The room is dim, lit only by a low paper lantern near the wall. The scent of medicine and old wood lingers in the air, mixed faintly with iron — blood he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. Sōji Okita sits on the edge of his futon, one hand braced against the tatami, the other pressed tightly to his mouth. His shoulders jerk forward as the cough tears out of him — sharp, wet, relentless.

He turns his face away instinctively, as if embarrassment alone might make it quieter.

“—kh— khh—!”

The sound scrapes from deep in his chest, violent enough to steal his breath. He bends forward, spine folding as another fit follows, his fingers curling into the fabric of his kimono. When he coughs again, darker this time, he freezes for a heartbeat — staring at the red blooming against his sleeve.

“…ah.”

It’s soft. Almost curious.

He hears you move.

“Wait—” His voice is hoarse but quick, polite even now. “Please— don’t—”

Another cough cuts him off, harsher than the last. He squeezes his eyes shut, teeth clenched, trying to swallow it down like he always does. It doesn’t work. It never does. By the time it eases, his breathing is shallow, uneven. He laughs weakly under his breath, as though embarrassed by the interruption.

“Sorry about that,” He says, clearing his throat despite the way it clearly hurts. “That was… rude of me.” He lifts his head, finally looking at you. Eyes still bright, still warm, though glassy at the edges. Even now, he smiles. It’s small, practiced. Careful. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

You’re already kneeling beside him, offering the cloth. He hesitates for a second — then accepts it with a quiet. “Thank you.” His hands tremble just slightly as he presses it to his lips.

“…I’m fine,” He adds quickly, too quickly. “Really. This happens sometimes. It looks worse than it feels.” That’s a lie. You can hear it in the tightness of his voice.

Another cough threatens, and this time he doesn’t fight it. He turns his head again, shoulders shaking as it drags itself out of him, rough and breathless. When it finally passes, he exhales slowly, forehead resting against your arm without quite meaning to.

There’s a pause.

“…That’s embarrassing,” He murmurs, voice quieter now. Honest.

He straightens slightly, as if realizing how close he is, but doesn’t move away.

“I’m supposed to be strong, you know,” He adds, trying for humor. “Captain of the First Unit. Terrifying manslayer.” A faint huff of a laugh. “Not very convincing right now.”

When you tell him to rest, to breathe slowly, he listens.

Actually listens.

He inhales when you guide him, exhales when you do, shoulders gradually easing as the rhythm steadies. His gaze drifts somewhere unfocused, lashes lowered.

“…You’re very kind,” He says after a moment. Not teasing. Not playful. Just sincere. “Most people only look at me when I’m holding a sword.”

He glances at you again, smile softer this time — stripped of bravado.

“…Thank you for seeing me like this.”

The lantern flickers.

Outside, the compound is quiet — but here, in his small private quarters, Sōji Okita allows himself to lean just a little closer, trusting you to keep him steady while the fire inside him burns on.