Something So Tender
08:12 – Totsuki – Second year
Hayama Akira feels like shit. His throat is thick with gluey phlegm, and his voice has all but disappeared. Every once in a while, a strong gust of wind blows in from the cracks between his windows, and it's then he thinks the world is surely going to end. The thermometer registers at an agitatingly borderline 38 degrees Celcius and his coffee tastes like sewage. Worst of all is the fact that he just can't seem to smell a damn thing.
It makes him feel so pedestrian. So common.
So very helpless.
Jun is away on business in China, so by the time 4PM rolls around, his stomach is growling. His Elite 10 papers have been open at the same page for hours, and his cup of cereal milk unappetisingly cold. Too tired to cook, he tugs his blanket closer, then trudges over to his bed and collapses face-first into the pillows.
It's just as he's getting comfortable that the doorbell rings, dragging him back from the comfortable blackness of half-consciousness and straight into the hellpit of reality. Fuck.
He lays there a while, contemplating the consequences of just leaving it be. Jun hadn't mentioned anything about their investors dropping in – but then again, the woman has an irritating way of forgetting to tell him when they're expecting company, so he's only about 50% sure it isn't anyone of any importance. He's just deciding to fuck it all, when his phone buzzes, and Arato Hisako's face flashes on the screen.
"What?" He can barely hear himself over the sandpaper in his vocal chords.
There's a long pause on the other end that he thinks corresponds with Arato's thought process. Then comes her voice, brusque, and yet betraying just a hint of concern. "Are you sick?"
"No," He groans into his phone. Every ounce of logic in him is aware she'll see through his bullshit, but the idea of looking weak in front of her makes him vastly uncomfortable in a way he hates. "Just very tired. What d'you want?"
"Are you done with the new research society and seminar formation regulations? I've got a trip coming up this weekend, so I was hoping to get my part done before then."
He glances blearily across his room. The papers are still strewn over his desk, but he's having trouble remembering their contents, or if he'd even read them at all. "You can take them first, but would it be possible for you to pick them up later?"
"I'm outside. No one's answering."
Fuuuuuuuck.
"There's a spare key under the aloe vera pot, and my room is the third room to the left down the corridor. Come on in."
He hears the unmistakeable sounds of her rummaging, terracotta pots shfiting as she digs through the plants in the yard. The front door opens, then closes, and footsteps sound in his home, echoing over plain tile floors. "Where in your room are the papers? And aren't you afraid I'm gonna poke around, read your diary?"
"Unlikely," He tells her, just as she walks into his room, wearing a light, soft-green sundress. Despite the haze of sickness clouding his eyes and his mind, he can't help but to think just how pretty she looks. "Hi," He manages to get out, grinning weakly as he swipes across his phone to end the call. "The papers are on the table. Take them and go."
"The hell, Hayama?" Arato tosses aside her hat and sunglasses, then strides across the room with zero caution. Her hand is cold, but it feels good against the fever-red flesh of his forehead. "Shit, you're hot."
He braces himself for her reaction, then winks. "I know."
"Die, will you?"
"You're gonna feel like shit if I do, and in this condition, I just might."
Arato sighs, a weary, long-suffering sound that speaks volumes of exasperation and irritation. He wonders if the fever has anything at all to do with how cute he thinks it is. "What's wrong with you? Don't you have meds?"
"Too tired to go out." He pokes a hand out from under his blanket and points to his desk. "I'll be fine, Arato. Take the papers and get out before you catch this."
"Please. We Arato folk have immune systems of steel." Arato rolls her eyes, sliding off her jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. Two crossed straps streak across her back, framing her shoulderblades as she turns her back to him to check the papers. "You haven't even made a dent in this."
He tugs his blankets up to his nose and peers at her across the room. "I'll catch up, I promise. Just take them and do your part first."
She sighs. He can practically see the gears clicking in her head, her tea-coloured eyes narrowing as she looks him over. It's bold of him to assume that she cares at all – but then she sets down the papers, ties her hair back with the rose-gold band around her wrist, and strides towards the door. "I'm going to go make you something to eat, and then you'll sleep."
"Arato, wait—"
She levels him with a steely glare. It's more than enough to shut him up.
An hour later, she presents him with a bowl of herbal chicken noodle soup. Red dates and wolfberries dot the thin broth in red, and he can recognise two or three other herbs –Solomon's seal and Chinese angelica and Astragalus. There's a bitter taste to it all, but there's plenty of flavour, and as he sits in bed, bowl in hands and steam rising to warm his cheeks, he considers the implications of Arato's kindness, and wonders why she's there at all.
"So," He breaks the silence, glancing her way. "Where are you heading for the weekend?"
"Seoul." Arato doesn't even bother to look at him; glasses on and pencil in hand, she's been wearing her serious business face for about twenty minutes. "I've been looking into Korean red ginseng tea, so it seemed right to look there. Anyway, I cancelled my flight while you were out."
He chokes. "What?"
"You look like shit." She turns around in her seat, squinting at him through her glasses. "And I don't think this work is going to do itself. I'll go another time."
"Arato," He sets down his empty bowl, then leans forward, peering at her. "I'm feeling better, really. I can handle myself – I've done so since I was a kid. You really don't have to."
"There's nothing but dried spices and a jar of chutney in your fridge," She snaps, tossing her hair back and turning away. "Alice stopped by earlier, so I got her to bring some ingredients, but hell if that means you've done well handling yourself. I know you think you're some kind of Olympian god, what with your superhuman nose, and maybe you are better than us mere mortals, but that doesn't mean you can work yourself to the bone and not catch your death."
There's a loud ringing in his ears that corresponds to the feeling of being punched – and he recognises the sentiment well enough. Concern from a loved one. When Jun had gotten mad, it had been with the fervour of an anxious parental figure.
He can't quite put his finger on it, but it feels different with Arato.
"Sorry," He mumbles, a little embarrassed. And really, he does feel a little better; the pasty, muggy gunk in his throat from before has dissolved, and he thinks he can make out the scent of Arato's perfume from across the room – a musky, citrus scent. It's a definite improvement. She did that. "I guess I'm just not used to having… someone around."
Arato huffs loudly, and for several long moments, he's treated to the sound of silence, punctuated by the sharp scraping of pencil on paper. After, she turns around to meet his eyes, irritation in her face and exasperation in her eyes. But there's also something like warmth – kindness and a specific brand of tough love he's come to recognise as Arato's way of showing affection.
"Well, get used to it."
He grins, and hopes it doesn't come off too embarrasingly stupid. When Arato raises her brows at him, he raises his hands, and backs into his pillows. "Thanks, Arato. I really appreciate this."
A/N - Thanks for the faves, comments, and whatnot, people! Enjoy!
