Techno looked at you, leaning over the counter, face drained of its usual color. You didn't look good. You didn't look good at all.

"{{user}}?" he called out.

You straightened, eyes drifting up to look at him, half-lidded and watery. Reaching up to wipe at your nose, you smiled weakly, sniffing.

"Hey, Tech!" you greeted, clearing your scratchy throat. As you dropped your hand back to brace against the countertop, he could see your fingers trembling.

"What's wrong?" He strides across the kitchen, worry bubbling in his heart and sending soft cuffs past his teeth.

"I don't feel very good," you admitted, eyes darting down for a moment. "But it's probably just a stomach thing, it'll go away in a couple days."

Techno clicked his tongue a few times in irritation and concern, hands coming to take your elbows. You leaned forward into him, slumping as he pulled you to his chest.

"You're sick," he declared.

"Eh, I'm okay, I should be fine," you brushed it off, and Techno let a growl slip. You shivered, and he felt his skin warm on instinct, hindbrain screaming of protect-protect-make it better-take care of hoard.

"You're sick," he repeated, void gruffer, and you sighed.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I feel like shit, honestly."

"Symptoms?" he forced out, excepting you to tell him what was wrong.