Work Text:
Perhaps it’s one too many nights staying up late chattering over Nightcord that pushes her over the edge. They’ve been making good progress recently, and so Mizuki’s been all the more enthusiastic in staying up to the early hours of the morning, chattering with her circlemates. She has no doubt it’s been taking a toll on her body; combined with exam season and her part-time work, she’s been a Very Busy Mizuki as of late.
Though she will admit that more than a few of those late night sessions are just her and Ena, talking about nonsense and trading barbs, illustrations and MV completely forgotten. It’s most certainly not exactly a productive use of her time, but it’s fun—it’s fun to chat with her girlfriend .
She always feels giddy when she thinks that word.
And while Mizuki is always down to push herself for the sake of her passions and her girlfriend’s laughter—as well as maintaining her good grades that justify her bare minimum attendance—she has noticed that she’s been feeling more and more tired lately.
Still, she hadn't thought it’d get this bad. She wakes to a soreness settled deep in her bones and a throbbing headache pounding in her head like one of Honami-chan’s elaborate drumlines. She lets out a groan, and is taken aback by the low timbre of the sound; even for her morning voice, it sounds especially deep and gravely. The mere act of making the sound sends a jolt of pain through her throat, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of how hot she feels.
Perhaps overwork isn’t the sole culprit of her plight—it seems she’s caught something from someone. As sunlight filtering in through her blinds casts skeins of light across her face, she grimaces at the glow shining through her eyelids; it aggravates the pounding ache bouncing around in her head. She rolls over with all the grace of a suffocating fish to the shadows.
She hazily recalls An mentioning that Kohane had been sick—or, less mentioning and more blubbering on about it all throughout their lunch together. The exasperated (and slightly disgusted) look on Lil’ Bro’s face at An’s dramatics and subsequent bragging about taking care of her sick girlfriend had made her giggle at the time. She wished she’d taken a picture so she could send it to Ena.
Her phone buzzes, and it’s a Herculean task in and of itself to pry her very crusty eyes open (ew) and clumsily fish her phone out from the mess of bedding surrounding her. When she opens it, she’s met with a message from An.
[ 7:44 AM ] an (bestie):
wont be at school am sick
Mizuki watches in real time as An sends a sad cat sticker to accompany the uncharacteristically low-energy message. It makes her let out a huff of amusement that has her sinuses burning with irritation (just how sick is she?).
[ 7:45 AM ] You:
same
it was u smooching kohane
you spread it to me
[ 7:45 AM ] an (bestie):
i love everything about kohane even her germs
[ 7:45 AM ] You:
ew
[ 7:45 AM ] an (germ criminal):
but sorry about getting u sick
[ 7:46 AM ] You:
repay me later with food!!
[ 7:46 AM ] an (germ criminal)
yes ma’am
The gendered term has a hint of a smile making its way onto Mizuki’s lips as she turns off her phone. An is the best; she changes her friend’s contact name back to “an (bestie)”.
She supposes she should get some medicine—do they even have any in the house? Probably not; she vaguely recalls her dad tossing out an empty box of pills after a mild fever a couple months back. She opens her phone and haphazardly shoots her mom a text asking her to pick some up on the way home; it’s typo-ridden and no doubt borderline incomprehensible, but she trusts she’ll get the message.
Still, her parents will be back late today—busy with work and all—which means that Mizuki will be waiting here for a good while for her medicine delivery.
She purses her lips; she doesn’t want her mom to interrupt work, not for something minor like this, but depending on how unimportant today’s work is she wouldn’t be surprised if her mother insisted on coming home early. As much as she appreciates her mother’s love—an appreciation that’s only grown after witnessing a certain purple-haired girl’s troubles—she’d feel guilty dragging her out of work, even if Mizuki feels like absolute death.
She runs her hand over her face: uncomfortably greasy, wet with a thin layer of perspiration, and too-warm to the touch. The corners of her mouth tug downwards as she rubs her fingers along her upper lip, feeling the familiar sensation of bristly mustache hairs poking at her fingertips.
I need to shave .
They hadn’t met in sekai yesterday, and so Mizuki had skipped last night in favor of staying up late and crashing in bed. She’s paying the price of her laziness in full force; after a full day of not shaving, the skin above her upper lip has become host to a lawn of thoroughly unwelcome bristles.
Her chin feels rough too. Not as bad, but definitely in need of some attention.
It’s attention she can’t quite muster the energy to give. She has enough strength to absentmindedly rub her hand over the stubble, but not do much else.
I really need to shave .
The thought echoes in her head even as she feels her eyes grow heavier. She’s thankful that she’d been more diligent in wiping away her makeup last night than shaving; she doesn’t think she’d be able to tolerate a layer of makeup underneath all the oil and sweat.
Still, she’s glad that whatever illness she’d caught from the Kohane—An pipeline doesn’t seem to include coughing or a runny nose. Instead, everything just hurts . Her body, her throat, her sinuses—it’s all suffused with a dull, burning ache that she does her best to ignore as her eyes flutter shut.
Undisturbed by coughs or sniffles, it makes it easier to let herself drift off to restless slumber, hand still resting on her face.
Mizuki wakes from dreamless sleep somehow feeling even grosser and more sore than before. Even before she opens her eyes, the culprit behind her awakening is clear; her phone, haphazardly discarded by her side, buzzing with a few notifications, before it goes silent.
She can’t bring herself to fetch the device for a good few minutes, letting herself wallow in her muscle pain. It’s only the need to use the restroom that finally rouses her from stillness; she winces as her body protests at even the slightest motion.
Her feet thump against the ground as she rolls clumsily out of bed, blinking blearily as she fumbles around her bedding for her phone. She brandishes her prize after a few seconds of searching, turning on the screen to see a few messages from her mom. From the time, it seemed she’d managed to eke out an hour of sleep.
[ 8:11 AM ] Mom:
Oh no! :(
I’ll pick up the medicine on the way home.
Let me check my schedule to see if I can come home early.
There’s around a half an hour gap until the next messages: the ones that’d woken her up.
[ 8:39 AM ] Mom:
Sorry dear, the meetings coming up today are very important. :(
I’ll ask your father if he can come home early.
Remember to eat something and drink plenty of water.
The most recent message is followed by a cheesy ‘Get well soon!’ sticker featuring a cartoon cat with a thermometer hanging out of its mouth. It makes Mizuki smile, and she shoots back a sticker with a cat giving a thumbs-up.
Still, despite her reassurance in sticker form, she really doesn’t have much of an appetite at all. In fact, she thinks she’d be hard-pressed to swallow something solid down with how much her throat aches. Food aside, she supposes she should drink some water at the very least.
With all the grace and energy of a shambling Romero zombie, Mizuki goes about doing the bare minimum in taking care of herself. That is, she uses the restroom (and tries to ignore her reflection in the mirror), staggers over to the kitchen for a glass of water and struggles to swallow down a quarter of it, and then flops back into bed with a grunt.
Reflexively, her hands trace over her upper lip again, grimacing at the feeling of grease and sweat and bristly hairs. She feels gross.
I need to shave .
Still, it’s not like anyone besides her mom and dad will see her like this, and that brings her some comfort as she sinks into the plushness of her bed.
There are multitudes of people who know her secret, and yet there are only a scant few that have truly seen it. People who have seen her clumsy early attempts at shaving her facial hair, have seen her face bare of contouring makeup, and who have heard her voice free of the higher inflection she’s worked so hard to make natural.
Mom, dad, and Yuuki—those are the three people who can see her like this; nobody else, and definitely not one Shinonome Ena.
Shinonome Ena, a treasured circlemate.
Shinonome Ena, her precious girlfriend.
Shinonome Ena, who loves girls .
And God knows that that final part tortures Mizuki more than she can bear to admit.
Because she knows that Ena loves how she looks—she knows it in how her girlfriend lavishes her with praise in her darkest moments, how she peppers kisses on the crook of Mizuki’s neck and holds her tight when they cuddle together.
But Ena hasn’t seen this —hasn’t seen her with stubble on her face and the unadorned curve of her jawline. Hasn’t seen just how mannish she can be even after just a day of complacency.
Ena’s love may be unconditional, but her attraction is not. Ena is attracted to girls, and for Mizuki, staying a girl is a constant battle against her body.
One that, at this moment, she’s sorely losing.
I need to shave .
I need to shave .
I need to shave .
And yet she can’t muster the strength to stand up again, thoughts blurry with fatigue and feverish haze. Instead, she kicks weakly at her covers, feeling the too-cold kiss of air on her warm skin and the too-hot feeling of being covered in bedding.
Illness has suffused throughout her body; it feels as if she’s been dunked and soaked in an uncomfortable warmth and dull ache. She flexes her fingers—her pride and joy as a seamstress—and feels how they tremble at the motion. Her lips curve into a bitter smile: a razorblade doesn’t tend to appreciate a shaky hand.
She absentmindedly tosses and turns excuses over in her head for why she won’t be on Nightcord tonight. She can’t say that she’s sick; she’ll have Ena pounding on her door incessantly to forcefully shower her in a love most gentle and kind.
She wonders if Kohane will go to An’s place right after school’s let out. If she’ll bring her medicine and place a cool towel on her forehead and bring her warm food.
And some part of Mizuki fantasizes about this with Ena—dreams about being pampered and cared for and loved .
But the Mizuki in her imagination is a sick girl . A Mizuki without prickly mustache hair or an unseemly Adam’s apple or broad shoulders to be accentuated by sweat-soaked clothes.
The Mizuki in her mind looks haggard and worn through, but feminine.
(Because that imaginary Mizuki is a real girl.)
Sleep comes to her more slowly this time. At some point, tears join the disaster on her face, and she can’t be bothered to wipe them away.
She wakes this time to the sound of Nightcord notifications coming in an incessant barrage. Even emerging from feverish sleep, she can already tell who it is; there’s only one (very special, very beloved, very angry) person who would spam her Nightcord like this.
Her joints creak as she grabs her phone, opening it and beholding a veritable barrage of notifications—a couple of older ones from her mom, and a biblical flood from Enanan.
[ 9:12 AM ] Mom:
Looks like your father is also busy. :(
I messaged Ena-chan. She does night classes, right?
[ 12:33 PM ] Mom:
Your girlfriend will be bringing medicine soon. :)
Mizuki feels her stomach drop. For the first time, she curses how good of an impression Ena had made on her parents (she thinks they were besotted the moment Ena called Mizuki her ‘girlfriend’—she loves both them and Ena for that). With a growing sense of dread, she scrolls down to the Nightcord notifications.
[ 12:33 PM ] Enanan:
youre sick??
respond
amia
amia
amia
mizuki
are you asleep??
you better be asleep and not ignoring me
im coming over
[ 1:11 PM ] Enanan:
im almost there
open the door for me when im there
are you still asleep
mizuki
wake up
wake up
wake up
She checks the time—1:14 PM. It’s been three minutes of uncharacteristic silence since the last message; three whole minutes of Typhoon Ena rapidly approaching her location.
For longer than she’d like to admit, she stares dumbly at her phone screen, the rusty gears in her head slowly processing everything.
And then, suddenly, a sense of almost primal panic cuts through the haze. Shave —she needs to shave. And put her makeup on. And change into something cuter. And—God, her body hurts—she needs to wash her face and put on something to hide the smell of sweat and and —
It’s almost certainly the consequence of some mixture of the feverish fog settled over her senses and her panicked mind, but she doesn’t notice the sound of footsteps approaching her room. By the time she’s managed to disentangle herself from her sheets, a figure stands in her open doorway with a spare key still in her grip, staring at her back as she struggles at the basic task of emerging from bed with an exceedingly unimpressed expression.
“So you are awake.”
For all her insecurities about her femininity, the shriek of surprise she lets out is very girlish.
“Mizuki— Mizuki . Come out already.” Mizuki can feel her girlfriend prodding her cocoon of blankets—a swaddled fortress against the outside world. It’s hot in here— too hot. Despite this, all she does is wriggle away slightly from the disturbance, unwilling to show her face.
“...Don’ wanna...”
“ Mizuki. Seriously.” She can hear that familiar faux-exasperation in her voice—the tone that Ena uses when she’s playfully responding to her teasing. It’s a familiar inflection that she hears often, but instead of the usual accompaniment of an undertone of amusement, this time her voice is steeped in a gentle worry.
“Are we really doing this?” And Mizuki winces at the slightest hint of hurt that seeps into Ena’s voice. It makes her heart skip a beat.
“‘M sorry.” She croaks out the apology, and hates how low and gravelly her voice sounds. Still, she can practically feel as the tension in Ena’s body unwinds in a heavy sigh of resignation. There’s a brief pause, before her girlfriend seemingly makes a decision.
“I don’t know what’s up with you today, but—it’s fine…” There's a crinkling of plastic bags. She flinches as she feels something set near her onto the bed.
“Here. Medicine and some tea. I’m gonna step outside and get some soup going. Your mom told me where everything is, don’t worry.” Mizuki blinks; just how close are those two?!
“...Um, I’ll let you know before I come back in. So…take the medicine, okay? I’ll be mad if you don’t.”
“Yes, ma’am…”
“Good, I’ll be back.”
She can hear Ena’s footsteps as she leaves the room. Only when she hears the door shut does she emerge from her cocoon in all her sweat-soaked glory, basking in cool, fresh air. She lets out a shuddering sigh that makes her sinuses burn, guilt twisting in her stomach.
True to Ena’s word, there’s a plastic bag sat next to her now-distangled fortress. After a bit of rummaging, she has its contents out in a spread in front of her: a box of brand name fever-reduction pills, a bag of lemon cough drops, and a warm bottle of tea.
She doesn’t realize how parched she is until the tea hits her lips. Despite the pain that comes with swallowing, she guzzles down half of the bottle before taking a breath. Clumsily opening the packaging of the medicine, she swallows down the appropriate dosage. The feeling of warm tea soothes her throat.
She flinches as her ears pick up the sound of the microwave humming to life in the kitchen, muffled by the walls and doors. The reminder of Ena’s presence brings both worry and warmth to her heart. She pops a cough drop into her mouth, the lemon flavoring accompanying a slight cooling sensation on her throat.
Ena really is kind , she thinks to herself.
But still, no matter how kind Ena is, she can’t let that kind girl filled with fire and passion see her like this.
Because she knows Ena’s gaze will linger without comment on the ugliest parts of her. She knows Ena will hold her gently and bury any feelings of revulsion. That Ena will only show a kindness so gentle and soft that it will break Mizuki in more ways that she can know.
But she’s already the recipient of so many blessings from her girlfriend: so many undeserved gifts piled sky high at the doorstep of her heart. The least she can do for Shinonome Ena—a girl who loves girls—is to look like a proper girl.
Please, at least let me stay beautiful in your eyes .
Mizuki has shown Ena so many ugly parts of herself—is it so selfish to want to keep this one concealed? To want to run away again?
Her moody ruminations are interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside her door. She snatches up the bottle of tea and cough drops, spilling a few of the latter as she remakes her blanket cocoon with her prizes inside—not a second too late, as she hears Ena knock on the door a short moment later.
“Mizuki? I’m coming in.”
“Mm.”
Ena correctly takes the muffled sound to be permission for entry. Mizuki hears the door open and footsteps approach; they stop by the side of her bed, and she hears the sound of objects being placed on her nightstand.
“Miso soup over rice; it’s still cooling down. Um, I put an ice cube in the soup like you said you do, but it’s still melting. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” There’s a hesitant pause before Mizuki can feel her bed shift—she can feel in the shifting of the mattress underneath her that Ena’s sat down on the other side of the bed.
“You left the pills out. And some cough drops.” Ena lets out a huff of amusement, and Mizuki can feel through the blankets as she picks up the items strewn haphazardly about her bed. She isn’t sure if the heat in her face is embarrassment or just the fever.
“I’m starting to think my girlfriend is secretly an overgrown cat, knocking things all over the place as she pleases.” There’s a teasing fondness in her voice; one that warms Mizuki up more than any hot tea or miso soup. She feels a smile tug at her lips.
“...Meow...” It comes out raspier and more pathetic than Mizuki intended.
“A very sick cat.” Ena amends, an affectionate grin audible in her voice.
They sit in comfortable silence—it’s not a setting typical of them, with the air usually filled with chattering and arguments, but it’s not entirely unfamiliar, either; it reminds her of nights where they’re both hard at work, simply basking in each others’ company without comment. Every once in a while, she hears the clink of silverware against ceramic as Ena stirs the soup.
Occasionally, when the stale air and stuffiness becomes too much, she peeks out of her blanket cocoon and takes in a faceful of fresh air, making sure she emerges on the side not facing Ena. If her girlfriend notices (which she almost certainly does), she doesn’t comment on it.
It’s after a few minutes that Ena breaks the silence.
“I…heard from your mom. Um, that you were sick. I was actually asleep when she first texted me, but when I saw her message, I got really worried. I’m not sure why you didn’t tell me, but…” She pauses as if turning the words over in her head.
“You don’t need to tell me why right now if it’s uncomfortable, Mizuki.” Mizuki feels herself go still, and her heart feels as though it clenches in her chest. Suddenly, she feels out of breath, guilt coiling in her stomach and choking her heart and lungs.
Ah.
I’m such a bad girlfriend .
Why is Mizuki hiding from her?
Why is Mizuki running away again ?
Mizuki’s fingers clench around her sheets, bundling them up into little wrinkled clumps as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her breath quickens, and the heat of her fever suddenly seems all the more overwhelming, filling her head with dizzying heat and a pounding headache. She feels tears prick at her eyes, threatening to spill over for the second time that day.
Ah, what an unsightly thing she is. She wonders if Ena ever tires of this same song and dance—ever gets frustrated with how Mizuki runs and runs from her kindness time and time again. If she ever wishes she was dating someone less wishy-washy: someone who doesn’t hide their face in the face of her affection.
Her distress must be visible to Ena, even swaddled in blankets as she is, because a moment later arms wrap around her cocoon in a clumsy but tight hug.
“It’s okay. It’s okay…” Before she can hold it back, a sob escapes her lips. Ena’s kindness is warm—so painfully warm that it hurts. And yet Mizuki can’t help but gravitate towards it: lean into and bask in that warmth. She is greedy—someone who takes and takes and offers nothing in return, and Ena knows this. She must know this, and yet she offers her hand anyways.
On occasion, Mizuki cries on her lonesome. She cries about school, about the words of those around her, and about how happy her friends make her. In most cases she sheds a few tears, but—by her own estimation—remains fairly composed and elegant, like some anime character staring wistfully into the distance.
Her crying now is most decidedly not that.
It’s a messy and noisy affair—one punctuated with shuddering gasps for air and very loud sniffles. At some point, her blankets slide off; she’s thankful in that moment that Ena is hugging her from behind—that she can’t see her face. But at the same time, she’s reminded that she must absolutely reek : the thought has her sobbing with renewed force. One of Ena’s hands comes to pat her head, and all she can think about is how greasy her hair must be. Even her choked sobs are unseemly; they’re low and rough from the irritation in her throat, a far cry from the usual pitch of her voice.
She cries and she cries and she cries . Her body, already under siege by illness, is in no shape to hold back the sobs and gasps for breath wracking her body. Her sinuses are thoroughly clogged and swollen, her throat all but screaming in agony, and her muscles throbbing with pain.
Ena is there throughout it all, murmuring reassurances and rubbing soothing circles on her back and being everything Mizuki doesn’t deserve. She’s there as Mizuki’s tears fade to emotional exhaustion—as the gaps between her sobs grow longer and longer until all that’s left is labored breaths and the occasional sniffle.
There’s a few minutes of silence: of Ena silently running her fingers through Mizuki’s hair.
“Feel better? Got it all out?”
“Mm.” Along with probably half the water in her body, but that’s besides the point.
Ena seems satisfied with the one-syllable answer. Her hand leaves Mizuki’s head, grabbing the now-lukewarm bottle of tea still sitting on the bed.
“Here. Drink a bit.”
The tea, once again, is a blessing to her poor throat. She guzzles it down, the bottle running dry after a few gulps. Ena passes her a glass of water from the nightstand that Mizuki hadn’t seen, courtesy of her blanket hermit behavior.
She drinks more slowly from it, her thirst mostly sated. She can feel Ena’s gaze lingering on the back of her head, but it doesn’t burn like she thought it would. Instead, she feels safe.
Because it’s Ena—Ena, who seeks her out when she runs; Ena, who loves her so dearly; Ena, who accepts who she is.
And she knows—has always known—that Ena will always be by her side.
“I—I have mustache hair. It’s ugly.”
She blurts it out before she can hold it back, her voice coming out in a harsh whisper. It sounds so stupid when she says it out loud—so unbearably foolish and strange.
“So, so, so ugly…”
Her heart drops into her stomach as Ena goes still behind her: as what is only a few seconds of silence seem to stretch into an eternity.
I’m scared .
She squeezes her eyes shut, her heart rate quickening once more, taking in a sharp gasp for air—
Please, please, please—!
“Mizuki.”
Ah.
There it is.
“Every part of yourself you think of as ugly—”
A voice so gentle and kind—
“—I don’t find that disgusting at all, you know?”
That I can’t help but cry at its warmth.
For the first time that day, she turns to face Ena.
Mizuki must look like an absolute mess. Her eyes are puffy and red, her upper lip wet with snot, and greasy hair clinging to the oil and sweat accumulated on her face. There must be tear lines on her face, her cheeks must be flushed red, and she’s very uglily breathing out of mouth on account of her clogged nose. She knows Ena can see the most unsightly parts of her now: the light fuzz above her lip, her jawline bare of contouring makeup, and everything that reminds Mizuki of what she is and what she isn’t.
And yet, the smile that splits Ena’s face and lights up her eyes makes her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.
“I—I was just so worried—!” Mizuki’s voice comes out in hiccups, words tumbling out in a mess of shame and emotions. Ena oh-so-gently wipes a stray teardrop from her cheek, listening patiently.
“Because you—you like girls! And when I see myself like this I—I feel like I’m lying about being a girl. Lying to you about what I am—!” Her voice is deep and raw and all wrong .
“And I know Ena will love me for who I am but—but—!” She can’t bring herself to meet Ena’s eyes as her words fade to a whisper.
“I just…want to stay a girl in your eyes…” She chokes out the words like a confession. Her head hangs low, her head dizzy with emotion and feverish heat.
For the second time that day, she feels Ena’s arms wrap around her and pull her into a close hug. She quietly weeps as rests her head on Ena’s shoulder, body shaking with emotional and physical exertion.
Her girlfriend lets her cry it out again: holds her tight through her sobs until her tears have run dry. Until her shaking fades to stillness, and she feels like nothing more than a Mizuki-shaped lump draped over Ena’s form.
They sit in silence like this for a while, the stillness only being broken Mizuki’s occasional sniffles, before Ena speaks in a careful voice.
“...Mizuki, you don’t like your…facial hair, right?” Mizuki can feel the rumble of her voice throughout her entire body.
“Mm.” A sound of affirmation.
“Then I don’t like it either.” Mizuki flinches, but Ena holds her tight and continues on before Mizuki can back away.
“I don’t like it just like how I don’t like how Mizuki’s hair gets greasy. Or your dark circles after a long night. Or your cuticles or your dry skin or your split ends.
“I don’t like the things that make you feel ugly, Mizuki. And when I see them, all I can think of is that—” She disentangles herself from Mizuki, placing her hands on her shoulders so that Ena can face her directly. Their foreheads bump together, and Mizuki can only stare, dizzy and entranced by her words.
“I really have such a hardworking girlfriend, for her to have to deal with so much and still manage to be the prettiest girl in the whole world.”
Ena’s face is flushed, even as she meets Mizuki’s eyes. Mizuki’s gaze traces over her—over the hesitation in her eyes that belies her nervousness and the shy curve of her smile. There’s a warmth in her chest; one that isn’t born of the fever raging in her body or hot shame.
I love this girl so much.
“Of—Of course I don’t just love you because you’re pretty. Um, I wasn’t sure if I made it sound like that—sorry, I—” Ena stutters out after a beat of silence of from Mizuki, the nervousness in her demeanor starting to burgeon into full-grown panic at having said the wrong thing, before Mizuki cuts her off.
“I’m so sad, Enanan just loves me for my looooks…” And Ena’s expression turns to one of relief at the sing-song voice teasing her. They fall into a familiar cadence easily, and somehow, the low rasp of Mizuki’s voice doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as before.
“Right, right, I’m so very sorry…”
“For forgiveness, I demand you pay for our next meal together!”
“Hah? You’re sick, should you really be planning our next outing?”
“Mm, but I’m not really being treated like a patient right now…”
“Oi, I—oh shoot, the soup—!”
Mizuki laughs even though it hurts her throat as Ena fusses over the now-cold soup, her eyes alight with amusement.
To be dating Shinonome Ena, a girl who loves girls and the kindest person she’s ever met, she really is the luckiest girl on the planet.
One warm shower later (at Ena’s insistence and Mizuki’s reluctance), Mizuki is bundled up on her bed with a cool towel on her forehead and Ena feeding her spoonfuls of rewarmed soup and rice. Almost immediately after the shower, the build-up of exhaustion from sobbing her eyes out while sick had hit her all at once, and Ena had been forced to all but carry her from the bathroom to her bed. Her attempts at feeding herself had been short-lived, with her trembling fingers dropping the spoon before even making it out of the bowl.
“...Ena’s cooking is good…”
“Don’t say that about something as simple as miso soup over rice.”
“Eh? But it’s true…”
She smiles as a hint of redness appears on Ena’s cheeks, and lets out a whine when Ena responds with a light flick to her poor defenceless forehead.
“Shut up and eat.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am…”
Despite Mizuki’s blubbered apology, she immediately speaks up again as soon as an opportunity to tease Ena pops up again (and can’t resist a smile at her girlfriend’s cute responses).
Once the bowl is emptied after much back-and-forth chatting and they’ve settled down, Ena plonks Mizuki’s desk chair by her bedside and sits by her side, running her fingers through her still-damp hair. Mizuki, for her part, has become altogether boneless, basking in the feeling of being thoroughly pampered. Head hazy from both relaxation and her fever, she feels as her eyelids grow heavier.
“Enanan’s treating me so kindly… I’ll take care of you when you get sick from this…”
“Urk, you’re right. I got Mizuki-germs all over me.”
“The prettiest germs in the world, right?”
“...Sure.”
Mizuki lets out a huff of amusement at the unimpressed look on her girlfriend’s face.
As she feels sleep begin to steadily claim her, she allows her eyes to flutter shut. Already half-asleep, she murmurs under her breath.
“Love you, Ena…”
She can feel a gentle kiss pressed against her forehead before she slips into slumber, a voice whispering in her ear a moment later.
“I love you too, Mizuki.”
To you, who seeks high and low when I run.
Thank you for loving this selfish me.