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The winds whistle through the trees faintly, but coldly, bringing shivers and goosebumps and the fall of maroon, wilting leaves to the ground; nature calls out, autumn has finally come.
And apparently, so has other things.
Hakuji has never once deemed himself as the sickly sort of person. If anything, he doesn’t remember getting sick once in his life! One could say it ran in the family, but after his father caught a serious illness a few years back—though he did recover after time’s passing—that theory was then debunked.
Then maybe, Hakuji himself was built a bit differently? Nobody argued with that—being able to pack an astronomical punch was enough proof for anybody—and the topic was left to gather dust for a while.
But, today, after waking up just a bit too warm, with his clothes sticking uncomfortably to his body, followed by an untimely cough at the breakfast table that had his father’s head whipping in his direction, Hakuji finds himself shimmied out of his uniform and into his pajamas again, tucked tightly into bed, his last memory being his parents’ words absolutely forbidding him from going to school because of his current state.
Because he’s caught a cold.
A cold.
Can you believe it? He certainly can’t.
Nor does he think he can get used to the foreign feeling of shivers wracking through his body, persistent no matter how tightly he wounds his blanket around himself, or the dryness of his mouth and down his throat even when he gulps down an entire glass of water, or the weakness in his limbs that renders him utterly useless.
It’s all just so new. Too new.
Yet, when his eyes, just as hot behind his eyelids, begin to close against his will, he still curls into himself tighter, breathing labored through his mouth, limbs twitching underneath the sheets.
His teary eyes open to a drowsy squint again, just as a faint ring greets his ears. He thinks it’s just him at first, but when it sounds again, he registers that it’s coming from downstairs.
The doorbell. Who’s there?
What time is it?
Albeit reluctantly, he reaches out to his nightstand to check the time on his phone, eyes screaming at the sight of such a bright screen.
4:30.
He’d slept through the entire day—isn’t that so odd? His eyes still weigh so heavy, as does the rest of him.
Then he sees the notifications.
A few messages from his mother and father. They’d asked how he was, reminded him to take some medicine (oops), before they soon stopped, as if they’d both sensed he’d surrendered to sleep and left him to rest. All of them were sent a few hours ago.
Then, he scrolls a bit more, reading and recognizing another contact name, just a bit more dearly customized than the others.
A bombard of messages.
Good morning! :D Did you sleep well? Sent at 7AM.
You didn’t come to pick me up. Did something happen? :( Sent at 7:30.
Where are you? Your classmates said they didn’t see you. 8AM.
I tried calling aunty and uncle, but they didn’t answer either. Are they on a business trip again? 12, nearing 1PM.
You aren’t answering my calls, is everything alright? D: Did I do something wrong?
I’m sorry. 3PM.
And then the final one.
I’m coming over. Just a few minutes ago.
The doorbell rings again, and somehow, he feels that it sounds a bit more urgent than the last few rings, because he’s now scrambling out of bed, despite his tired body’s protest.
He stumbles twice, fumbles with the door, and is a bit less than halfway down the staircase when the front doorknob wiggles, and the door itself slowly creaks open, as if unsure.
His eyes lock onto a figure, petite and delicate, still in (a rather crumpled and creased) school uniform, clutching onto a bag strap like a lifeline, and hair ruffled with a few strands flowing and framing her face. She looked like she’d been running.
Her name slips out before he even registers that he opened his mouth. “Koyuki.”
His voice expresses gentleness, but also exposes the sickliness he still denies.
Her eyes, worried, meet his, before a shaky breath of relief makes out of her soft, previously pursed lips. She manages a wobbly smile. “Mr. Hakuji.”
She meets him on the stairs halfway before he can beat her to it, fiddling with her fingers. “Y-you weren’t picking up, so…I finally used the spare key aunty gave me.” Right. For Christmas. As a little token of welcome. He remembers.
He doesn’t really know what to say; his mind seems to be working sluggishly, and he grapples for a reply clumsily. “...Sorry.”
She looks at him again, really looks at him. Like she notices. She does. And before he can stop her, her hands come up to cup his cheeks, a small gasp leaving her at his temperature.
“You’re sick,” Honestly, it’s a surprise for both of them. He hasn’t processed it completely either. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“...Fell asleep,” He mumbles, as he finds himself unintentionally nuzzling into her palm. “Don’t worry.”
“I should worry, and I will,” She shakes her head no in disagreement, and a dazed part of Hakuji can’t help but think of how cute she is while she does it, with the accompaniment of a small, almost unnoticeable pout. But he notices. He always does. Always with her.
He doesn’t protest further when she leads him by the forearm back to his room, setting her bag down on his desk and him on his bed, telling him to lay down, which he does obediently.
She leaves, and it almost feels like an eternity passes before she returns with something in her hand. Only when it rests on his forehead, bringing a spreading, shuddering chill, does he recognize it as a cold compress. He exhales through his nose.
She stands at his desk now, preparing some medicine for him to take (albeit rather late) with her back to him. She hums a low tune, seemingly calm now, and trying to make chit-chat. Despite his tired state, he strains his ears to listen.
She’s recounting her day—mundane classes, a surprisingly good lunch (he regrets that he couldn’t eat with her), an early dismissal with the handicrafts club (no wonder she got here so early), and then a few harmless hearsays, because she never did manage to hide a white lie or a simple secret from him. Not to worry, neither could he.
Then she reaches another topic.
“I guess…tonight’s plans are cancelled, too,” She says, absentmindedly, bringing a small cup of mystery liquid and a glass of water to his nightstand. “Since you’re sick.”
Plans? For tonight? What plans?
“You don’t remember, huh?” She makes use of his confused silence, and doesn’t seem to be exasperated at his scattermindedness, thankfully. She never has been. “It’s the festival tonight.” She reminds.
The festival.
He springs up from bed, compress forgotten, much to her surprise.
It’s an annual thing. It’s always been an annual thing—not the festival, maybe the fireworks, but he meant…the date. If that’s the term.
A tradition born from a childhood promise that actually took place in a scenario just like this one. Made long before the promise of engagement—somehow stretching beyond the past, it feels like—and so much more binding than it. No linked pinkies, or contracts, or anything, just a few whispered words and a string of mutual trust. They’d spill of it to no one, not even themselves, like an unspoken rule.
And Hakuji, with all his integrity, had the audacity to break it.
Over a cold. That she’s tending to.
Hakuji’s been a caretaker to many patients before—take his father for instance—and, while watching over them, he’s never once understood why, just why, they always seemed to be so apologetic, guilty, and ashamed for the things they couldn’t control.
I’m sorry you have to keep doing this for me.
Sorry if my coughing bothers you.
Sorry I can’t work like I did before.
Sorry for being a burden.
When it’s never their fault. He never thought so, nor did he ever feel burdened with taking care of the ones he held dear. He said it straight, but it never seemed to work. Faced with vulnerability like that and frailty that's not in terms of physical strength, tough-skinned Hakuji never did know what to do.
But, now, he knows what it feels like. Now, seeing both perspectives, he feels a bitterness worse than this sickness he’s feeling, and he can’t help the senseless ramble that escapes him next—being ill seems to tamper with one’s mind often.
“I’m sorry—we can’t…—I forgot, I didn’t mean to—like this, I—” He can’t even get it across. “Were you?—you can go, with your friends—I can—I’m sorry–” God, why can’t he say it? –
“Hakuji.” He feels two gentle hands cup his face again, cutting him off short. He looks up at her—hesitant, for once—and sees not anger, not displeasure, not anything besides a kind, reassuring smile that warms him from the inside, and not in the unpleasant, ill way.
“It’s alright.” She pushes him gently back down by his chest, brushing back the hairs stuck to his sweaty forehead, and placing the compress back upon it. “If you ever feel up for it in time, we can still go together and watch the fireworks.”
“And if you aren’t,” she seems to radiate a seemingly uncaring energy. “There’s always next year, and the year after that.”
Those words seem to stick more than they should’ve. They claw at an inner ache Hakuji didn’t even know was there, hit more than any sucker punch he’s ever gotten, and that's saying something. They conjure a blurry image in his mind that brings him so much familiarity and yet no recollection, and he doesn’t know why.
But he doesn’t say anything; he breathes in, then out shakily, then takes her hand to place it back on his cheek, grounding, safe. That feels enough—it is enough.
He nods at her words slowly, and she all but laughs, music of an old, well-missed tune to his ears.
Later, she’ll spoonfeed him whatever bitter treatment meant for this stupid fever and tut at his souring expression; pet his hair and hum him nonsense lullabies that still lure him to dreams full of scenes of both of them that he doesn't remember happening. They’ll both hear the booms thundering and the cheers after each one, not making any moves to excitedly look out the windows for the fireworks. Maybe they’ll see a small flash every now and then, but nothing more.
But they don’t mind.
There’s always the next year, and the year after that.
Hakuji can’t believe he forgot.
Thankfully, she’s always there to remind him.
Always there.
She's never left, and she has no plan to.
Bonus.
The next day, he wakes up, fortunately without the cold this time. In fact, his heart feels more securely warm than ever. He throws on his uniform, greets an empty kitchen—they’re still on that business trip, he understands—and begins cooking breakfast. Maybe a little snack, too, for her. As thanks.
His phone dings. Speak of the…Angel?
One, single message appears, under an endearing contact name he keeps close to his chest, to preserve his dignity.
Good morning. I’m sick. :((
Despite the situation, he scoffs out a laugh.
Another message follows, as if she picked up on his smugness from where she was.
I caught it from you. >:(
Take responsibility!!!
My bad.
I’m on my way. :)
^_^!
This time, he really chuckles, before he has to put his phone down lest his cooking burns. He can't let that happen. Not when she's going to be eating it.
He’ll have to make some soup on the side then, she always did like his recipe.