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The heat had settled over the city like a heavy woolen blanket, stifling and unmoving. Even with every window in the house propped open and the shoji screens pushed back to coax a breeze inside, the air clung to the skin like a damp shirt. It was the kind of midsummer day that made even breathing feel like work.
Ranpo had draped himself across the couch hours ago, a tangle of bare legs and a thin, sweat-dampened t-shirt that had ridden up his stomach. He’d started out dramatically sprawled, narrating his suffering to no one in particular, but the complaints had slowly ebbed into restless shifting and half-formed whines, the kind that slipped out when he wasn’t paying attention. His knees kept rubbing together, feet flexing and unflexing against the armrest, fingers twitching like he couldn’t find a comfortable way to exist in his own overheated skin.
Fukuzawa, sitting at the low table with a fan in one hand and papers spread before him, didn’t have to look up to know the boy was miserable. The sound alone told him enough: the rustle of the cushions as Ranpo kicked against them, the soft huff of air through his nose, the faint sticky sound of skin against fabric. Ranpo was never quiet when he was uncomfortable.
“You’re squirming,” Fukuzawa said evenly, eyes still on the papers.
“I’m not,” Ranpo muttered from the couch.
He was.
The boy flopped onto his side with a groan, limbs splaying. His hair stuck damply to his forehead; his cheeks were flushed an unhealthy pink that wasn’t just from the summer heat. Fukuzawa’s gaze flicked up briefly—just long enough to catch the glassiness in Ranpo’s eyes and the faint crease of discomfort between his brows. Ranpo dragged the back of his wrist across his forehead, sniffled, then tugged at the hem of his shirt with restless fingers, as if the fabric itself were attacking him.
Fukuzawa had noticed the fever hours ago, of course. Ranpo had woken late, unusually slow to emerge from his futon, and shuffled through breakfast with uncharacteristic lethargy. When Fukuzawa rested a hand on his forehead in passing, the heat beneath his palm had been unmistakable.
But if there was one thing Ranpo excelled at besides deduction, it was denial.
Fukuzawa had learned quickly that illness was a strange, touchy subject for him. Ranpo didn’t talk about it, but there were tells—how he’d flinch at certain kinds of care, how he tried to minimize discomfort as if bracing for indifference. It didn’t take a great detective to see the outline of a boy who’d learned, too young, that being sick meant being ignored.
“I told you to drink water earlier,” Fukuzawa reminded him.
Ranpo buried his face in a cushion. “I did.”
He had not.
Fukuzawa set down the fan. “Come here.”
“Nooo,” came the muffled protest. Then, louder: “I’m fiiine. 'S'just hot.”
Fukuzawa rose to his feet, the quiet scrape of tatami underfoot. Ranpo peeked out from under the cushion, suspicious, as Fukuzawa crossed the room with measured steps. He didn’t crouch immediately; he simply stood over the couch, arms folded loosely, gaze steady. The sort of gaze that said you can fight me on this if you like, but it won’t change the outcome.
Ranpo squirmed. “What?”
“You have a fever.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Nooo, I don’t,” Ranpo repeated, rolling onto his stomach like a stubborn cat refusing to be moved. The motion made his shirt ride up even further, exposing the curve of his lower back. Sweat glistened there in a thin sheen. He kicked one foot against the cushions, a frustrated, sensory-seeking motion he probably wasn’t even aware of.
Fukuzawa sighed through his nose. “Ranpo.”
Again, Ranpo peeked up, cheeks flushed and hair sticking out wildly. “What?”
“Sit up.”
“No.”
“Ranpo.”
A long, exaggerated groan. Then, very slowly, Ranpo pushed himself upright, legs crossed loosely beneath him, shoulders slumped. He still refused to meet Fukuzawa’s eyes, gaze fixed instead on some distant point in the middle of the room as if maybe, if he ignored the adult long enough, this entire interaction would dissolve.
There was a particular stiffness to his posture—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting in his lap—that spoke of more than mere teenage stubbornness. He looked like a child waiting for care to turn into criticism. His fingers picked idly at a loose thread on the couch cushion, over and over.
Fukuzawa crouched down to his level. From this distance, the heat rolling off Ranpo was obvious, heavy and fever-damp. He brushed a strand of hair off Ranpo’s forehead and laid the back of his hand there. Ranpo flinched, not because the touch hurt, but because it confirmed what he’d been trying to deny. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, the kind of reflexive reaction that comes from old habits—get small, don’t make it a big deal, don’t give anyone a reason to pull away. His hands curled loosely in his lap, nails grazing against his own palms in a self-soothing rhythm.
“…It’s not that bad,” Ranpo mumbled, voice cracking slightly.
“You’re warm enough to boil water,” Fukuzawa said mildly. “Thermometer.”
Ranpo’s whole face twisted. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
Ranpo flopped backward again, arms thrown wide. “Uggghhh.”
The dramatics might have annoyed Fukuzawa if they weren’t so transparent. Beneath the stubbornness was something else—something quieter and smaller. Ranpo didn’t like acknowledging when his body wasn’t cooperating; illness was something unpredictable, something that disrupted the carefully ordered way he liked to move through the world. And admitting it meant relinquishing a bit of control. It also meant exposing a need he’d been conditioned to believe no one would meet. His wriggling wasn’t purely petulant—it was sensory frustration layered with wary defensiveness.
Fukuzawa didn’t press immediately. He simply waited, crouched at Ranpo’s side, expression calm. He’d learned quickly that Ranpo responded better to quiet steadiness than to sharp orders. If he gave the boy space, Ranpo’s own need for reassurance usually did the rest.
Sure enough, after a few seconds, Ranpo peeked up at him through damp bangs, eyes wide and uncertain. “…What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll know anyway,” Fukuzawa said, voice gentle. “But it’s easier for both of us if you cooperate.”
Ranpo huffed. “You’re annoying.”
“Yes.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, with all the reluctant dignity of someone surrendering a kingdom, Ranpo held out his hand. “Fine.” The movement was small and slightly shaky, like he didn’t quite trust it wouldn’t be ignored.
Fukuzawa fetched the thermometer from the shelf, wiped it down, and placed it beneath Ranpo’s arm. Ranpo squirmed like it was a personal affront. “It’s tickly.” He squeezed his eyes shut and made a small, high-pitched noise under his breath—not quite a whine, more like a sound that slipped out without permission.
“Stay still.”
Ranpo puffed his cheeks out, but he stayed. Barely.
While they waited for the beep, Fukuzawa fetched a damp cloth and a glass of water. By the time he returned, the thermometer was chirping. He plucked it out and read the numbers: 100.3°F. Not alarming yet, but enough to explain the flushed skin and irritability.
Ranpo eyed him nervously. “What?”
“You have a fever.”
With a pout, Ranpo crossed his arms. “I told you it’s just hot!”
“It is hot,” Fukuzawa allowed, folding the cloth neatly. “And you also have a fever.”
Ranpo groaned and curled in on himself. “Noooo.” The sound was more plaintive than defiant, the way a child might sound when something familiar starts to crumble. His bravado was slipping at the edges. He rubbed his bare calves together restlessly, toes flexing against the cushion.
Fukuzawa sat down beside the couch. He didn’t reach for Ranpo immediately; he simply offered the water first. “Drink.”
As if this too were part of some elaborate plot, Ranpo eyed it suspiciously. “I’m not thirsty.”
“You are,” Fukuzawa said calmly.
A stalemate stretched between them. Ranpo shifted, clearly miserable, but pride warred with discomfort. Eventually, Fukuzawa tilted his head slightly.
“It would make me happy if you drank it.”
Ranpo froze. That particular phrasing was a weakness, and Fukuzawa knew it. Ranpo’s eyes flicked to his face, searching for any trace of manipulation, and found only steady expectation. Slowly—grudgingly—he reached for the glass and took a sip. His throat bobbed with a swallow, and something fragile flickered across his face—a mix of relief and disbelief, like part of him still expected to be scolded for taking too long. Some of the tension bled from his shoulders as he realized Fukuzawa wasn’t going to sigh, scold, or walk away.
Fukuzawa didn’t comment. He simply waited, patient as stone, until Ranpo took another sip. And another. When the glass was half empty, Ranpo handed it back with a mumbled, “There.”
“Well done,” Fukuzawa said.
The words were simple, but they landed. Ranpo’s posture softened by degrees, like a wary animal inching closer to a familiar hand. Praise from Fukuzawa wasn’t loud or flowery; it was quiet, deliberate, and real. Ranpo soaked it up like sunlight through clouds. His ears went faintly pink, and his fingers twitched against his thigh, betraying the way the praise worked its way under his skin even as he tried to act unaffected.
“Lie down,” Fukuzawa instructed.
Ranpo hesitated—just enough to show that he was still clinging to the last scraps of resistance—then slumped onto his side. Fukuzawa pressed the cool cloth gently to his forehead, and Ranpo let out an involuntary sigh, eyelids fluttering. The relief was instant. His body melted into the cushions as if finally allowed to stop holding itself so tensely; his feet curled against the armrest, grounding into the familiar texture.
“Better?” Fukuzawa asked.
Ranpo made a small noise of assent, too sleepy to answer properly.
Fukuzawa adjusted the cloth and sat back, one knee bent, watching him. Ranpo curled instinctively toward the source of care, his earlier brattiness melting into something softer and smaller. His legs tucked up; one hand drifted toward the edge of Fukuzawa’s yukata and settled there without thought, as if to anchor himself. It was the kind of unconscious gesture that said more than words: a child testing the permanence of safety, and finding it solid. His breathing hitched once when he shifted—then evened out, syncing with the ambient hum of cicadas outside.
“You’ll need medicine if the fever climbs,” Fukuzawa murmured.
Ranpo cracked one eye open. “I hate the taste.”
“I know.”
He waited a beat. “But you’ll still take it.”
A tiny pout. “…Yeah.” His fingers gave the fabric of Fukuzawa’s yukata a tiny, embarrassed tug.
Fukuzawa’s lips twitched. “Good.”
Outside, cicadas droned in the thick summer air, their chorus steady and unrelenting. Inside, the house was dim and still, save for the quiet hum of a fan and Ranpo’s soft, congested breathing. His earlier restlessness had ebbed; he was finally still, cocooned in the quiet authority that surrounded Fukuzawa like a second skin.
Ranpo sniffled and shifted again, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re staying here, right?”
Fukuzawa glanced down at him. Ranpo wasn’t looking directly; his eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, a sure sign that the fever and exhaustion were finally winning. The question wasn’t about logistics. It was about safety.
“Yes,” Fukuzawa said simply.
Ranpo relaxed fully at that, tension draining from his shoulders. A small, satisfied hum escaped him—a sound Fukuzawa wouldn’t dare comment on. Within minutes, his breathing deepened into the rhythm of sleep, fever-flushed cheeks pressed into the couch cushion, hand still loosely gripping the edge of Fukuzawa’s sleeve.
Fukuzawa exhaled quietly. He reached out and brushed the damp hair off Ranpo’s forehead, checking the temperature again with practiced ease. Still warm, but stable. He’d keep watch; fevers had a way of creeping up unnoticed on summer nights.
As he sat back, papers abandoned, he found himself caught between exasperation and something gentler. Ranpo was infuriating when he was sick—dramatic, stubborn, impossible. And yet, watching him curled up and trusting like this, it was difficult to feel anything but quiet fondness.
Fukuzawa adjusted the damp cloth one last time. “Honestly,” he murmured to the sleeping boy, “you make everything complicated.”
Ranpo, deep in sleep, didn’t answer. But his fingers twitched lightly against Fukuzawa’s sleeve, as if even unconscious, he was reluctant to let go.