a/n: I don't know where this came from. Probably my own chronic insomnia and the fact that I'm craving a cigarette. But it's past two in the morning where I live, and I have to work at seven a.m. What fun. But there's no point in going to bed now. Who needs sleep, right?

disclaimer: I don't own Digimon; nor do I encourage smoking (especially to those who are under 18). Takaishida fluff is up ahead. You have been warned.

It was warm. Uncomfortably so. Takeru kicked back his blanket with a frustrated sigh, but the stifling heat wasn't the only reason he was up. He distantly remembered being asleep at some point but had slowly disconnected himself from the realm of his dreams over the past few hours. It was irritating, to say the least. Usually, when he woke up, it took a decent amount of the night to fall back into some semblance of a restful sleep.

Decidedly upset, Takeru slid his legs over the edge of the couch he'd fallen asleep on, and was still for several moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It took a while until he slowly became aware of all the furniture and other objects that made up his father's small living room.

Right. He'd spent part of the day here since it was a weekend, and had stayed late enough in the evening that it was too late to walk back home.

("It's over a mile, and it's dark. I don't want you to ride the bus—you could be hurt on the way there," Yamato had said. "And Dad won't be home for another few hours. You're staying here.")

Takeru rubbed his eyes, sighing again. His throat was oddly dry, and he rose to his feet gently, hoping to find a remedy for the uncomfortable sensation as soon as he could. It had taken him years, but his father had finally invested in a sofa—although it was a small one—and it was easy to get trapped between it and the dining table, and so he had to weave his way around to get to the kitchen. Padded quietly across the flat until he was standing in front of the sink.

Why was he wearing socks? It muted the sound of his footsteps but only added to the heat that radiated from him. He was suddenly aware that he was sweating lightly, and for some reason, that only made it worse. His shirt was beginning to stick to his skin, and he vaguely considered removing it—maybe that would cool him down some.

It didn't take long to find a cup, but as his hand rested on the faucet, he hesitated. Didn't want to be too loud, since his father and Yamato were asleep. An apartment was at least twice as quiet during the night than it was during the day, it seemed; so every sound, naturally, sounded twice as loud. But his desire to quench the thirst that burned unbidden his throat was just as insistent as the need to stay silent, and he caved.

"Stupid heat," he muttered to no one in particular, sipping carefully. Then not so carefully. Filled his glass to the brim again and drank greedily. When the last drop of water cascaded down his somewhat-soothed throat, he placed the cup gingerly in the sink—which was partially filled with dishes. If he weren't so focused on how hot it was and the amount of sleep he was losing, it would have bothered him. And if it weren't so late at night—early in the morning?—he probably would have started working on cleaning them. He had eaten, too, anyway. The right thing to do was help out.

Instead, he ignored them, gradually making his way back to the front room. Left the blanket to be abandoned on the floor. Stripped of his socks, and suddenly, despite feeling like he was burning up, he shivered. How was it possible to be cold and so hot at the same time?

Before he settled back down on the couch, he pulled on the chain that was connected to the ceiling fan with exhausted arms, hoping that it would provide some sort of relief. It didn't, at first. The air remained thick and humid, and Takeru wanted to shout in frustration at how damn uncomfortable he felt because of it.

He waited soundlessly for several moments, swallowing thickly. Breathing. He started to remove his shirt, but that drew forth more shivers, so he was forced to climb back into it. If he tried hard enough, he could ignore it. He hoped.

Minutes passed. He shifted positions several times, sprawling out over the expanse of the sofa; then curling up once again. Stretched weak arms over the sofa's arms. Even laid on his stomach. Nothing would remedy this invisible, suffocating warmth that refused to let him sleep.

"Darn it," Takeru cursed, and the breath that fell from his lips was scalding against his skin. All of a sudden he felt like he wanted to throw up.

He was abruptly aware that his chest was tightening up, although he wasn't sure of the culprit. He swallowed again, wiping away the sweat that was gathering above his eyebrows. His hair clung to his forehead, soaked with sweat, and it was getting hard to breathe.

He could go outside. The balcony was only a few steps away. All he had to do was open the sliding door, and he would be free. But two things stopped him. One: that kind of noise would surely wake Yamato up; and two: it was probably hotter out there than it was inside, even if it was dark.

He inclined his head back, suddenly wishing Patamon were here. Hating that he had chosen to stay in the digital world for the past few days. It was selfish of Takeru to think so, but… but Patamon always knew what to do when he couldn't sleep.

Takeru raked a hand through sweat-glossed hair once again, chewing his lip. Stood once again, but there was no rush of air that followed his movements; only blistering heat, and he realized that relief was long in coming.

"Darn it." It was the second time the words had tumbled from dry lips, and he repeated it several times, feeling the pressure of tears build up in his eyes because it was so damn hot, and yet any effort to cool himself off gave him chills.

He was miserable and nauseous and wanted this feeling to go away so, so badly.

Takeru stood with enough force that it dizzied him, but he ignored the sensation as he trekked to the bathroom as quietly as he could. He slipped inside easily, ignoring the fact that this room wasn't any better than the front room, and left the door slightly ajar.

He didn't bother to turn on the light—just turned on the sink, allowing cool water to pool in his hands as he cupped them under the faucet. Didn't hesitate to splash his face, washing away beads of sweat and desperately hoping that it would break the barrier of warmth that encased every part of his body.

It didn't. His lip quivered because suddenly he was cold again, and tremoring fingers reached quickly and blindly for a clean towel to dry his skin. In his haste, his arms had knocked something off of the porcelain top of the sink.

At first, he didn't care. But whatever it was had landed on his foot with enough force to cause pain, and he hissed quietly. The pain, however, was gone within moments, but curiosity coaxed him to bend over to pick up whatever it was that had fallen.

His hands traced the path of the floor until his fingertips brushed against something small and rectangular. He gripped it tightly and brought it closer to his face, temporarily distracted by the object.

The next thing he knew, he was turning on the light. It blinded him momentarily, and it took a good thirty seconds to adjust to the sudden brightness. There were spots dancing slowly in his vision as he finally focused on what was in his hand, and he frowned.

A carton of cigarettes. His father's cigarettes.

He stared at it, almost fascinated. He'd seen hundreds of cigarette cartons in his life. Didn't know why this one was so special. He popped the box open; counted how many were in it. His father's red lighter rested comfortably inside the carton as well, and Takeru wondered in the back of his mind what it would feel like to smoke one.

That was such a stupid idea. So unbelievably stupid and not to mention unhealthy. How the hell would a cigarette—which had to be lit by fire—help cool him down? How would it calm the shivers that claimed his body?

And… and smoking is bad for you, he repeated to himself. He'd been around his father enough times while he was sick to know.

But… but it was there, in his hand, and he was curious, and nobody was telling him not to try it. It helped calm Dad's nerves, after all. Maybe he could figure out why his father turned to it as a stress reliever so often...

He won't notice if I just take one, right?

Hesitantly and with clammy hands, he pulled one from the carton, along with the lighter. Set the box carefully back onto the sink. He studied the cancer stick for several moments before placing it between his lips; flicked the lighter…

"You're doing it wrong."

Takeru jumped violently at the sound of his older brother's tired voice, and he whirled around, so startled that the cigarette had fallen from his mouth to the floor, rolling underneath the sink. The lighter followed, tumbling from his grip as outstretched fingers gripped to sink as he realized his frantic and sudden movements had brought forth another dizzy spell.

Yamato stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest, looking exhausted and maybe a little pissed.

Takeru swallowed nervously, having not even heard him enter the bathroom. He suddenly remembered that he hadn't even fully shut the door, let alone lock it. He'd practically asked to be caught.

His stomach rolled uncomfortably and anxiously, and he gripped the sink tighter as his brother stared him down with penetrating eyes.

"What're you doing with Dad's cigarettes?" he asked promptly, his voice low so he wouldn't wake their father, but dangerously calm.

"I…" Takeru's tongue abruptly felt way too big for his mouth. A reply crawled up his throat, but remained there, as if afraid to cross the wall of his lips. "...I don't know," he said stupidly after a few moments.

Yamato's gaze didn't leave his face for a long time. Icy blue eyes studied him, searched him. Shame swam just under Takeru's skin alongside his blood, and he leaned heavily on the sink, hoping his brother would look away soon. He didn't.

After what felt like forever, Yamato let out a quiet sigh, and the menacing look in his eyes shape-shifted into concern. "Why are you all sweaty?"

"S'hot," he answered breathlessly in a quiet whisper, and he wracked his brain for another excuse to explain what his brother had just walked in on, but what came out next wasn't at all what he wanted to say: "Please don't tell Dad."

Slowly, Yamato bent over to pick up the cigarette and their father's lighter. He calmly slid them both back into the box and looked back at Takeru with a frown. "I wasn't going to. But only if you tell me why you thought you could get away with this. You're only thirteen, Takeru. What were you thinking?"

"I… I don't know," he repeated softly; timidly. He took a deep breath, suddenly hit by a wave of brutal and sweltering heat, and he took a step back. "I couldn't sleep. It's… it's so hot, but it's so cold, and… and I just wanted something that would help..."

Yamato's expression softened. "That's not gonna help, Teek. That's only gonna make it worse. You know what smoking can do to your body." He took a step forward, and Takeru blinked in confusion and surprise when a cool hand was pressed against his forehead. Then his older brother hissed slightly under his breath. "You're burning up, little bro. Why didn't you come get me?"

Takeru just blinked again and stood there dumbly as Yamato grabbed the towel Takeru had used earlier to dry his face, turning on the faucet and running cold water over it. The next thing he knew, Yamato was guiding him slowly to his bedroom, pressing the wet towel to his forehead.

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" he asked.

He hadn't even realized, he wanted to say. Had blamed the dizziness and nausea on the heat. But the only response he gave Yamato was a low hum until he finally murmured, "I didn't want to bother you while you were asleep."

"You know I would have woke up in a heartbeat."

That's what I was afraid of.

Takeru hummed again rather than voicing that thought, trying not to shake as Yamato held the cloth to his head again. He tried to pull away, but Yamato grabbed his wrist and held him in place. "Stop."

"S'cold."

"You need to cool down, Teek." A slight pause. "Do you want me to turn on the fan?"

Takeru shook his head and then nodded. Shook his head. Mumbled, "Sure."

The bed creaked as Yamato stood up, and a low buzz erupted from somewhere close to him. Waves of cool air followed shortly after, tugging at his clothes. Being covered in a thin layer of sweat only made the air seem colder. This wretched another shudder from his spine—something that was not unnoticed by Yamato.

"I should tell Dad," his brother told him, which made Takeru's eyes widen. He swatted the Yamato's hands away, shaking his head.

"You said you wouldn't tell."

"No, no—not about that. About you being sick," he corrected quickly.

"Oh." Takeru relaxed slightly, but a frown pulled at his lips. "He has to work tomorrow."

"I know. But he and Mom deserve to know. If you're not better in the morning, I'm telling them."

He knew what Yamato said was true, but his clouded mind was only focused on one thing. Glazed sky blue eyes caught his brother's. "I'm sorry, Nii-san. I shouldn't have gotten into Dad's cigarettes."

"I know you're sorry," Yamato replied quietly, pulling the towel away for a moment. The bed shifted again, and then Takeru was being wrapped in layers. "Get some sleep, little bro."

He pushed Takeru gently so he was laying down on Yamato's bed, and if he didn't feel so disoriented and weak at the moment, Takeru would have fought him. Would have shrugged him off. But instead, he just fell into the embrace of the blanket, wondering why it seemed so comfortable and welcoming now when it had suffocated him earlier.

"Hey, Onii-san?"

"Hmm?"

"How did you know I was doing it wrong?" he asked quietly.

"Well, for one, you had it backward."

"No way," Takeru murmured, feeling heat crawl into his cheeks and hoped that he could disguise his embarrassment as part of his fever. "I did not."

"I know how to smoke a cigarette, Teek. You totally had it backward."

Takeru frowned. "You've smoked before?"

"Regrettably, yes," Yamato admitted softly. "But that's not something I'm proud of. It's not all it's cracked up to be, kiddo. It's really bad for you and it isn't worth the consequences."

"...you're not gonna end up like Dad, right?"

This made Yamato pause. He was quiet for a while, and then dusted his fingers across Takeru's forehead to brush stray hairs out of his eyes. "No. I'm not smoking anymore. I only did a couple of times."

"He said he'd quit," Takeru mumbled sleepily.

"He's been saying that for a while now," Yamato whispered. He said something else, but Takeru couldn't catch what it was. The next thing he heard was, "Rest a bit, ok, Takeru?"

"Where're you gonna sleep?"

"I'm fine right here," Yamato said with absolute certainty, and once again the bed creaked as the older blond made himself comfortable. "Don't worry about me. Just go to sleep."

Takeru closed his eyes and wasn't sure when Yamato placed the towel on his forehead again. He exhaled quietly, still feeling somewhat nauseous but not like he was overheating. He slipped into a light doze right as his brother climbed under the covers.

Outside Yamato's bedroom door stood an exhausted and ashamed Hiroaki, whose lips were pursed into a thin line as his two sons—his whole world—drifted into slumber. Creases of worry marked his forehead and he tightened his grip on the carton in his left hand, crushing it. Their conversation echoed in his head, and he worked his jaw.

He made his way to the kitchen and tossed the box of cigarettes, along with the lighter, into the trashcan and didn't look back at it.