It had been said that stubbornness could be one of Ingo’s worst traits, which, given his temperament, might come as something of a surprise. What friends and family meant, however, was his long-standing refusal to take sick leave until he lacked the energy to function, or believed himself a hazard to others.

In recent years, that had changed… somewhat. He was still loathe to take time off when he was ill, but he could hardly tell Rael and Kari that they needed to rest when they were sick, and then act completely contrary, himself. Even though he worked a public-facing position, neither he or Emmet caught anything terribly often, but that had changed when the boys entered elementary school-- and so, several times per calendar year, they were forced to practice what they preached.

Without opening his eyes, Ingo weakly pushed Chandelure back, so she wasn’t making physical contact with him. As much as he appreciated her help in terms of temperature control, the usually-pleasant warmth of her globe was scorching, and he couldn’t take it for long. She gave a gentle chime and swayed in the air as she settled in her new spot, inevitably to inch closer and closer until they had to repeat the process.

Outside, feet thundered down the hallway, met with a childishly overblown shushing, and Ingo breathed a halfhearted laugh against his pillow. There was no doubt in his mind that Kari had been the one who needed to let off some steam, giving Rael a perfect excuse to chastise his brother. He’d been extremely inflexible in regards to rules, lately, which was fantastic when it came to safety procedures, but less than ideal in terms of making new friends-- or playing nice with his twin, as the case may have been.

Ingo wasn’t entirely sure where they’d gotten the idea that they had to stay silent on his account; he felt poorly, yes, but sharing an apartment with two rambunctious children was hardly the most difficult circumstance he’d managed to endure; he had been one of the caretakers that got them through their fourth year on the planet, after all.

He supposed he appreciated the ideal at the heart of it: they just wanted him to recover from this. It was hardly a major illness-- just a particularly draining cold, not even the flu-- but at their age, everything felt magnitudes more intense than it actually was, and so they were taking it very seriously.

It was incredibly sweet. They were wonderful children, and he loved them with all of his being.

The door to his bedroom creaked open, and, even though he was facing away from it, he cracked an eye open, gauging Chanrelure’s response as a proxy. She tilted in midair, tracking movement across the room, and when a small figure shuffled closer, Ingo lifted his head to look properly.

It was Rael, he knew instantly. Even with his energy sapped and a head that felt stuffed full of cotton, he would never be able to mistake the pair for one another; for all that their looks were the same, the subtleties in their expressions and the way they held themselves were completely different. His son was taking careful, measured steps as he crossed the space, likely due to his cargo.

Chandelure spun around to keep an eye on him as he passed her to set the bowl on the nightstand, and when it was squarely on the table, he pulled his hands back to fiddle with his fingers.

“There’s soup.” Rael said, by way of explanation, idly hooking his pinky and ring finger together.

Ingo shifted slightly, pulling his arm into a position where he could prop himself up.

“I see that.” He turned his head and deliberately coughed into his other elbow, hoping that the clearing of his throat might make him sound less like an angry Druddigon. When he thought it might have made a difference, he settled back into his previous position. “Did you help your dad with it?”

Rael nodded. “Yeah, he got the step stool out so I could stir.”

“That was nice of him. Thank you both.”

Though his body protested, Ingo pushed himself upright, compromising by leaning against his headboard for subtle support. He didn’t actually want anything to eat at the moment, but he would make the effort to reward Rael’s caretaking; Chandelure moved in again, eyes on him and Psychic doubtlessly at the ready, should his arms waver, but he held the bowl without issue.

Even with the pot holder insulating its bottom, the warmth was burning against his palms, worse than Chandelure’s measured flames. He took a shallow, surprised breath as Psychic went off after all-- holding the bowl half a centimeter above to lessen the sting-- and shot Chandelure a look. What, precisely, that look was meant to convey, Ingo wasn’t entirely sure; he was grateful for the reprieve, but a bit exasperated, too. Everyone was overreacting; the cold would pass within the next day or so.

It was strange to maneuver the bowl with it hovering, but he dutifully took a spoonful of the soup-- chicken and rice, the usual in their household when someone was feeling off. That had only been the standard for a few years now, ever since Rael had been able to articulate how much he hated the texture of the noodles used in canned soup; even so, “a few years” encapsulated the greater portion of the boys’ living memory, which meant that-- though they had chicken noodle soup in the apartment-- chicken with rice was what the two associated with recovery. Ingo himself wasn’t terribly fond of it, but it did make him realize that he’d probably gone too long without making something to eat; it seemed his body was too out of sorts to give him the right signals without provocation.

He only took a few bites before breaking Psychic to set the bowl back down, and Rael watched the entire time-- though his eyes unfocused for a moment, betraying his wandering attention.

“Kari’s coming soon.” He said, more akin to a dire warning than anything else, “He’s making tea. He ran into the kitchen because the kettle was done.”

In that case, Ingo could only hope that his son didn’t go too wild with the honey; he liked sweet things, but Kari’s idea of a sweetened tea was a tad… excessive.

“Consider me warned.” He rasped.

Rael frowned at him and, even though he didn’t have anything else to do there, lingered at his father’s bedside.

“Sorry you don’t feel good.” He craned up, and for a moment, Ingo thought he was trying to feel his forehead, but, instead, the hand pet through the hair framing his face. It occurred to him that Rael was mimicking the treatment he and Kari received when they were sick. “I wish I could make it better for you.”

It was a sentiment he knew all too well, and he smiled in his own way, reaching out to mirror the gesture. “You are. Thank you, duckling.”

Rael let himself relax, dropping his arm, and subconsciously leaned into the touch. It seemed like he wanted to argue with the sentiment, but a second later, there was a muffled, “Kari! You’re spilling!”

Successfully distracted, the both of them looked toward the open door, as if to find the culprit sprinting down the hallway. Instead, Kari wandered in a moment later, holding the mug in both hands with an exaggerated care. Nose wrinkled petulantly, he glanced over his shoulder, and the look was met by an equally dramatic sigh somewhere down the hallway. He quickly turned his head, trying to hide the smile that tweaked at his lips as his antics bore fruit.

Reluctantly amused, Ingo rested his head in his hand, serving the secondary purpose of soothing the renewed headache pounding behind his temples. The reprieve only lasted for a moment; he looked back up when Kari’s footsteps stopped beside his twin. Kari didn’t try to hand the mug over, instead sliding it directly onto the bedside table-- in the space between the edge and the bowl of soup-- and picking up his father’s hand in its stead. In lieu of saying anything, he patted it and then let go to pull the blanket up from where it was bunched up on Ingo’s lap.

As much as Ingo wanted to respond right then and there, a tickle in the back of his throat forced him to turn away and stifle a coughing fit into his elbow.

“Boys.” Came from the entryway, and he opened up an eye, though he wasn’t confident enough to speak, just yet. Emmet unfolded his arms to wave the pair over. “You got to say hi. It’s time to let him rest.”

Neither of them budged, and though his head was growing heavier by the minute, Ingo shifted to address them.

“He’s right. I don’t want you to catch this.” He said, struggling with even that basic syntax, but determined to do right by his kids. “Thank you for looking after me.”

Chandelure looked between them, then lowered herself to nudge the passengers around the foot of the bed, and with three entities against them, they finally relented.

“Eat the soup.” Rael ordered as he let himself be herded away.

“Tea first, it’s better hot!” Kari argued, bumping his shoulder against his brother’s.

Rael shoved him back. “Cold soup is worse-- people drink iced tea.”

By the time they reached the doorway, Emmet set a hand on either of their shoulders, directing them to opposite sides and putting a stop to the mild roughhousing. When they’d quieted down, he looked to his own twin. “What they mean to say is ‘feel better soon’.”

Ingo laughed, and even to his own ears, it sounded pathetic.

“So I gathered.” He let himself sink down further, which conveniently put him on a better level to make eye contact with the boys. “Go have fun. I love you.”

Two children met it in kind as they trotted off to go back about their day. While the door eased shut, the last thing Ingo caught was the flash of his brother’s smile and, “You too. That’s why you need to get better for us.”