But a typhoon just had to roll in right before the culture festival.
And Arisato just had to get caught in the downpour and come down with a real doozy of a cold―one that left him bedridden for two days straight.
And Fuuka, bless her little heart, just had to try making soup for their indisposed leader (an idea that Yukari fortunately talked her out of before any fires could start).
Which of course meant that the ingredients for a nutritious soup, as well as several other unrelated ingredients that Fuuka had seemingly chosen at random, had been staring Shinji down from the kitchen counter all evening.
For hours, he stubbornly ignored the urge to clean the mess up, knowing full well that his willpower would crumble the instant he stepped into the kitchen. Yet no one else in their dormitory of unsupervised teenagers seemed willing to take care of it, so the mess remained. It sat there, taunting him, chipping away at his resolve in increments, until well into the evening, when the other members of S.E.E.S. began retreating to their rooms.
One second, Akihiko was heading upstairs for a shower, leaving Shinji alone in the lounge; the next second, his apron had materialized in his hands, and―
Well, here he was. Loitering outside of Arisato's door, soup in hand.
Shinjiro huffed to himself. Hesitating now was pointless, since he'd already gone to the trouble of making the damn soup and carrying it up here. More importantly, Mitsuru had caught him in the act, and if he just went back downstairs without delivering it, she would catch him in that act, too.
She hadn't said anything when she spotted him mincing green onions, frozen mid-chop like a kid holding a half-empty beer bottle, but that was because she approved of that shit. Being an incessant mother-hen herself, she probably saw nothing wrong with him delivering homemade soup to some guy he barely knew.
Anyway, she hadn't needed to say anything. Stricken with panic at the sight of her, Shinji had immediately begun to babble about not letting the vegetables go bad, and saving the poor tofu before it could fall victim to Yamagishi's next experiment, and how he was sick of hearing everybody prattle on about how worried they were about Arisato.
Mitsuru had just given him a smug look and walked past him without a word.
He doubted she would stay quiet if she saw him pouring the fruits of his labor down the drain, though. That wasn't Kirijo-sanctioned behavior. Best case scenario, he'd be subjected to a judgemental eyebrow raise and several pointed questions. Worst case scenario, she would snitch on him to Aki.
Chickening out wasn't an option.
Not that there was any reason to chicken out in the first place, except for Shinji's personal distaste for acknowledging his own emotions.
Shinjiro exhaled sharply through his nose, squared his shoulders, and bent over to set the soup on the floor. Screw this. If he stood here smelling miso and listening to the rain pelting against the windows for another second, he was going to go insane.
Just for the sake of politeness, he rapped his knuckles once against the doorframe. "Hey. It's Shinjiro," he called gruffly through the door. "I'm comin' in."
He turned the knob without further fanfare, stooped down to retrieve the tray, and hip-checked the door the rest of the way open.
As soon as he stepped into the room, he could smell the stale sweat in the air; it was worse than Aki's room used to get before Mitsuru put her foot down about regular cleanings. And Shinji hadn't expected a response when he knocked, but he at least thought the noise would rouse Minato. Judging by the inert lump of blankets on the bed, no such luck.
Jeez. Poor bastard really was sick as a dog.
Shinji kicked the door shut behind him. "Hey. Arisato." He tried to keep his voice down―the other guys did not need to overhear this conversation. "Wake up. You gotta eat something."
The lump didn't even twitch.
Sighing heavily, Shinji crossed the room, trying not to step on any carelessly discarded belongings. Minato's blazer had been hung neatly on his desk chair to dry (Mitsuru's doing, no doubt), but his school bag was laying on its side by the bed, its contents spilled out across the carpet. A damp washcloth, a rumpled pillow, and a bunched-up bedsheet were also haphazardly strewn about, as if they'd been tossed from the bed in frustration.
Shinjiro frowned down at them. Aki used to throw things off the bed when he got sick, too, but it seemed out-of-character for Minato. Sure, it was easy to get aggravated when you were running a fever and just couldn't seem to get comfortable, but Minato struck Shinji as the type to stay limp as a noodle unless he was actively on fire, or at least being mauled.
As soon as he'd had the thought, he realized its absurdity, and Shinji grimaced. He barely knew Minato. Where did he get off acting like he could predict how he would act while laid out with the flu from hell?
Feeling foolish, Shinjiro stepped over the fallen washcloth and strode up to Minato's bedside without further contemplation. Now that he was closer, he could more or less see the shape of a person curled up beneath the covers.
"Arisato, wake up," he repeated, a bit louder now that he was further from the door (and therefore further from any potential eavesdroppers). "Soup's getting cold."
Still, there was no response.
Starting to get a little paranoid, Shinji glanced around for somewhere to set the soup down. Ultimately, he shuffled over to Minato's desk and put it down beside his computer. "You better not be dead or some shit," he muttered to himself as he stepped back over to the bed, and then he grabbed the hem of the comforter and awkwardly eased it back.
He managed to excavate Minato's head from the mound of blankets fairly quickly, although it was still buried in his pillow, face turned towards the wall and hair fanned out around him in greasy strands. As soon as the cool air hit him, he made an indistinct mumble, presumably of protest.
With a roll of his eyes, Shinji dropped the blanket, grabbed Minato's shoulder, and shook him lightly. " Hey. Up and at 'em. Or else I'll have Mitsuru call a doctor and she'll never let you live it down."
He was actually pretty sure that Aki was the only other guy who Mitsuru hounded as much as she did Shinji, but the threat seemed to register somewhere in Minato's fried brain, because he finally shifted beneath the blankets. For a moment, his eyelashes fluttered; then his brow knit and he drew all his limbs closer, curling them protectively around his chest. His next indistinct mumble almost sounded like human speech.
"There we go," Shinji said, mollified. "Knew you weren't in a coma. Come on, kid, sit up. This won't take long, and you can lay right back down when you're done."
With a bit more cajoling and another threatening tug on the comforter, Minato finally pried his eyes open. He rolled towards Shinji with a weak groan, his face twisted into an almost pained expression.
He should have predicted it, but Shinji was still caught off-guard by how truly awful Minato looked. Compared to the dark clumps of his hair, his face was shockingly pallid, save for the spots of color in his cheeks. His one visible eye was glassy and unfocused.
Frowning, Shinjiro brushed Minato's matted bangs away, then pressed the back of his palm against his sweaty forehead.
Minato didn't react at all to his touch, even though his forehead could've passed for a stove burner. He just blinked slowly up at Shinjiro.
"…You're really burning up, huh?" Shinjiro muttered to himself, once again struck by an unwelcome stab of concern. With Minato looking this bad, he was kind of surprised that the others had left his side at all. Maybe he'd gotten a lot worse since the last time someone checked in on him?
Silently resigning himself to picking up the others' slack, Shinjiro sighed and withdrew his hand. "Tell you what," he said, glancing around the room until he spotted another clean washcloth draped over the side of the sink. "Once you're done eating, I'll hook you up with another cold compress. Sound good?"
He turned back towards Minato for confirmation, but it didn't look like he was paying any attention. He seemed to struggle just to force his bleary eyes to meander over to Shinjiro's face.
"…H'm…'ko…?" Minato whispered, his voice petering out into a breathy wheeze at the end. "That… you…?"
Shinjiro raised an eyebrow. Just how high of a fever was he running?
"…Nope, just me," he replied, biting back a dry retort. No point being sarcastic to a guy who was so out-of-it that it took him a second to recognize his own teammate.
…Or maybe Minato didn't recognize him at all, judging by the confused furrow of his brow. "Aragaki Shinjiro?" Shinji offered, slightly offended. "I sleep down the hall from you? Like, two doors over?"
From the way Minato was staring at him, you would think Shinji had just spoken in tongues.
"Right," he said, ignoring the twinge of worry that niggled at the back of his skull. "Listen, don't worry about it. I brought some soup. Think you could keep it down?"
Though it seemed unlikely that he would receive a coherent answer, Shinji paused to give Minato a chance, trying to look patient rather than annoyed. After a long, drawn-out moment, Minato squinted up at him as if noticing him for the first time, his lips parting slightly to complete the dazed, slack-jawed look.
"Who…?" he rasped weakly. He seemed to have caught his breath, but his voice was still unbelievably hoarse. "Who're…?"
Before Shinji could introduce himself again, Minato blinked rapidly, and a bit of clarity seemed to return to his eyes. Brow furrowing, he raised his head as much as he was able and tried to peer around Shinji. "Where's… Hamu…?"
Obligingly, Shinjiro leaned out of the way, giving Minato a clear view of the empty room. "Just me," he reiterated. "And that soup I mentioned. How about you sit up and I'll―" He frantically bit his tongue to cut off the words ' help you eat it'. Who the hell was he, Fuuka? "…bring you the tray," he finished through his teeth.
If possible, Minato looked even more lost than before. "N… no, where's…?" Again, he looked around aimlessly. "Where's… where'd you…?"
Shinjiro raised an eyebrow, then took a look around himself. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Looking for something?"
Unfortunately, Minato's moment of lucidity was short-lived. He stared at Shinji uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, then turned away without making any indication he'd been spoken to. The sight of his own dorm room seemed just as unfamiliar to him as the sight of Shinji's ugly mug, judging by the crease on his forehead.
"…Hamu…" he mumbled at length.
Shinjiro sighed. "…Okay, listen. You're clearly pretty out of it. The good news is that swallowing broth doesn't take a ton of brainpower to pull off." He stooped over and grabbed Minato's pillow, tugging it out from beneath him so that he could prop it up against the headboard. Minato's head snapped towards him.
"You just try to get yourself vertical," Shinji said, straightening back up, "and the soup'll come to you."
Minato had been only half-aware just seconds ago, but now his half-lidded eyes tracked Shinjiro's movements raptly. Slightly unnerved, Shinjiro scratched the back of his neck, then cleared his throat and turned on his heel. "Be right back," he said, and started walking towards the soup, still sitting on the edge of Minato's desk.
Before he could take more than a half-step away, Minato's hand shot out from beneath the covers and clamped around his wrist with startling strength. Shinjiro nearly jumped out of his skin.
Instinctively, he reached down to pry Minato's hand off of him. "Hey, let―!"
"Please," Minato whispered, "don't go."
Shinji froze with his own hand clutching Minato's, ready to yank it away. Minato's fingers were trembling and his palm was slippery with sweat, but his grip was almost viselike. His tremors quaked through Shinji's arm and up into his chest.
Suddenly wrong-footed, Shinjiro shifted uncomfortably, swallowing past the blockage in his throat. "Arisato…"
The sentence shriveled and died on his tongue. Before he could formulate another, Minato tugged weakly on his arm.
"Don't go," he repeated, his voice little more than a shuddering rasp.
Shinji's eyes darted around the room as if he expected a proper response to be written on one of the walls. "I'm. Uh," he said eloquently. Was Minato having some sort of fever-induced anxiety attack? Had he just woken from a nightmare? Eyeing the door, he tried to surreptitiously slip his hand free. "You want Aigis? I can get Aigis. Or, uh―I dunno, Takeba?"
Minato's clammy fingers tightened minutely around Shinjiro's wrist. "No," he said, his tone characteristically hard to place. "Stay."
Shinji winced. "Arisato, I… I don't…"
"Please," Minato breathed, and Shinji squeezed his eyes shut.
Fuck's sake. Why did he have to say it like that? Why did he, the stone-faced leader whose stoicism never wavered, have to ask Shinji, the most emotionally constipated asshole in this dorm, for something like that?
Of course this would happen when Shinji was around. It never seemed to be Aki who got caught up in other peoples' problems by accident, even though that moron loved getting caught up in other peoples' problems.
"Look," Shinjiro said uneasily, resisting his immediate urge to shove Minato off, "I'm not bailing on you, I'm just… not really the guy to help you right now, okay?" He was utterly out of his depth here; if he stayed, he would probably just end up making things worse. "I can go get someone who can help, but you gotta let go. Alright?"
"No," Minato said, more sharply than before, and he tugged on Shinjiro's arm with all the strength he seemed capable of mustering at the moment (which was basically none). "Stay."
For a moment, Shinjiro couldn't conjure up a response. He just stood there and stared at the wall, still half-hoping that someone more qualified would pop out from behind the fridge. Someone. Anyone.
No such miracle occurred, but Minato evidently took his silence as a denial. "Please, stay," he begged, a hint of genuine distress peeking through his usual flat voice. Once again, he pulled at Shinjiro's jacket, just hard enough that Shinji felt like an asshole for refusing to budge. "Don't leave me alone―"
Minato's voice broke on the last word, petering out into something suspiciously similar to a sob, and Shinjiro's resolve crumbled into nothing.
"I―I won't," he found himself saying before he was even aware of it. "I won't leave. Okay? Look. I'm staying." He took a pointed step backwards, away from the door, and twisted around to look over his shoulder. "See? Staying right here."
As he spoke, he met Minato's eyes.
Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.
In order to reach Shinjiro's arm, Minato had leaned over the side of the bed, and his whole body was shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright in such an awkward position. He was finally looking at Shinjiro, but his eyes still looked unfocused and almost frightened, as if he were caught in the throes of a waking nightmare, so it didn't really feel like much of an accomplishment.
Either way, there was absolutely no way he could turn his back on a look like that.
Rendered helpless against his own conscience, Shinji meekly complied with Minato's feeble attempts to pull him back towards the bed. "I… I'll stay," he said, shuffling forward until his knees bumped against the bed frame. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"
For a moment, Minato just stared at him. Even when he was delirious with fever, his gaze was piercing, and Shinji had to fight not to squirm beneath it.
Then, slowly, he nodded his head, his tangled bangs slipping down in front of his eyes.
"Okay," he whispered.
With no further fanfare, he slumped back onto the mattress, unconscious.
Alarmed, Shinjiro lurched forward, his hands fluttering uncertainly over Minato's collapsed form. After a moment, he felt his forehead again―same temperature as before―and made sure he was breathing okay. He was. In fact, his every inhale was slow and almost peaceful, if a bit strained. If Shinji didn't know any better, he'd think Minato was just dozing after a long day, not out cold due to some crazy mega-flu.
Had he even been awake at all? Had he just been talking and… grabbing in his sleep?
"Jeez," Shinjiro sighed, his shoulders slumping with relief. "Don't scare me like that, asshole."
Minato, of course, didn't respond. His face was still red and damp with sweat, his expression a bit too tense to be called "peaceful". When Shinji checked his temperature one last time, just to be safe, he shifted silently beneath his mound of blankets.
Once again, Shinjiro felt a sharp stab of doubt. How was he supposed to handle this? He could barely handle his own nightmares most nights, much less someone else's.
But he couldn't even pretend like he had the heart to leave now. Not when he'd already heard Minato's confused pleading and seen the muffled fear on his face.
So he took one last breath, squared his shoulders, and strode decisively over to the sink.
The cold compress he'd seen draped across it didn't seem to have been used, so he just folded it up and carefully wet it down. He fetched the old basin of water as well, emptying it and refilling it with clean water. Further investigation also unearthed a nearly full bottle of water hidden behind Minato's desk, which he tucked under his arm.
Carefully carrying the basin back over, he set it down beside the bed and set the cloth inside. Then he dragged the chair over from Minato's desk and sat at the head of the bed, bending over to retrieve the cold compress and wringing out the excess water.
"You'd better appreciate this shit, kid," he muttered peevishly under his breath. With that, he leaned over the side of the bed and began carefully wiping the sweat from Minato's flushed face.
Once again, Minato didn't stir at all. He stayed worryingly unresponsive as Shinji mopped at his brow. Frowning, Shinji hastily wet the cloth again, wrung it out, and then gingerly draped it across Minato's forehead.
"Arisato?" he prodded, and he nudged Minato's shoulder, since that had worked last time. "Hey, you back with me?"
Like before, he didn't even stir.
Rolling his eyes, Shinjiro grabbed his shoulder to shake him, then paused. If he did succeed in waking Minato, then it would probably be short-lived. It would suck if he missed a brief window of opportunity to ply him with soup.
He pushed himself out of his chair. "Be right back," he mumbled absently under his breath as he walked back over to the desk.
Now, only a few thin wisps of steam were curling lazily up from the soup. It still smelled damn good, though. Maybe that would help wake Minato from his stupor. Huffing quietly to himself, Shinji carefully lifted the tray, inwardly cursing himself yet again for having filled the bowl so high.
"Alright," he called over his shoulder as he slowly turned back towards the bed, "coming through. And I'm tryin' not to spill, so don't grab me again unless you want hot broth all over you."
In response, Minato let out a soft, almost inaudible grunt.
Shinjiro turned around a little faster. "Arisato? You awake?"
"Mn," Arisato replied, squirming in his nest of blankets. His brows pulled down sharply over his closed eyes, dragging the cold compress with them. "Nnmh…"
Crossing the room again as quickly as he could without splashing soup all over the place, Shinji bent over and deposited his tray on the floor. "There you are," he said, relieved despite himself. Waking up on his own was better than being dragged into consciousness kicking and screaming. "Hey, I know you're probably still feeling pretty shitty, but how 'bout you sit up and―"
Minato's body jerked sharply to the side, dislodging the cold compress from his forehead and sending it sliding off the side of the bed. " Nngh," he moaned, his face twisting into a pained grimace. He jolted in place, then abruptly turned the other way, knocking his pillow aside in the process. " No―!"
Shinjiro froze, his hand half-extended to pull the blankets back.
Shit.
Again?
Automatically, he twisted around to look for someone else―pretty much anyone else in the dorm would be better at handling this, except maybe Ken―but, of course, they were alone in the room. Cursing under his breath, Shinjiro turned back around. "Arisato?" he said, a bit louder this time. "Hey, wake up. You're dreaming."
Minato only kicked out restlessly with one leg in response. With a murmur, he turned the other way, nearly banging his head against the headboard in the process.
Okay, yeah. He was gonna have to drag him back into consciousness kicking and screaming after all.
Stalling for time, Shinji very slowly leaned over the bed, hand inching towards Minato's shoulder as his thoughts raced. What the hell was he supposed to say to the kid? He had no idea what this was all about, so he couldn't even begin to guess what Arisato might find reassuring right now. For all he knew, the poor bastard would wake up hallucinating.
Did fevers do that? Cause vivid hallucinations?
He felt like fevers didn't do that.
Either way, no matter how long he stalled, he was never going to know what to say, so he might as well get it over with.
"Wake up, Arisato," Shinjiro said firmly, grabbing his shoulder and giving him another good shake.
Minato's eyes snapped open with a choked cry of, "Hamuko!"
Immediately, he bolted up, sheets sliding off his shoulders―then he lurched dizzily to the side, too weak to hold himself upright.
"Whoa!" Shinji managed to steady him before he could tip right out of bed, but it was a close thing. He kicked the water basin in the process, splashing some onto the floor. "Ah, shit― take it slow, kid, don't try to sit up just yet―"
"Hamuko," Minato gasped, his head jerking around the room in frantic search. His eyes stared sightlessly ahead, glossy and unfocused―even more so than before. With each sharp movement of his head, he nearly toppled over; he would have fallen if not for Shinji's hands on his shoulders. "No, no―Hamuko, please―don't―"
"Arisato!" Shinji gently pushed him back until he was lying against his pillow. "Calm down, okay? It was just a nightmare."
Very belatedly, Minato smacked his hands away, twisting out of his grip. Shinjiro let him, not wanting to force it and freak him out even more. "No," he choked out, "please―Hamuko, where are you? You need to―you gotta get out of the car―"
What the hell…? "We're not in a car," Shinji said, backing up slightly so that Minato could see more of the room around him. "Just look―it's your room. You're in bed. Hey, can you hear―?"
"The―the car," Minato babbled breathlessly, ignoring him entirely, "we're g―somebody hit the car―it's gonna―"
"H-hey, it's fine," Shinji said. "It was just a dream. Just―breathe, Arisato."
His half-assed reassurances fell on deaf ears. "The car's on fire―" Minato's head jerked from side to side, as if searching for the car in question, but his eyes still seemed to stare into nothing― "Hamuko, some―something hit the car―we're gonna crash―Hamuko, we're gonna crash―"
"Slow down, slow down," Shinji said, demonstrating once again how utterly unsuited he was for handling someone clearly in the throes of a panic attack. "I―just take a breath. Take a breath, okay?"
"The car," Minato insisted, heaving out the word with all the force of a violent sob. "Please, it―it's on fire, something hit us―you have to help―please, Mom and Dad and Hamuko are still inside―"
Something squirmed uncomfortably in the pit of Shinji's stomach.
He had a feeling that this wasn't the product of some random nightmare. The pain in Minato's voice was too raw; too visceral. No, this was a memory. A memory dredged up by illness and twisted by some horrific fever dream, maybe, but a memory nonetheless.
Before today, he'd had some vague notion that Minato was an orphan, like he and Aki were, but he hadn't exactly inquired into the situation. It wasn't any of his damn business, after all.
It still wasn't any of his damn business. And if Minato weren't delirious with fever, Shinji wouldn't be hearing any of this.
Feeling kind of like he'd just read Arisato's diary without permission, Shinji cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. He had to calm down so that he could help―at this point, if he didn't help, then he would've heard all these things he wasn't supposed to hear for nothing.
"Hey," he said, as authoritatively as he possibly could, and he leaned forward to take Minato by the shoulders. Flinching, Minato whipped his head around to stare at him, wide-eyed.
"I'm here to help," Shinji said, heartened by the fact that he'd gotten Minato's attention at all. "I'll help, but I need you to just… calm down a sec, okay?"
Minato whined a little―a noise that might have sounded funny coming from the mouth of their fearless leader, had said leader not clearly been in the midst of some sort of waking fever dream. "Sorry," he whispered, as if speaking more quietly was a substitute for actual calm, "sorry, I'm trying. I'll be calm. Please help."
"I―" Shinjiro started, and then cut himself off before he could blurt out, ' I already said I would, idiot'. This wasn't Aki.
"I will," he said instead. "I'll help. You just have to stay calm and listen, and then I can help you. Okay?"
Despite everything, Shinjiro's best impression of a broken record seemed to actually soothe Minato marginally. "Calm," he parroted, his eyes still fixed on Shinjiro. He nodded rapidly, his damp, bedraggled bangs clinging to his forehead. "Yes. I'm calm."
"Good," Shinjiro said, ignoring the obvious lie. Any cognizant response had to be a good sign, right? At the very least, Minato was still looking right at him, even if his fear didn't seem to have abated.
Shinjiro racked his brain for something a little more concrete, trying to remember what he'd learned about handling these sorts of situations back when Aki first started getting night terrors. Unfortunately, young Shinji had fumbled his way through most of those interactions blind, and most of his tactics from back then weren't even applicable here.
Hugging Minato, for example, was unlikely to be as effective as hugging Aki had been. More likely, it would just make the situation devolve even further.
"Alright," he said instead, feeling as uneasy as if he were groping his way through Tartarus in pitch black darkness. "Now that you're calm, just tell me what's scaring you, and I'll help. Okay?"
Minato nodded jerkily. "The car," he said, still whispering each word in an obnoxious pantomime of his usual unaffected monotone. "It―it's on fire. You have to get them out."
Dammit. He'd been hoping that being forced to explain himself directly would be enough for Minato to snap out of it on his own―that he would realize the ridiculousness of what he was saying as he said it.
"Can―can you show me?" he tried, his skin crawling a little at the idea of playing along at all. "'Cause, far as I can see, it's just you and me here."
Immediately, Minato turned his head to look over Shinji's shoulder, clearly positive that he would see some burning wreckage which only existed in his mind. When he saw no such thing, his eyes went wide.
The good news was that this confirmed that he was now fully awake and apparently not hallucinating.
The bad news was that, when he couldn't find the crashed vehicle he had expected, he began to shake his head rapidly. "No―no, no, no," he chanted under his breath, panic building on his face. "No, it was right there."
"Arisato―"
"You don't understand," Minato said sharply, trying once again to sit up; this time, he halfway managed it, although Shinji still hovered in case he toppled over. "It was right there. They're still inside―please, you have to believe me―"
"I believe you," Shinji said. "Look, I know you're not lying, but―just look around, okay? You're in bed. You were having a bad dream."
That was where he lost him. "You don't get it," Minato snapped, shooting Shinjiro a look of betrayal so acute that it made Shinji feel guilty against all logic. "You don't get it! I―they have to get out of the car now, we can't just―wait around and argue―"
"I know, I know, but, look―I know you're freaked out, but―"
Minato raised his arms and tried to shove Shinji away with all his might. "They're going to die!" he cried.
With growing desperation, Shinji grabbed the side of Minato's head and forced him to look at him. "Hey, hey―listen to me. No one's dying. No one crashed the car. It's just you and me, okay? And if―" he held Minato still when he tried to pull away― "and if I'm wrong, and someone is hurt, then I'll go and help them. You hear me? I'm right here, and I've got it handled. Nobody's dying on my watch. So you just… focus on feeling better, okay? You don't have to worry about it. You can go back to sleep."
For a moment after his declaration, Minato just stared at him. His eyes were shiny with so-far-unshed tears, and the look he gave Shinji was so pleading, so heavy with desperation, that it couldn't be put to words.
"You… you…" his voice was growing weak again. Each syllable was clearly a struggle to get out. "…promise?"
"Promise, kid," Shinjiro said, trying not to let any of the horrible feelings in his gut spill onto his face. "Cross my heart."
His breathing labored, Minato looked around the room again, as if confirming one last time that there was no car on its hood anywhere nearby. Blinking rapidly, he turned his gaze back to Shinjiro.
"Hamuko is safe?" he asked, his voice trembling with a fragile, tentative hope.
Shinjiro flinched.
Oh, no. Oh, shit. What was he supposed to say in response to that? He had no idea who Hamuko was―except for his own assumptions―but, if Minato's ramblings were to be believed, he could say with some certainty that she wasn't safe. He couldn't just say that, though; it could very well send Minato back into another spiral.
But could he bring himself to lie about it? Even if Minato wasn't fully present right now, telling him someone was alright when they might be dead was pretty monstrous. What if the poor kid woke up tomorrow morning and went looking for a ghost?
Were his guesses about Hamuko's identity and fate even correct?
"I… don't know," he said at last. It came out even more pathetic than it had sounded in his head. "I dunno, kid. She might be, but… I…" He swallowed. "I don't know what happened to Hamuko."
For a moment, Minato just stared at him. Then, slowly, he started to nod his head; a tiny movement, almost imperceptible. He breathed in, then out.
"She's dead, isn't she," he said.
Shinjiro swallowed glass. His hands felt cold and clammy where they lay on the blankets. He curled them both into fists.
For the life of him, he couldn't think of a single thing to say.
This silence, apparently, worked fine as an answer.
Minato's lip trembled. At the last moment, he ducked his head to hide behind his bangs, but Shinjiro still caught a brief glimpse of his face crumpling. His fingers spasmed on Shinji's sleeve as if he couldn't quite decide whether to let go or pull Shinji closer.
A quiet sob heaved through his shoulders with nearly enough force to bowl him over.
Oh, son of a―
Before he could stop himself, Shinjiro lunged forward and yanked Minato into a hug, all his self-control evaporating. One hand wound around his shoulders, ignoring the truly disgusting patch of sweat on his back, while the other gripped the back of his head and shoved his face into Shinjiro's shoulder.
"I know," he said a little raggedly. "Just let it out."
After that, it was almost instantaneous. Minato sniffled once, then clung to Shinjiro's coat and just started crying his eyes out.
He didn't even have the decency to wail or sob, which would have at least been easy to understand―no, he was all false bravado, sucking in sharp breaths and shaking from head to toe but refusing to actually cry out. As if he could somehow hide the fact that he was crying if he just stayed quiet, even though the shoulder of Shinjiro's jacket was already starting to feel damp.
After a moment, though, something in his shoulders unwound and he fully slumped into Shinjiro, letting a few soft, choked noises break through.
"I was s'posed to―protect her," he said thickly, and Shinjiro screwed his eyes shut.
"I know," he repeated, and he held on a little tighter. "Trust me when I say that I know."
After that, neither of them spoke. Minato never devolved into the kinds of body-wracking sobs that Aki used to be plagued with, but he breathed fast and uneven into Shinji's jacket for another minute, sniffling and wiping his face intermittently. Shinji refused to rub his back―they still barely knew each other, after all―but he couldn't stop himself from offering a few awkward pats.
Only once Minato's breathing had finally evened out did Shinji let go of him. Slowly, they both pulled away, Minato tilting listlessly backward into the headboard and Shinji settling back into the chair he'd pulled up. Shinji cleared his throat, unable to meet Minato's eyes.
"You, uh…" He scratched the back of his neck. "You feeling any better?"
Minato nodded, still looking a little miserable, though his face was already flushed with fever, so it was hard to tell that he'd just been bawling. "Yes. Th―th―" A massive sneeze cut him off, and he nearly fell over again. He sniffed. "…Thank you, Senpai."
Oh, shit―he was back to reality. Shinjiro scowled deeply, his face burning as hot as Minato's. "You better not fuckin' remember any of this tomorrow," he growled.
Minato frowned. "Okay," he said a bit uncertainly. "I… won't."
"I'm holding you to that," Shinjiro grumbled, crossing his arms.
It was fairly likely that Minato would… write this little memory off as a part of his fever dreams, right? There had to be at least a slim chance that Shinjiro's reputation would escape this encounter unscathed, or else he wouldn't be able to stop himself from fleeing the room.
Huffing, he peeled his coat off, though the wet spot on his shoulder had already soaked through to his turtleneck. "Well, if you do remember this, then I'm expecting you to save me from Yamagishi's cooking when I catch whatever you've got. So, unless you want that responsibility, you'll forget all about it."
"Okay," Minato mumbled, "I will." His puffy eyes fell morosely to his lap.
Ugh. He'd forgotten that this wasn't Aki again. With a heavy sigh, Shinji reached over and dropped a hand onto Minato's shoulder.
"Forget it," he muttered gruffly. "Just… get better, and we'll call it even."
Minato looked over at him, clearly too sick to hide his surprise behind his usual facade. Shinji didn't let go of his shoulder until he'd nodded slowly, his expression softening into a look of gratitude that Shinji couldn't bear to take head-on.
Shinji ran a hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact again. Jeez. What a night.
Then he cleared his throat, blinked rapidly (for reasons unrelated to any moisture which may or may not have been in his eyes), and bent over to retrieve the soup from beside the bed, now no longer steaming at all.
"Alright," he said, "let's try this again. How does your stomach feel about some soup?"
When Shinji went back downstairs to take care of the dishes, not only was Mitsuru still there, but Aki was on the couch beside her, towel draped around his shoulders as he obnoxiously slurped up some instant ramen.
He didn't beat around the bush. "Hey," he called across the lounge as he dumped the bowl and tray into the sink. Mitsuru looked up from her book. "He seriously needs a doctor."
At that, Aki straightened, his attention diverted from his styrofoam cup of Just Sodium. "Who does?"
"The monster under my bed, Aki, who do you effin' think?" Shinji snapped, too keyed-up to keep the frustration out of his voice. "Minato."
For once, Aki didn't rise to the bait; instead, his brow furrowed, and he exchanged a worried look with Mitsuru. "I thought he just had a cold," he said, leaning forward to set his ramen on the coffee table. "Didn't Aigis say his fever wasn't bad?"
Mitsuru had already flipped her phone open. "Technically, she said that it was 'not yet past a critical threshold'," she recited grimly, her thumb flying across the keypad at mind-numbing speeds. "That was several hours ago, as well. His symptoms could very well have worsened since then."
"I dunno what the critical fever threshold is," Shinjiro cut in, "but the kid was completely out of it. Didn't recognize me at first, thought he was still dreaming―I got the soup in him, but it was a hell of an ordeal."
"…Soup?" Aki asked.
"I don't think he was actually seeing things," Shinji barrelled on, "I think he was just confused―but, hell, I ain't a doctor. I don't know for sure. Either way, somebody more qualified than the robot needs to take a look at him."
Setting her book aside and pressing her phone to her ear, Mitsuru rose from the couch. "I'm not sure if any of our doctors are available to make a house call on such short notice, especially in this weather," she said distractedly over her shoulder, stepping closer to the window to get a better signal, "but I'll see what I can do."
Shinji relaxed a little. That was Kirijo-speak for 'if any sum of money can solve this, then by God, I will find it, and he had a sneaking suspicion that such a sum did exist.
Now a woman on a mission, Mitsuru peeled herself away from her phone only briefly to ask, "Shinjiro, did you change Arisato's cold compress?"
Shinji bit his cheek. "No," he lied, "it was already fresh. Aigis or Yamagishi must'a done it."
"And they didn't notice how bad his fever had gotten?" Akihiko murmured with a frown.
"I'm gonna head to bed," Shinjiro said, artfully dodging the unvoiced accusation in Aki's words. "Lemme know if you need anything."
With a wordless hum of acknowledgement, Mitsuru frowned at her phone, dialed again, and then lifted it up towards the ceiling.
He couldn't help her with spotty service, unless she wanted to stand on his shoulders, so he just shrugged and turned away without another word. Aki was too busy shoveling down the rest of his ramen to catch his silent goodbye nod, so he didn't bother waiting for a response, either.
Shinji stepped onto the stairs, rolling his shoulders. Behind him, he heard Aki finish his noodles, toss the cup, and hustle over to Mitsuru, probably to see what he could do to help.
Three stairs up, he paused mid-step, his hand gripping the railing.
"Hey, Mitsuru."
She glanced at him sidelong, covering the receiver with one hand.
"Those creepy personnel files or whatever that Ikutsuki puts together―you read 'em, right?"
"Yes. Why?"
Shinjiro tapped his fingers against the banister. "Do you know if Minato… if he, uh… if he ever had a―"
At the last moment, he came back to his senses and cut himself off. He shook his head, massaging the ache forming around his temple. What the hell was he doing?
"Forget it. Not important."
As he started back up the staircase, he faintly heard Aki mutter, "Since when are those two on a first-name basis, anyway?"
Shinji cursed under his breath and power-walked the rest of the way back to his room.