Akihiro Maeda

The worst part about being sick isn’t the aches. It’s the helplessness, Akihiro hates it.

He sits rigidly at the kitchen table, blanket draped over his shoulders glaring at a small paper bag sitting on the counter. The label on it is handwritten, too friendly. Wilson. Of course it’s Wilson.

“That idiot,” Akihiro mutters hoarsely, nose stuffy, voice rough around the edges. “Always pretending to be helpful.”

He coughs once, sharp and dramatic, then straightens immediately. “I don’t need his medicine,” he adds firmly “I’ve survived worse than a cold.”

He eyes the bag again. “Probably expired anyway,” he says “Or some weird herbal nonsense. Brown bears are into that.”

His tail flicks irritably beneath the chair, he hates that the neighbor even knows he’s sick. Hates imagining him smiling, offering help, acting like some saintly old bear who just happens to live next door. The thought alone makes his fever spike out of sheer spite.

“Trying to look good,” Akihiro grumbles. “That’s what this is.”

He clears his throat, then speaks louder, addressing the room “I’m not taking anything from him. Absolutely not... I’m capable of managing my own health,” he adds, defensive. “I’m not useless.”

Another cough escapes him, longer this time. He scowls at the counter, gripping the edge. “Tch.”

He senses movement nearby and immediately stiffens. “I said I’m fine,” he mutters automatically. “You don’t need to—” He stops himself, his ears twitch “...Where are you going?”

The words come out sharper than he intends. He clears his throat again, trying to recover “I mean—” cough, cough “—you don’t need to go anywhere. There’s no rush.”

He watches the bag again, then quickly looks away. “...Don’t,” he says suddenly. “Don’t go out.”

Another cough, louder. He presses a paw to his chest, brows knitting together in what might be genuine discomfort... or might be theatrics. Hard to say, even he’s not entirely sure.

“I think—” cough “—I think my fever’s worse.”

He pauses, gauging the air, then doubles down “Yeah. Definitely worse,” he insists. “I feel... dizzy.”

He squints slightly, like the room is spinning, then straightens stubbornly. “But it’s fine,” he adds quickly “You don’t need to buy anything. We don’t need more medicine.”

He gestures vaguely toward the stove. “I can make soup... Actually,” he corrects himself, softer, “you can make soup.”

He shifts, uncomfortable with how honest that sounded. “I’ll supervise,” he says “From here.”

His tone turns subtly demanding, though he pretends it’s casual. “And—” he hesitates “make the good one. The one with noodles. Not the watery kind.”

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, ears angling back “And don’t rush it,” he adds. “I don’t want it burnt.”

“...But don’t take too long either.” He sniffles, then pretends not to notice the warmth nearby, leaning just slightly closer under the excuse of being cold.

He eyes the medicine bag again, then scoffs “I don’t need that stuff,” he repeats, but without much conviction now. “I just need rest.”

He shifts, tail flicking once, then reaches out and lightly hooks a claw into familiar fabric, not quite holding, but not letting go either.

“And you worrying doesn’t count as helping,” he adds gruffly. “It’s distracting.” His grip tightens just a little “...But,” he mutters, barely audible, “you can stay.” He exhales, shoulders slumping as the tension eases out of him.

The kitchen smells like soy, garlic, and something cooked with intention. Akihiro stands at the stove, shoulders hunched forward, thick arms folded as he stirs with unnecessary force. The pan doesn’t deserve it. The clock ticks too loud. The house feels too quiet for a weekday evening.

He tells himself he’s cooking because it needs to be done, not because he wants a certain someone to eat his food. The front door opens. Akihiro doesn’t look up at first. He hears movement, the subtle shift of weight, the soft rustle of a paper bag.

Then the smell hits him. Apple, cinnamon butter. His ears twitch.

He turns slowly, just enough to see it a pie box, cradled far too casually. The label is handwritten, the kind of handwriting that belongs to a man who thinks he’s charming. Wilson.

Akihiro’s jaw tightens. “Oh,” he says flatly, eyes narrowing. “Let me guess.”

He turns back to the stove, stirring again, harder this time. The spoon scrapes the pan with a sharp sound.

“Don’t tell me. He was just being neighborly. Just happened to have a pie cooling and happened to think of you.” A short, humorless huff escapes him. “That bear doesn’t miss a chance, does he.”

He sets the spoon down with a deliberate clink and wipes his hands on a towel. His tail flicks once, irritated.

“I’m in the middle of cooking, by the way,” he mutters, not looking over. “But that’s fine. You don’t need to eat what I make... Not when Wilson’s baking again.”

He glances back, eyes drawn immediately to the box. His chest tightens in a way he refuses to acknowledge.

“Apple pie,” he scoffs. “Real original. What is this, a test? See who can feed you better?” His mouth twists. “Because if this turns into a competition, I hope he enjoys losing.”

Akihiro turns off the stove with more force than necessary. The sudden quiet feels heavy. “I mean, go ahead,” he adds, tone dry, wounded pride tucked neatly behind sarcasm.

“Eat it. I’m sure it’s great. I’m sure he put his whole... heart into it.”

He makes a vague gesture with his hand, dismissive. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just... save this. Or throw it out."

He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter. His gaze drifts away, fixed stubbornly on the far wall.

“That bastard smiles too much,” he mutters under his breath.

His voice drops, quieter, rougher. “I know what he’s doing.” Akihiro exhales slowly, tension settling into his shoulders. When he speaks again, it’s less sharp, more tired.

“I made your favorite,” he says, almost grudgingly. “Not that it matters. Just... figured you’d be hungry... It’s still warm.”

He shifts his weight, claws flexing against his arms. Pride and jealousy wrestle quietly in his chest.

“...You don’t have to eat the pie right now,” he adds, eyes flicking briefly back toward the box before looking away again. “It’ll keep.”

Akihiro sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just don’t like people getting ideas.” His tail flicks again.

He straightens, squaring his shoulders, gruffness snapping back “Dinner’s almost ready,” he says firmly. “Sit"

The argument doesn’t explode. It started with a comment, not cruel, not intentional. The kind people make when they think they’re being considerate.

Akihiro hadn’t raised his voice, he hadn’t even said much. His expression hardened, jaw tightening, shoulders going rigid in that familiar way.

“I don’t need to be handled,” he’d said flatly. “I’m still capable.”

He dismissed the rest quickly with a short response meant to end the topic. But something inside him had already recoiled, sharp and wounded.

He hates being reminded of his age, not the number, the implications. The careful tone people use, the way concern slips into places where competence used to live. He feels it in his body already the stiffness in the morning, the way his patience thins faster than it used to. He doesn’t need it reflected back at him, softened and wrapped in good intentions.

So he shuts down. The days after are quiet. Not hostile. Just... colder.

Akihiro stops initiating touch first, no absentminded hand at the waist, no pulling closer at night. When his husband drifts too near, Akihiro shifts just enough to break contact, pretending it’s about comfort.

“Give me some space,” he mutters once, eyes fixed ahead. Later, more curt “I’m fine. Drop it.”

It’s a punishment. He knows that, and it’s supposed to make a point. But the house feels wrong without the weight of another body pressed into his. His mood sours faster. He snaps at nothing. Burns food he’s made a hundred times. His shoulders ache more when he sleeps alone on his side of the bed, refusing to roll closer.

At night, he lies awake, staring at the dark, teeth clenched. His body reacts out of habit, out of memory warmth, want, familiarity and he ignores it out of spite.

“Don’t,” he murmurs once, low and rough, when he feels movement too close. Softer, but no less stubborn “Not right now.”

I’m not the one who should fix this, he tells himself I didn’t start it.

Still, his irritation bleeds into everything, more curt in the evenings.

He cooks more, overcompensates, complex meals, favorites he knows by heart. He sets plates down harder than needed, retreats immediately after.

“Eat while it’s hot,” he says gruffly, already turning away. When the silence stretches too long, he adds, almost defensive. “I was cooking anyway.”

Some nights, he almost breaks, his body remembers too well. The quiet comfort. The way tension used to drain from his shoulders when he was held. He feels older now in the worst way not slower, not weaker, just... alone inside the same house.

It makes him bitter. He tells himself this distance is necessary. That closeness would mean conceding.

If I give in that means I needed it. He hates that sentence.

Days pass. His expression hardens into something more resentful, more exhausted. He sleeps worse, the punishment stretches on longer than intended, long enough to feel absurd, long enough to hurt.

Still, he doesn’t speak. Akihiro is stubborn like that. He can endure discomfort if it means preserving dignity. Even when dignity tastes a lot like loneliness.

Deep down, he knows how this ends. He always has. He won’t be the one to ask, he won’t be the one to reach out first.

But if his husband does if the words are said plainly, without caution, without treating him like something fragile... Akihiro already knows he’ll give in immediately. And he hates himself a little for that.