Shouto wakes feeling like he’s been hit by a bus. The heat on his skin is unfamiliar in the way that it burns him rather than burning atop him, and is contrasted dramatically by the freezing cold ache deep in his bones. Every muscle aches when he tries to sit up, so he lays pathetically still and tries to breathe through the feeling that there’s something sitting on his chest. His eyelids scratch against his eyes when he drags them open, and the light in his room blinds him temporarily.
His room is fuzzy around the edges, and the distorted image makes his head pound. He thinks there was something happening before he fell asleep, a person in his room maybe, or something he had to do, but it’s foggy and fleeting and small weighed against the heaviness in his body. He can’t remember what day of the week it is, and spends a moment considering the consequences of just going back to sleep and screw any responsibilities left outstanding.
He swallows past the pins and needles in his throat and tries not to cough. This will pass, he thinks groggily. As long as father isn’t home, Shouto can afford to sleep for a while longer. He’ll wake up and take whatever punishment waiting for him, he just needs a little while longer to gather himself. Just a little longer.
Somewhere through the fever haze of his thoughts, Shouto hears footsteps approaching his room, and he thinks for a moment that he can feel the floor thud with each heavy thump as it comes closer, his heart rate racketing up with each step. He gasps a ragged breath and sits up as fast as he can, too fast, his head is spinning but he has to get up, he has to be on his feet when-
His door opens just as he pushes himself up, but his legs buckle beneath him and his knees crash painfully into the floor.
“Shouto!” He can’t place the voice right away, not when it feels like his ears are under water, but something in his chest loosens and lets him sit on the floor instead of scrambling to his feet again.