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Legundo woke before the sun, but only because his body insisted on it.
Not gently.
Not the natural drift of waking up early.
No, the kind of waking that felt like being hauled upward through layers of sleep by a hook in his lungs.
His first breath rattled in his chest.
That was the warning.
The second breath burned, heat searing the back of his throat.
That was confirmation.
He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Even the dim blue pre-dawn light stabbing through the curtains felt too bright. His skull throbbed in a dull, rhythmic pulse, not a headache exactly, but the pressure of something building behind his eyes.
“Oh… excellent,” he muttered.
He tried to sit up.
The world tilted sideways.
For a terrifying heartbeat, he thought the room was actually spinning, spiraling in on itself as the floor had liquefied. Then he realized it was just him. His balance. His blood pressure. Everything inside him was staging a mutiny.
He pressed a hand to his forehead.
Hot.
Way too hot.
“Fantastic,” he rasped, voice cracking like an old hinge.
His throat felt raw, dry, coated in something unpleasant, as if he’d been breathing dust all night. His tongue tasted metallic. His limbs heavy, his skin alternated between shivering cold and feverish heat, neither lasting long enough to adjust.
He squinted at the wall clock across the room.
5:42 AM.
Good. Both vampires were definitely asleep.
He had time to get ahead of this.
Legundo swung his legs out of bed and instantly froze when the floor felt miles away, his body swaying like he existed half a second behind reality.
He sat back down hard, breathing slowly through the dizziness.
“Nope. Nope, that’s— that’s new,” he whispered to himself.
He tried again. Slower.
His joints ached, like someone had gone through in the night and tightened all the bolts holding him together. Even the hair at the nape of his neck felt sensitive.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t “he’s dying.”
But it was abundantly clear, sickness.
And Legundo hated being sick more than almost anything.
Not because of the symptoms, he could tolerate misery better than most, especially after medical school and residency taught him the art of functioning while half-dead.
No, he hated it because…
Because Louis would worry.
Badly.
Quietly, but badly.
And because Owen would…
Well.
Owen would explode.
They didn’t handle his mortality well on the best days. On the worst? They became living storms. And Legundo, even shivering, even nauseous, even exhausted, could already picture it:
Owen running around the house like a panicked crow, muttering to himself at high speed, ripping blankets on and off him every ten minutes.
Louis sitting at the edge of the bed, pretending to read but staring over the page every time Legundo so much as sniffed, fingers trembling no matter how calm he tried to appear.
Legundo groaned softly and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He was not doing that to them.
He’d stay home quietly.
Rest quietly.
Recover quietly.
They didn’t need to know.
He reached for his phone.
Just a single message to the clinic.
Cancel today’s appointments.
Keep his patients safe.
Avoid infecting half of Oakhurst.
Easy.
He typed slowly, thumbs clumsy.
“Good morning. I’m afraid I need to cancel appointments today due to a mild illness. Please reschedule anyone urgent for tomorrow.”
His finger hovered over “send.”
“This is fine,” he told himself, voice hoarse. “It’s responsible. It’s reasonable. They don’t have to—”
He hit send.
The moment the message whooshed out, a chill ran through him, part fever, part dread.
Because he knew Owen. He knew exactly how long it would take for that vampire to realize something was wrong. He had… what? Maybe an hour? Thirty minutes? Ten?
Legundo coughed into his elbow, and the sound echoed wetly in the quiet room.
…Owen was definitely going to hear that at some point.
Legundo closed his eyes and sighed.
“Great,” he murmured. “Let the chaos begin.”
Legundo retreated into his study with the same furtive care someone might use when smuggling contraband across a border. He moved slowly, steadily, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to let the boards creak under his weight. The fever made the hallway look distant and warped around the edges, but he pushed through it. The study was the only room in the house that granted him the illusion of autonomy, a lockable door, thick walls, and a reputation for being so boring that even Owen rarely entered it willingly.
He closed the door behind him and leaned on it for a moment, catching his breath. The chill sneaking through the windowpanes made his skin pebble, but he kept insisting to himself that at least he wasn’t in bed. At least he wasn’t resting. Resting felt like surrender.
He wrapped a blanket over his shoulders anyway, because the shaking wouldn’t stop.
The desk lamp clicked on with a soft hum. Legundo lowered himself into his chair, waiting for the dizziness to pass. His vision pulsed for a few seconds, then settled enough that he could pretend it would stay that way. He pulled a patient file toward him with fingers that trembled faintly.
He stared at the first sentence.
Then the second.
Then realized he hadn’t actually absorbed either.
His brain felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Thoughts drifted slowly, unfocused, like birds caught in fog. He squinted at the page, forcing himself to trace each word with stubborn insistence. The letters blurred anyway. He blinked hard, once, twice, a third time, and still the page refused to cooperate.
A heavy breath escaped him as he slumped back in his chair. The fever was rising. Not dramatic, not catastrophic, but steady. Predictable. Annoyingly effective at dismantling his ability to think.
A scratch crawled up his throat, and he braced for it, too late. The cough ripped out of him, raw and rattling, shaking his chest. He pressed a fist to his sternum and waited for the burning to dull.
“Perfect,” he whispered hoarsely. “That’ll definitely go unnoticed.”
He waited a moment to make sure he wasn’t going to cough again, then reached for another file, trying to convince himself that switching tasks would help. It didn’t. His eyes glazed halfway through the first line.
He set the file aside.
Picked up a different one.
Set it aside again.
Eventually, he settled for staring at the grain of the desk wood, letting the cool surface ground him as his forehead dropped into his folded arms. He stayed like that for almost a minute, breathing shallowly, trying to steady the faint tremor in his muscles, before forcing himself upright again. Doing nothing wasn’t an option. Doing nothing felt wrong, irresponsible, indulgent.
He gathered his posture and tried again.
That was when the first knock came, soft, polite, unmistakably Louis.
“Mon cœur?” came his voice through the door. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”
Legundo sat up too fast, and the world tilted sharply. He closed his eyes until the spinning eased, then cleared his throat in what he hoped sounded normal.
“Oh—ah. Louis. Good morning,” he called back. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like gravel dragged across stone. “I’m just catching up on some paperwork.”
There was a pause. A very telling pause. Louis was probably standing there with that subtle furrow between his brows, one hand resting elegantly against the doorframe, sensing something was off but choosing politeness over intrusion.
“At six in the morning?” Louis asked gently.
“Yes,” Legundo lied, as confidently as a man hanging off a cliff by a fraying rope.
Another stretch of silence. Then the soft creak of retreating footsteps. Louis was giving him space, for now. A temporary victory.
Legundo exhaled shakily and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. His skin felt too hot. When he dropped his hand, it trembled faintly.
He tried returning to work. He really did. But each time he leaned forward, his vision doubled. Each time he tried to focus, another wave of fever heat bloomed under his skin, pushing him back.
He was starting to accept that the study wasn’t going to help him accomplish anything.
That was when the second knock came, faster, sharper, impatient. Owen.
“Legs?” Owen’s voice shot through the door; all suspicion and pointed accusation. “Why’s the door closed?”
Legundo straightened again, wincing at the pull in his chest. “Just working,” he said quickly.
There was a scoff on the other side. Loud, indignant, unconvinced.
“Uh-huh,” Owen said. “Sure. Because you totally do that. You never close the door unless you’re on a call. Or hiding. Or avoiding someone. Or avoiding something. Which is extremely suspicious, by the way.”
“I’m working,” Legundo repeated, and even he wasn’t convinced by his tone.
“Open the door.”
“I can’t. Busy.”
Silence. A dangerous silence.
Then Owen’s voice again, softer now but edged with panic.
“…Why do you sound like that?”
“Sound like what?”
“Like your throat is made of rusty metal and bad decisions.”
“I— I don’t—” Legundo started, but his body betrayed him. A cough clawed up without warning, violent, chest-shaking, impossible to swallow down. He tried to cover it with his sleeve, but the sound still boomed in the study like a gunshot.
The silence afterward was absolute.
Then Owen spoke again, voice dropping into something tight and unmistakably afraid.
“…Legundo? Are you sick?”
Legundo closed his eyes. “…No.”
“You are SUCH a bad liar,” Owen snapped. “I’m getting the key.”
Legundo jerked upright.
“Owen—don’t—Owen! I’m fine! Don’t get the—”
But the footsteps were already pounding down the hallway. Fast. Determined. Terrifying.
Legundo groaned and slumped forward again, forehead touching the cool wood.
“…Should’ve rented an office across town,” he muttered. “Or a bunker. Preferably a bunker.”
The knock was too sharp.
Too intentional.
Not the idle, polite tapping of someone passing by, but the kind of knock that said I know you’re in there and I’m not leaving.
Legundo’s head jerked up from where it had been resting on his hand. The movement made black spots burst behind his eyes, but he still straightened instinctively, forcing himself into some semblance of professional posture.
His throat felt scraped raw when he called out, “Occupied.”
A silent moment followed, just long enough for him to think he’d gotten away with it.
Then a metal clicked sharply in the lock.
Legundo’s heart sank. “Owen, don’t—”
The door opened anyway. Of course it did.
Owen barged in like a gust of frustrated wind, coat flaring behind him, boots striking the floor, eyes already narrowed in something between concern and annoyance. He shut the door with his heel without breaking stride.
One sweep of his gaze across the room was enough.
Legundo knew exactly what Owen was seeing: the desk covered in scattered papers that hadn’t been touched. The notes that hadn’t progressed. The same page of the same book Legundo had been staring at for the past hour without absorbing a single word. The lamp turned too bright because he kept dimming out and losing focus. And, of course, Legundo himself, pale, sweating lightly, barely holding himself upright.
Owen stopped two steps in and released a groan.
“Oh, brilliant,” he muttered. “And you call yourself a doctor. Can’t even take care of yourself.”
Legundo pushed back from the desk as if to sit taller, but it only made him sway. His fingers tightened around the pen lying uselessly on the table, trying to hide the tremble that ran through them.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice thin and hoarse. His lie came out with the exhaustion of someone who had already used that word too many times today. “Just tired. I’m catching up on work.”
Owen didn’t even bother responding at first. He simply looked at the desk again, as if the scattered, untouched notes themselves were testifying against Legundo.
Then he looked at Legundo.
Really looked.
“You’re sweating,” Owen said flatly.
Legundo’s jaw tightened. “No, I’m—”
“And you’re pale.”
“It’s winter,” Legundo argued weakly.
“And your hands are shaking.”
“That’s… too much coffee.”
Owen stared at him like he was the worst liar on earth.
“Legundo,” he said, voice dropping. “You literally just swayed in your chair.”
Legundo blinked. He had hoped that the moment of weakness had gone unnoticed. The embarrassment burned worse than the fever.
His throat tensed around a cough, sharp, sudden, and he fought it down as viciously as he could, swallowing hard. His eyes watered from the effort, and he lifted a hand to pretend he was adjusting his glasses. Anything to hide the slip.
Owen’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh,” he said, stepping forward, the irritation melting into something more serious. “So it’s like that.”
Legundo looked away, staring down at the notes he couldn’t read, voice tight. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You're not as bad. Currently smells like fever,” Owen replied.
That made Legundo flinch. Vampires and their damned senses.
“So?” he muttered, sounding smaller than he intended. “It’s… manageable.”
“It is not,” Owen said, stepping closer again, “when you’re hiding alone in here pretending it isn’t.”
Legundo dragged in a breath, careful and shallow. The room felt dim and bright at the same time, the light flickering in ways he couldn’t trust. But he forced himself to sit straighter anyway, as if posture alone could prove Owen wrong.
“I’m just having an off day,” he insisted.
Owen’s brow arched. “Off day? Doc, you look like death warmed over. Twice.”
Legundo’s shoulders sagged, just a fraction. A tiny collapse. But enough that Owen’s expression changed instantly.
The concern became gentler. Sharper. More pointed.
“Louis said you were avoiding us,” Owen said quietly. “He thought you were just being a stubborn little overachiever again. But no.” He motioned around the room. “This is you. Hiding. Working yourself into the ground.”
Legundo’s fingers pressed against the desk, steadying himself. He hated how warm his skin felt. Hated the weakness clinging to his bones. Hated being seen like this, especially by someone who could hear the slight hitch in his breath and track every uneven heartbeat.
He tried again, one last time. “I don’t need—”
“Yes,” Owen interrupted softly, “you do.”
The simple certainty in his voice cracked something inside Legundo. His eyes slipped closed before he could stop himself. The effort of holding everything together, his spine, his pride, the illusion of control, felt suddenly impossible.
Owen stepped closer, slower now.
No theatrics. No irritation.
Just a quiet, steady presence.
“Doc,” he murmured, closer than before, “you don’t have to pretend with us.”
Legundo opened his eyes, weary and defeated, and stared down at the desk. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose. His hair stuck in tired curls across his forehead. His breath trembled faintly, betrayed by lungs that had been fighting him all day. He looked… human. Fragile in a way he never let himself be.
He hated that Owen saw it.
But Owen was already standing before him, close enough that Legundo could feel the shift in the air around him.
And this time… Legundo didn’t have the strength to push him away.
Owen’s expression softened as he saw the deliberation in Legundo’s face. The struggle. The stubbornness.
“You’re burning up,” he said quietly.
Legundo tensed. “You haven’t even touched me.”
“I don’t need to,” Owen answered, and while the tone remained gentle, there was steel beneath it. “I can smell it. And hear it. And every sign is screaming you’re sick.”
Legundo pressed a hand to his forehead, not dramatically, just as if the weight of his skull had suddenly become too much. “It’s a cold,” he muttered. “A… bad one. I didn’t want to make either of you worry.”
“Oh, perfect,” Owen said, straightening just enough to cup a hand under the doctor’s chin. “Not only are you dying at your desk, but you actually admit it’s bad. For you? That’s practically a deathbed confession.”
Legundo shot him a tired look. “I’m not dying.”
“You look like you’re halfway there.”
“I’m not—”
Owen pressed two fingers to Legundo’s pulse point. “You’re feverish.”
Legundo didn’t argue that one. Couldn’t argue. The touch alone made him swallow hard, because his whole body felt overheated and chilled at the same time, like someone had wrapped his bones in ice and set his skin on fire.
He tried to pull back, instinctively embarrassed by being read like this, but Owen held his chin just firmly enough to keep him steady without forcing him.
“Hey,” Owen said softly. “Look at me.”
Legundo reluctantly lifted his gaze. His eyes were unfocused, rimmed with red. He hated how weak he felt under that scrutiny.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Owen asked, voice quiet but pointed.
Legundo’s throat fluttered, and he coughed, a deep, tearing one he couldn’t suppress this time. It bent him forward, made his hand grip the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. Owen’s hand immediately shifted from his chin to his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
When the coughing subsided, Legundo stayed bent over, eyes watering, breath trembling. The exhaustion in his voice was impossible to hide.
“I didn’t want to… to worry you,” he murmured.
Owen let out a disbelieving scoff. “We worry when you stub your toe, Legundo. You think we’re not going to worry when you’re coughing like you swallowed a chimney?”
Legundo shut his eyes. His next words were quieter.
“I didn’t want to be fussed over.”
Owen went still.
Dead still.
Like those words hit deeper than Legundo intended.
“…Legundo,” he said slowly. “We fuss because we love you.”
Legundo opened his eyes to the floor.
“I know,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t want it to feel like I was being useless. Like I couldn’t—function.”
“You’re a human,” Owen said simply. “Humans get sick.”
“But you don’t.”
Owen paused, just long enough for Legundo to realize he’d said something too raw, too honest.
Then Owen said, voice gentle and steady, “That doesn’t make you lesser.”
Legundo swallowed, looking anywhere except at Owen’s face. His vision blurred slightly, and he wasn’t sure whether it was fever, shame, or both.
After a moment, Owen rose slowly to his feet, not abruptly, not startling, and placed one hand on the back of Legundo’s chair.
“Come on,” he murmured. “You’re getting out of here. You need to lie down.”
Legundo shook his head weakly. “I can’t. I need to work.”
“You can’t even read,” Owen replied. “Don’t argue with me, doc—you’ve been staring at the same line for an hour.”
Legundo’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I was… thinking.”
“You were delirious,” Owen corrected.
He slid his hand under Legundo’s arm, coaxing him gently, not forcing, not dragging, just offering support.
Legundo hesitated.
Something flickered in his expression, fear? Pride? The desire to pretend he could still stand effortlessly?
But then his legs wobbled when he tried to rise.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Owen caught him before he could fall back into the chair.
“There it is,” Owen murmured softly, steadying him with both hands now. “That’s why I’m here.”
Legundo leaned into the support without meaning to, breath unsteady against Owen’s shoulder.
And finally, finally, he stopped pretending.
Getting Legundo from the study to the bedroom felt like escorting a half-conscious ghost.
Owen kept one arm wrapped around the doctor’s waist, steadying him whenever his steps faltered. Legundo tried to pretend he wasn’t leaning as heavily as he was, gripping the fabric of Owen’s sleeve like he had every intention of letting go at any second. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
His breath rasped faintly in the hallway, soft, tight pulls of air that made Owen’s jaw clench every time he heard them. By the time they reached the bedroom door, Legundo’s forehead had found its way to Owen’s shoulder, not in affection, but in a kind of exhausted surrender.
Owen nudged the door open with his hip.
The room was dimmed already, curtains drawn, lamps turned low. Louis must have passed through recently. Owen knew the signs of a man who prepared quietly, just in case.
And sure enough, Louis appeared almost instantly, stepping out from the corner where he had been waiting with a bowl between his hands.
Steam curled upward in soft threads. The smell of herbs and broth filled the room.
“I knew you were sick the moment I spoke to you,” Louis said, voice gentle but threaded with worry that he didn’t bother hiding.
Legundo lifted his head, blinking sluggishly, as Owen maneuvered him toward the bed.
“It’s not—” he tried.
Louis raised one brow. “Don’t.”
Legundo shut his mouth.
Owen helped him sit on the edge of the mattress. Louis was already setting the soup on the bedside table, moving with that careful, old-world precision of someone making an offering. Then he returned to the bedside, rolling up his sleeves.
Legundo bristled weakly. “I can undress myself.”
Owen huffed. “Sure. And collapse halfway through? Fun idea, let’s not.”
Louis stepped closer, hands gentle but firm as he began unbuttoning the doctor’s vest. “Muse, you’re drenched,” he murmured. “This needs to come off before you catch a deeper chill.”
Legundo felt heat rush to his face, some fever, some embarrassment. “I… I’m sorry.”
Louis paused mid-button, eyes lifting in surprise. “For what?”
“For… for being like this.” Legundo looked at his hands in his lap, throat tight. “I should have been able to manage a simple cold without turning into… a burden.”
Owen froze while he was helping peel off the damp shirt. His hands went still against Legundo’s back.
Louis’s expression shifted, softening in a way that had no mockery, no amusement, just a quiet ache.
“Legundo,” he said softly, “you are not a burden.”
Owen grunted in agreement. “You’re a dumbass. But not a burden.”
Legundo looked away, jaw clenching faintly.
Louis continued, smoothing the damp fabric off his shoulders with careful precision. “You are allowed to be human. You are allowed to be unwell. And you are allowed to be cared for.”
Owen added, more gently this time, “Especially by us.”
Once the soaked clothing was off, Owen reached behind Legundo to adjust the pillows, easing him back until he could recline comfortably. A new, soft shirt was slipped over his head, Louis guiding the sleeves while Owen supported his back.
The warmth of their hands made Legundo’s breath turn uneven.
He hated needing this.
But he also, God help him, felt something melt in his chest at the tenderness.
Louis retrieved the soup and sat on the edge of the bed. Owen lingered on the other side, arms crossed but eyes tracking every change in Legundo’s breathing.
Louis scooped a spoonful, blowing on it before lifting it toward him.
Legundo blinked. “I can feed myself.”
Louis smiled faintly. “Of course you can. And normally, I would let you. But right now, you’re shaking so much I fear the soup will end up in your lap.”
Legundo looked down at his hands, and the tremor there betrayed him.
He deflated. Softly. Quietly.
Louis brought the spoon to his lips. “Open for me, love.”
Legundo obeyed, cheeks warming from something far beyond fever. The broth was hot and soothing, settling warmly in his chest, easing some of the ache.
But guilt curled in his stomach all the same.
“I hate this,” he whispered when Louis lifted the spoon for a second offering.
Owen instantly shot him a look. “Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t have to take care of me. Either of you. I—”
Louis pressed a hand to Legundo’s cheek. Cool. Comforting. Grounding.
“We don’t take care of you out of obligation,” he said softly. “We do it because we adore you.”
Owen leaned down, adjusting the blanket over Legundo’s legs. “Yeah. And because you clearly won’t take care of yourself unless one of us forces you to.”
Louis fed him another spoonful.
Owen brushed damp hair off his forehead.
Legundo stared at both of them, eyes burning, not from fever this time.
“You… really don’t mind?” he asked quietly.
Louis’s smile softened into something unbearably tender. “No, muse. We mind only when you hide from us.”
Owen nodded firmly. “And when you lie badly.”
Legundo let out a breath that shuddered faintly.
For the first time all day, he let himself relax, truly relax, sinking back into the pillows as Louis fed him gently, spoon by spoon, and Owen kept a hand resting lightly on his shoulder, warm and steady.
And for once…
Being human didn’t feel like a weakness.
It just felt like being loved.
Owen lingered for a moment after Louis finished feeding Legundo another slow, careful spoonful. His eyes swept over the doctor, checking, measuring, assessing. Legundo could practically feel the vampire’s instincts tugging at him, wanting to hover, to fuss, to stay planted at the bedside for the next six hours.
But Owen eventually exhaled and straightened. “I’m going to grab more blankets. And a thermometer. And maybe an entire pharmacy.”
Louis shot him a soft warning look.
Owen rolled his eyes. “I heard him coughing. I’m not being dramatic.”
Legundo tried to muster a tired glare. “You’re always dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Owen said, pointing at him as he backed toward the door. “And right now? You need dramatic.”
Louis didn’t disagree.
Owen vanished down the hallway with a muttered, “Don’t let him escape.”
The room felt calmer without him, dim, warm, soft around the edges. Louis’s presence filled the space in a quieter way. Less frantic, more grounding. He sat at the edge of the bed again, turning toward Legundo with that ever-present gentleness he wore like a second skin.
He waited a moment, just watching Legundo breathe… wheeze a little… settle.
Then Louis spoke.
“Legundo,” he said softly. “You mean the world to us.”
Legundo closed his eyes briefly. He hated that he felt the words all the way down to his bones.
“You must take better care of yourself,” Louis continued, his voice low and steady. “Not for us. Not for your patients. For you.”
Legundo’s lashes fluttered. “I do take care of myself.”
Louis gave him a look that was both fond and exasperated. “Muse, you work until your hands grow numb. You forget to drink water for hours. And when you’re sick, you hide like a wounded animal.”
“I don’t hide.”
“You locked yourself in your study.”
“…I was working.”
“You were dying,” Louis corrected softly. “At your desk.”
Legundo let out a tiny, hoarse breath, half sigh, half admission.
Louis continued undoing the last few buttons of the fresh shirt he’d put on, smoothing the fabric into place as though making sure every part of Legundo was tended to properly.
“You are strong,” Louis said, thumb brushing the doctor’s shoulder. “One of the strongest humans I have ever known. But humans get sick. And sickness must be taken seriously.”
Legundo didn’t argue this time.
He just listened, really listened, as his boyfriend spoke in that old, calm voice that always made him feel like time itself slowed down around them.
“You fight everything alone,” Louis murmured. “It is admirable. It is also infuriating. Because you are not alone.”
Legundo looked away, guilt tugging at his chest.
Louis reached for his chin gently, guiding him back into eye contact. “Not anymore.”
The doctor swallowed hard.
The soup was nearly gone now, just a few warm spoonfuls left. Louis lifted the bowl again, feeding him the rest with slow, unhurried movements. Each sip of lentil broth settled warmly in his stomach, easing the ache in small, comforting waves.
When the bowl was finally empty, Louis placed it aside… then returned his full attention to his very flushed, very sick partner.
He brought both hands up, cupping Legundo’s face.
The coldness of Louis’s vampiric skin hit Legundo like a rush of rain.
A soft, involuntary moan slipped from his throat, quiet, needy, unguarded. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. It just tore out of him because it felt so good. Louis’s touch was cool relief against his burning cheeks, his fevered temples, the overheated pulse at his jaw.
Louis’s lips curved in a small smile, warm, amused, unbearably loving.
“Does that feel better, muse?” he asked softly.
Legundo’s eyes fluttered half-closed. “God… yes. Don’t stop.”
Louis stroked his thumbs along the doctor’s cheekbones. “You were burning when I walked in. I feared you might scald me.”
“Sorry,” Legundo whispered.
“Don’t be. I am glad I can help.”
Louis held his face a moment longer, cooling him, soothing him, watching every little shiver of relief that passed through him. When Legundo leaned fully into his palms, Louis let him, supporting him gently.
After a long, quiet moment, Louis asked softly, “Did you like the soup?”
Legundo nodded weakly. “It was… very good.”
“It’s lentil soup,” Louis said, his smile widening just a touch. “I heard humans make it when someone is unwell. I thought I should try.”
Legundo’s eyes softened. Feverish, tired… and touched.
“You made that?” he rasped.
“I did.”
Legundo blinked slowly, the weight of that landing deep. “Then… yes. I liked it. Very much.”
Louis’s thumbs brushed his cheeks again. “Good. Then I will make it for you anytime you need it.”
“Let’s hope I don’t need it often,” Legundo murmured.
Louis leaned closer, forehead almost touching his. “Even if you did… we would be here.”
Legundo’s breath caught.
He didn’t argue this time.
He couldn’t.
He let Louis hold his face, cool, steady, tender.
Owen came back into the room with a bundle of fresh blankets, a change of sheets tucked under one arm, and a stack of soft towels balanced against his hip. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, already talking under his breath about the radiator being useless and the draft under the window being a crime.
But the moment he stepped fully inside, he stopped.
Louis was sitting on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled back, hands cupped gently around Legundo’s flushed cheeks. And Legundo, half out of it, fever-glazed, overwhelmed, was leaning into that cold touch like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. He rubbed his face against Louis’s palms in a slow, exhausted nuzzle, eyes half-closed, a little noise slipping out of him like something between relief and surrender.
Owen blinked once.
Then he smiled. Soft. Fond. A little amused.
“Of course you’re doing that,” he murmured.
Louis tilted his head. “Doing what?”
“Acting like you’re not enjoying being treated like a giant space heater,” Owen said, setting the blankets down. “Also—Legs, honey—” He sniffed exaggeratedly. “You’re stinky.”
Legundo’s head snapped up, indignation immediate. “I am not! I’m just—just warm!”
“You’re cooked,” Owen corrected. “Roasted. I could baste you.”
Louis’s lips twitched. “He is a little ripe.”
“I hate both of you,” Legundo muttered, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow.
They didn’t let him.
Owen and Louis exchanged a silent decision, one of those wordless agreements that came from years of learning each other’s rhythms, and then each took one of Legundo’s arms.
“No,” Legundo protested weakly as they lifted him. “Nooo. I don’t want— I’m comfortable—”
“You’ll be more comfortable clean,” Owen said, firm but warm.
“And cooled down,” Louis added, brushing his knuckles along Legundo’s burning throat.
Together they guided him toward the bathroom, steadying him every time his knees wobbled. The light in the bathroom was soft and warm, and the tiles were cold underfoot. Louis started the bath, testing the water with practiced fingertips, adjusting it until it was lukewarm enough to bring Legundo’s temperature down without shocking him.
Owen stood in front of Legundo, fingers gentle as he began undoing the buttons on his damp shirt.
“Arms up,” he coaxed.
Legundo grumbled, but obeyed.
The shirt peeled away, sticking slightly to his skin. Owen made a quiet, sympathetic sound. Louis was already behind him, sliding off the undershirt, his cold hands a relief where they brushed Legundo’s overheated back.
“You guys don’t have to—” Legundo started, breath hitching as Owen’s thumbs grazed his waist.
“We want to,” Owen said simply.
“We take care of what’s ours,” Louis added, voice low, steady.
They undressed him slowly, not in a rushed way but in a caring, steady rhythm, peeling off soaked clothes, pressing soft kisses to his shoulders, to his clavicle, to the back of his neck. Wherever his skin blazed with fever, their lips cooled it.
By the time they eased him into the bath, Legundo was boneless with relief, his head falling back, eyes fluttering shut.
Owen knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Melting.”
Louis dipped a sponge into the water, squeezing it over Legundo’s chest.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “Let us do this.”
He began washing him, slow circles over his arms, his shoulders, down his torso. Owen joined him, gently scrubbing his hair, careful and patient. Every so often, one of them leaned in to kiss a fevered cheek or brow, the contrast of cool lips against burning skin drawing soft, involuntary sounds from Legundo.
“You’re both ridiculous,” Legundo muttered half-asleep.
“Mm,” Owen hummed. “And you love it.”
Louis smiled, brushing wet curls from Legundo’s forehead.
“And we love you. Even when you smell.”
Legundo weakly splashed water at him.
It didn’t change the way he leaned into their hands, trusting, tired, impossibly grateful, as they cleaned him, cooled him, and held him up when his body couldn’t quite manage it alone.
When the bathwater had cooled, and Legundo’s body had finally stopped radiating like a furnace, Owen touched Louis’s wrist, a quiet signal.
“Time to get him out,” he said softly.
Louis nodded and slid an arm behind Legundo’s back.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Up we go.”
Legundo blinked heavily, blinking like he was waking from a deep dream.
“M’tired…”
“We know,” Owen said, already unfolding a warm towel. “We’ll be quick.”
They lifted him carefully, supporting his weight as he stepped out of the tub. Water dripped down his legs, trailing along the floor tiles. Owen wrapped the towel around his shoulders first, pulling it snug, rubbing gentle warmth into his upper arms, while Louis wrapped one around his waist.
Between the two of them, they dried him like he was something fragile, something precious.
Louis knelt to towel off his legs and feet, fingers steady even when Legundo swayed. Owen dried his head instead, rubbing the towel in slow, careful circles over his buzzed hair. The motion was gentle enough that it almost felt like a massage, his fingers moving in steady, soothing passes along Legundo’s scalp. Legundo’s eyes fluttered shut anyway, leaning into the touch with a quiet, tired sound.
“There you go,” Owen whispered, voice warm with affection. “You’re doing great.”
Legundo murmured something incoherent, leaning fully into Owen’s chest as if gravity itself had shifted.
Louis’s lips brushed lazily against Legundo’s hip as he stood.
“He’s falling asleep on his feet.”
“Then we’ll carry him,” Owen said simply.
Louis scooped him under the knees, Owen supporting his back, their movements practiced and instinctively coordinated. Legundo’s head lolled against Owen’s shoulder, his breath warm and slowing, the fever’s sharp heat ebbing away with every passing minute.
Back in the bedroom, the sheets were fresh; Owen must’ve changed them earlier. The blankets were soft and warmed a bit from being near the radiator. Owen tugged the covers back while Louis lowered Legundo onto the mattress.
Legundo made a soft sound, reaching for them blindly.
Louis caught his hand first.
“We’re right here.”
Owen sat on the other side, smoothing damp curls back from Legundo’s forehead.
“Let’s get him dressed first,” he said gently.
It was a loose shirt, soft and worn, and boxers. Easy, comfortable, something Legundo could breathe in. They worked together again, guiding his limp arms through sleeves, lifting his hips enough to slide the fabric up.
Once he was settled, Louis pulled the blankets up over him while Owen tucked them securely around his sides.
Legundo blinked open, just barely.
“You… both…” he mumbled. “Too much.”
Owen leaned down and kissed his cheek, a cold, soothing press.
“Never too much for you.”
Louis followed with a kiss to his temple, his own cool lips grounding Legundo’s drifting consciousness.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “Your fever’s dropping. You’re safe.”
Legundo breathed out, a long, relieved exhale, and let himself sink back into the pillows.
Owen slipped into the bed behind him, curling close, his cold arms sliding around Legundo’s middle. Louis got in on the other side, fitting himself along Legundo’s back, one hand resting over his chest so gently that it barely pressed the blankets.
They made a cocoon around him, soft warmth below, cooling bodies on either side, steady presence both in front of him and behind.
Legundo’s breathing slowed.
Sped up for a moment.
Then eased again, softer and more even as Louis carded fingers through his hair and Owen murmured quiet reassurance against the back of his neck.
“You’re okay,” Owen whispered. “Just rest.”
“We’ve got you,” Louis added, thumb brushing soothing circles against Legundo’s ribs.
And slowly, minute by minute, the fever unwound its hold on him, the tension leaving his shoulders, the flush fading from his cheeks.
Legundo drifted.
Not into the frantic, delirious sleep of sickness, but into something peaceful, protected, held between two bodies who loved him too deeply to let him fall. Owen felt the moment he fully slipped under, the sigh, the full weight settling, the quiet.
“There,” Owen murmured. “He’s out.”
Louis smiled softly, leaning forward to press one last kiss to Legundo’s forehead.
“Good. He’ll feel better in the morning.”
“And if not,” Owen added, “we’ll take care of him again.”
They stayed like that, one on each side, keeping him safe and cool and loved, until the room went still, and all three of them breathed in a quiet, perfect rhythm.
The morning light seeped into the room in soft, pale gold, warming the edges of the blankets and casting a quiet glow across the bed. Legundo woke slowly, not with the aching disorientation of the day before, but with a clean, deep breath that didn’t burn. His head felt clearer, his body no longer boiling under his own skin. A little weak, sure, and still stuffed in places, but human again. Functional.
And, sandwiched between two cold bodies, comfortable.
Owen was draped over his stomach like a weighted, very deadpan cat, one arm slung low across his hips. Louis had curled up on the other side, face tucked into the curve of Legundo’s neck, his breath cool and steady against warm skin. Between the two of them, Legundo had been perfectly temperature-controlled all night.
He couldn’t help but smile. They looked so peaceful like this. Owen’s curls were a wild mess, crushed flat on one side, and Louis had a hand resting over Legundo’s heart like he’d fallen asleep counting the beats.
Legundo lifted his head a little, leaning in to press a kiss to Owen’s forehead, but stopped halfway, frozen mid-movement.
Right.
He’d been sick.
Still was, technically.
He hesitated, lips hovering just above dark curls. He wasn’t going to risk undoing all the work of the last twenty-four miserable hours just because he wanted affection.
Before he could pull fully away, Owen cracked one eye open, the tiniest sliver, the bare minimum required to sass someone at dawn.
“We can’t get sick, Legundo,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep. “Vampires. The immune system of a very stylish fridge. You’re fine.”
Legundo snorted, trying and failing not to laugh. “Still. I didn’t want to risk it.”
Owen blinked slowly, unimpressed.
“Risk what? We literally slept on you all night.”
Louis made a soft noise of agreement against Legundo’s neck, something between a hum and a small, satisfied sigh, still half-asleep but clearly listening.
Legundo gave up resisting.
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of Owen’s head, then shifted to kiss Louis’s hair too, his fingers brushing gently through their curls.
“Good morning,” he whispered.
Louis murmured something warm and happy against his skin. Owen smiled, still not fully awake, and tightened his arm around Legundo like he had no intention of letting him get out of bed anytime before noon.
And for the first time in 24 hours, Legundo felt like the morning might actually be kind.