lovesick

Mikan's hands were cold. A nurse's hand. Junko Enoshima leaned into them from where they laid across her forehead with a groan, seeking out the relief of heat from her fever addled mind, her skin flushed and uncomfortably warm, even as she shivered. Mikan tutted at whatever temperature she felt there, frowning and pulling away; Junko whined at the loss, and Mikan shushed her gently.

“It's okay, Junkie-bear, your Mikan is still here.” She assured, flicking her bangs back before leaving entirely—a part of Junko wanted to grab her hands and pull them back to her forehead, but she felt too weak to even do that. “I'm not leaving, love. Not for anything.”

Junko whined once more; Mikan placed a cool wet cloth on her forehead, and she settled. 

“I wish it could be like this always…” Mikan sighs into the hush that befalls them. “I like taking care of you, Junkie. You don't need comfort often, but I like providing it.”

Junko tried to murmur in response; she wasn't sure what she was trying to say—maybe something comforting, a reassurance? Mikan's hand found her hair, running through it gently—usually well cared for, now it was a matted mess, slick with sweat and sticking to her. “My poor Junko looks so pitiful now. If only everyone could see you like this, they would never believe it. That I made you like this. That I make you weak .” She paused. “I could keep you like this forever, you know. Completely dependent on me. Would you like that, or would you hate me too? You'd forgive me, right? You can't help yourself.”

Weakly, the words swirled around her brain, hard to make sense of. But she tried—Mikan was talking, and Mikan was important; she wanted to listen to her, to pay attention to her, because she loved hearing her thoughts, and she wanted Mikan to know she was valued; no one else valued her, but Junko could listen to her talk for hours. No, days. No, weeks. No, years. No—forever. 

But she doesn't want to be like this forever.

Her stomach rolls with violent nausea — Junko gags on her thought, choking, but nothing comes up; her stomach pulses weakly as Mikan's fingers try to soothe her.

“It's okay, Junko-chan, don't push yourself.” Mikan's soft voice comforts her. “You can't fight it, so it's best to give up. The medicine I gave you to make you sick is a strong one, you know?”

Her minds tries to fight the fog in her head—she thinks Mikan just said something important. She wants to marry this girl, she thinks. But how can she, when she can't even focus on what she's saying? Sometimes she thinks she's a bad girlfriend— she has always been self centered to the extreme. People were toys to her, maybe, or sandcastles to build up and knock down; she would break people then throw them away, and maybe she'd do the same with Mikan, too— and that's why at her core she is bad. (She doesn't know why she does this, not really. It feels so bad, but that's half the fun. If it is fun—but it isn't, and that's the point, and that's why it's fun—she's going around in circles again.) But Mikan deserves someone good , doesn't she? And yet she's stuck with her. She wants to marry this girl, she thinks.

“Sleep, Junko-chan.” Mikan's voice commands. She loves when she gets commanding—it doesn't happen often, only really when she's nursing, but it's the cutest, sexiest thing. Junko wants that voice commanding her forever—or at least in bed. But Mikan isn't ready for that, and Junko won't push; she simply savors that voice; she simply savors her. “I'll take great care of you.”

Whatever she's saying, it sounded wonderful.