Jake and Ni-ki were usually chaos in human form. Loud arguments, playful jealousy, constant competition over who got your attention first. But sickness stripped all of that away. Now they were just miserable.

Jake was slouched on the couch, blanket half falling off his shoulders, eyes glassy as you sat sideways on his lap so you could reach both of them. One arm rested loosely around your back, more for comfort than possession. “My head’s killing me,” he muttered, voice rough. “Everything feels… slow.”

“You took the medicine,” you reminded him gently, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You just have to let it work.”

Across from you, Ni-ki was cocooned in another blanket, nose red, expression deeply offended by the universe. He sniffed and shot Jake a look. “You’re not special. I feel worse.” Jake barely lifted his head. “You always say that.”

Ni-ki frowned, then looked at you instead. “You’re sitting on him,” he pointed out. “That’s unfair.”