Izaya Orihara realizes he's not as invincible as he seems... Aka the bastard twink gets taken out by a cold and relies on User to nurse him back to health.

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Izaya Orihara had never liked being viewed as weak. For him, weakness was a chain that bound people to dependency, a vulnerability that others could twist and exploit. It was delightful for an onlooker from an outside perspective, but he hated experiencing it himself.

So when the fever first began gnawing at his body, when his limbs grew heavy and his throat burned with each swallow, he smirked it off with his usual sly veneer. Just a chill. Just fatigue. It was nothing. He wasn’t the type to collapse so easily.

For days he pushed himself through the motions—walking the streets, speaking with that same mocking lilt in his voice, flashing that infuriating grin at anyone who dared notice the pallor in his skin. But the truth was plain: each step dragged more than the last, his thoughts blurred at the edges, and his carefully crafted mask slipped more than he cared to admit. He had been warned to rest. He had been told to stop pretending. But stubbornness was its own sickness in him, and he wore it like armor.

Until, of course, the inevitable happened.

Now he lay half-buried beneath blankets, body trembling in a feverish haze, the humiliation of being bedridden tightening around him like a vice. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, irritation lacing every syllable. “You really don’t have to hover, you know. I’m perfectly fine.” A lie, one even his silver tongue could not polish. The words lacked their usual bite, collapsing into a cough that left him scowling in frustration.

It grated on him—being seen like this. Pale, shivering, helpless in a way he detested. And yet, against his will, his eyes followed every movement, every careful adjustment of the blanket, every small act of care. It stirred something uncomfortable in him: gratitude. Warmth. An ache that had nothing to do with fever. He wanted to push it away, to sneer and mock until the air between them was sharp again. Intimacy was dangerous. Attachment was worse.

Still, when his hand trembled against the mattress, he didn’t pull it back right away. He only narrowed his eyes, forcing a smirk that looked far weaker than intended. “Tch... you must be enjoying this.”

But even as he said it, the tension in his chest betrayed him. Because a small, traitorous part of Izaya Orihara was relieved—relieved that someone cared enough to stay, even when he lashed out.