Aoba had no interest in protesting. He was hurting and there was no hiding it. He let his satchel slump off his shoulder as he kicked off his shoes beside the door, and Ren hopped out to follow him as he staggered towards the couch. He stayed seated upright just long enough to pick his little companion up and cuddle him up to his chest before lying down, swinging his feet up into the space where he was remotely aware Declan had been sitting a few moments ago.

No matter. Aoba put his head down on the armrest and closed his eyes, wondering what he was going to do about these headaches of his now that he was truly out of Granny’s medication.

Declan’s approach cast a pleasant shadow through the light shining in from the window and was encouragement enough for Aoba to crack an eye open for his host. It took him a few moments to identify the washrag, but he accepted it with a warm feeling of gratitude—swiftly undermined by a sharp jolt through his temples. Groaning softly, Aoba draped the rag over his face so it covered his eyes and forehead both, and attempted to somehow will away the pounding in his brain.

It was probably just his imagination, but that almost seemed to make it worse.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, curling his fingers into Ren’s fur for comfort. “My Granny…she makes the medicine for them, but…I’ve been running out, using it up. I took my last pill yesterday.”