Chapter Text
levi doesn’t call in sick.
so when he doesn’t show up to morning inspection, something is already wrong.
you find him in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed like he’s been there for a while, elbows braced on his knees, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. his shirt is half-buttoned, collar damp with sweat. the room smells faintly of disinfectant and something sharper, fever.
“you’re late,” you say carefully.
his gaze lifts. slow. focused, but dulled around the edges.
“…you shouldn’t be here.”
that alone tells you everything.
“you’re burning up,” you reply, stepping closer.
“don’t.” his voice cuts sharper than his condition warrants. “don’t get too close.”
you stop, but only for a second. “levi.”
“i’m serious.” he straightens, stubborn even now. “if i’m sick, i don’t need you catching it too.”
“you think i care about that right now?”
“yes,” he snaps, then immediately exhales through his nose like it cost him something. “that’s exactly why.”
he sways when he stands. just barely, but you see it. you move on instinct, hand reaching for his arm.
“don’t—”
he catches himself before you can. fingers digging into the bedframe, knuckles white.
tch. “i said—”
“i know what you said.” you step into his space anyway, this time slow, deliberate. “sit down before you fall over and make this worse.”
for a moment, it looks like he might argue.
then the fever wins.
he sits. harder than necessary.
you press the back of your hand to his forehead and he flinches, not away, just tense.
“idiot,” he mutters. “you’ll regret that.”
“you’re the one who’s sick.”
“and you’re the one not listening.” his eyes flick away. “just—keep your distance.”
you grab a cloth and soak it, wringing it out before kneeling in front of him. when you lift it toward his face, he hesitates.
“…don’t stay,” he says quietly. not a command. almost a request. “you’ve done enough.”
“you don’t get to decide that,” you reply, and place the cloth against his forehead anyway.
he exhales. long. shaky. his shoulders drop a fraction, like he’s been holding himself upright through sheer will alone.
the silence stretches.
his breathing evens out slightly. you dab sweat from his temples, careful, gentle. levi keeps his eyes closed, jaw still set like he’s bracing for something.
“you hate feeling weak,” you murmur.
his mouth twitches. “hate people seeing it more.”
“you’re not weak.”
“…i know.” a pause. “still don’t like it.”
you smile faintly and adjust the cloth. he opens his eyes just enough to look at you.
“if you get sick,” he says, low and serious, “i’ll never forgive myself.”
you meet his gaze. “then get better.”
another beat.
his hand lifts, hesitant, unsteady, and grips your wrist, not to pull you closer, but to stop you from moving away.
“…just for a minute,” he adds, quieter. “then you step back.”
you nod. “okay.”
you stay exactly where you are. close enough to help. close enough that he doesn’t have to say he needs you.
when the fever finally drags him under, his grip loosens but doesn’t let go entirely. you remain by his side, counting his breaths, cooling his skin, guarding his rest.
later, when he wakes, voice rough and eyes clearer, the first thing he says is
“you should’ve left.”
you squeeze his hand.
“and you should stop pretending you don’t need taking care of.”
he scoffs weakly. “…tch. don’t get used to it.”
but he doesn’t pull away.
not this time.