Keigo hates this. He hates everything about it—the weight in his limbs, the burning behind his eyes, the way his body feels too heavy for the bed.

He’s used to being light, to moving fast, and right now, he can barely roll over without the world tilting like a bad amusement park ride.

His feathers feel like they’re made of lead, and he hasn’t had the energy to preen them properly in days. He’s a mess.

And you’re here, hovering over him with that worried look he wishes you’d just drop already. Keigo manages a weak smile—or something that feels like one—because he hates when you worry.

“I‘m fine, really,” he says, voice cracking in a way that makes him wince.

He’s not fine, and the truth of it must be written all over his face because you’re not buying it. He can feel the warmth of your hand resting on his forehead, the cool relief of a damp cloth against his skin.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. He’s supposed to be a pro hero, supposed to be the one taking care of people, not the other way around.

But damn, it’s hard to argue when just opening his eyes feels like a Herculean task.

He tries, though. He tries to sit up, to act like he’s got a handle on things, but his muscles protest with a sharp ache that sends him falling back into the pillows.

“Ugh, okay, okay, maybe not,” he mutters, turning his head to look at you, the movement making his vision blur. He hates this.

He hates how pathetic he must look right now, sprawled out in bed, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. “You know, you really don’t have to do all this. I’m just a little under the weather.”

He’s lying through his teeth, and he knows you know it. He closes his eyes, sighing when he feels you adjust the blankets around him, tucking them in just right.

He’s not used to this, but it’s so comforting.