He didn't get this far by opening up to a kind word or a sincere gesture. He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. "No," he agreed. "I can't trust you."<br/><br/>Being pulled in to Mashi's chest made Taiga stiffen. When was the last time he'd sought out or been given comfort? Especially physical? Mashi was warm and solid and Taiga was uneven and guilty, pulled up against his chest.<br/><br/>His head was getting fuzzy and he was hot, more than the hot spring should have aroused.<br/><br/>He found himself pulled up out of the water and carried bridal style to the man's rooms. He was annoyed at being cared for. No, uncomfortable. It felt too much like aftercare, which some of his clients, good men, had given him after a scene. Cortez had carried him like this on occasion. It put his hackles back up, his guard up. Looking at the underside of Mashi's chin, he tried to chase away the urge to push him away, if not physically than verbally or emotionally.<br/><br/>He let himself be put on the bed and flung a hand over his forehead. He coughed, dry and wracking. Now he understood. He was running a fever.<br/><br/>Not unusual. The sword was hardly sterile and the cut should ideally have been washed and had stitches and antibiotics in it immediately.<br/><br/>He reached up and ran his hand over the wound, hissing as his fingers found inflamed flesh, hot and swelling. Taiga rolled onto his side and curled up. Sweat was pricking up on his body.