MEDDLE ABOUT.

08

scaramouche lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. why had he gotten himself involved with you again? you were an annoyance, one that probably would not do him any good. yet his heart hammered in his chest when you were nearby, his chest tightening. 

he couldn't tell if this was a good thing or a bad thing. 

scrolling aimlessly through twitter, his eyes fixated on a certain post you had posted just minutes ago. "being sick sucks," the post read. 

you had no idea how fast he had stood up and ran out of his house to your place, desperately looking for the nearest pharmacy and getting every medicine he could think of and picking up some chicken soup along the way. by the time he was at your doorstep, he was drenched in sweat, and then he rang the doorbell. 

you answered the door after some time, wrapped in a blanket tightly and sniffling. scaramouche looked at your sorry state, groaning as he passed the two plastic bags to you, panting. "you're sick, i heard? here, there's fever, sore throat, blocked nose, runny nose, and flu medicine in here. take what you need. and uh, some chicken soup," he mumbled, running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, passing the two plastic bags to you. you gazed at him, your eyes widening in surprise. "you... got this for me? thank you.. you should come in!" you said croakily, a weak smile gracing your lips as you opened the door wider so he could enter.

he nodded, sighing as he barged in, slumping into the couch. "your house is so much better decorated than mine," he huffs, rubbing his eyes. you laughed gently at the underhanded compliment, sitting next to him. 

you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. it was such a refreshing feeling to have someone to rely on. 

scaramouche grunted under his breath but made no effort to pull away. he could only stay still, putting his hand in front of your forehead so that you would not bump your head against a table corner. 

he really was such a sweet boy. 

you drifted into slumber, soft snores escaping from your lips as your chest moved up and down with each breath you took. scaramouche made every effort so you would not wake up, religiously dipping the cloth on your forehead that he had placed in cold water to somewhat downplay the fever he had discovered existed. 

getting sick was the least of his concerns at that moment.