Hi

this fic is kind of for the rose anon (if they're still around) and anyone else who's been wanting me to write for my girls again.

if you have any requests, questions, comments, etc., send them my way

tw for magical poisoning, character being given a suspicious drink (not like that), fevers, emeto, panic

The manor was warm with life—voices tangled in laughter, the click of glasses meeting, footsteps crossing the mosaic-tiled floor like the shifting of wind.

Golden light filtered through the arched windows, pouring in generous, syrupy streaks that glowed against the polished banisters and the finely carved bones of the ceiling.

The air smelled of beeswax, sweet wine, and too many different magical signatures pressed together—shimmering faintly with power, some deliberate, some uncontrolled.

The occasional pulse of a half-learned spell would rattle a lamp or make the fireplace spit sparks, but it was all chalked up to youth and experimentation.

Seraphina was fond of these get togethers. These gatherings of young supernaturals and their mentors. Allyship, insight, a million and one things that Caelum wanted no part in.

Above it all, he watched.

Caelum Hallowell sat half-curled on the inner strut of a support beam, one leg dangling, the other bent beneath him like a bird of prey that hadn’t decided whether or not to strike.

He wore the shadows like a second skin, his posture easy but his eyes sharp—burning with that cold, unnatural gleam that made most people look away if they caught it.

But he wasn’t watching the crowd.

He was watching her.

Solène drifted through the room like sunlight through leaves—warm, unhurried, quietly luminous in the way only something aligned with the sun could be. Her steps were fluid, her posture elegant without meaning to be. She was a creature made of brightness, and he hated the way it made his chest ache.

She was talking to someone. Some overeager girl with two different colored eyes and ivy crawling around her collarbone like living jewelry. Solène tilted her head as she listened, nodded once. Then, without much thought, accepted the glass handed to her.

Something warm. Pale. Glimmering with herbs and something faintly glowing.

Caelum’s eyes narrowed.

He could smell it from here.

Night-brewed. Enchanted. Old magic steeped too long, meant to heighten the senses under moonlight—probably brewed for him or someone like him. The scent was thick with shadowroot and stilled mint, both meant to anchor drifting magic in those whose bodies were drawn toward darkness. For a night-aligned vampire, it would steady the pulse.

For Solène, aligned to day?

It would unravel her.

Caelum was already moving before the glass left her lips. The moment she took that first swallow—just one—he was gone from the rafters like he’d been pulled by a tether, landing noiselessly on the second-floor landing and slipping into the crowd like a shadow passed through silk.

Solène barely noticed the change at first.

Her lips tingled faintly. The warmth of the drink spread too fast, like sunburn under her skin. Her heartbeat hiccupped, just once. But she smiled and laughed and continued on, until her breath caught on the edge of a word. She blinked—slow. The light felt strange. Harsher. Like it wasn’t hers anymore.

The second glass—no, was it a refill? She didn’t remember asking—tipped in her hand.

She sipped anyway. She didn’t want to be rude.

A few steps later, her balance felt… off. Like her body was lagging. Her fingers buzzed at the edges, cold and hot all at once. Her vision blurred not outward, but inward—everything closing too tight, and then fading out of focus. She paused at the edge of the room, pressed her hand to the nearest windowframe, trying to recenter.

That’s when the boy reached for her.

Not Caelum. Not Amancio. Not Hemlock, or even Everest.

Some student with a voice too loud, too close, a grin just a little too smug. “You look flushed,” he teased, half-laughing as he reached out, curled fingers around her wrist. “Maybe you need to lie down. C’mon, I’ll—”

“Don’t. Touch. Her.”

The voice cut through the room like a blade dragged across ice.

Low. Absolute. Lethal.

Several heads turned—but the boy’s hand didn’t move. Not fast enough.

Suddenly, Caelum was there. No fanfare. No introduction. Just presence—like a storm pulled into the shape of a young man. He stood with his body angled forward, protective and aggressive, his shoulders blocking Solène from view. His hand clamped around the other student’s wrist, the grip deceptively casual—until the boy winced and jerked back, stammering.

“I didn’t—she looked—she’s dizzy, I was just—”

“You were just making the last mistake of your life,” Caelum growled, fangs bared now, the pain of his broken lower ones flaring sharp in his jaw. He didn’t care.

His voice dropped colder. “If you so much as look at her again, and I’ll bury you so deep the night won’t find you.”

“Okay! Okay—shit!” The boy stumbled back and vanished into the crowd.

Caelum turned only once the other was gone. When he looked at Solène, all the venom in his posture melted into something else entirely—raw concern.

She was slumped, barely holding herself up. Her skin had gone a shade too pale, faintly glowing at the edges in a way that screamed magical dissonance. Her breath was shallow, her pupils dilated unevenly.

“Daylily,” he said, low and urgent, his hand already at her waist to keep her upright. “You drank something. What did they give you?”

She blinked at him, slow. Confused. She opened her mouth to answer and swayed instead.

Caelum caught her.

One arm around her back, the other curling under her knees as he scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. Her body was far too warm against his, feverish with misplaced energy. His magic flared the moment her skin touched his chest—crackling with static, wrong in a way that made his stomach lurch.

She didn’t speak again.

Didn’t even fight him.

And that, more than anything, terrified him.

Caelum’s strides were long and merciless. He moved like the air itself would be foolish to try and resist him—gliding down the manor’s grand staircase with Solène in his arms, barely aware of the startled murmurs that trailed in his wake. His jaw was set like a vice. His fangs still throbbed from forcing their way down. He could taste copper on his tongue—his own blood.

Solène stirred weakly, a sigh slipping from her lips like breath from the edge of a dream. She wasn’t unconscious—but she wasn’t present, either. Her pulse against his chest was fast and shallow, the kind of panic-thin rhythm that said her body was trying to run even while her limbs had given up.

Her skin was hot. Too hot. But not fever-hot.

It was sunflare-hot. Like a light trying to burn its way out from beneath her skin.

He didn’t waste time.

Past the main hall. Up the stairs. Through the stone corridor branching from the library.

Their room.

One room halved by taste and temperament. His side was darker—shadows inked into the corners, cool stone underfoot, the walls lined with books and jagged rock from some cliffside he never named.

Her side was warm—soft fabrics in sun-kissed tones, a stained-glass window that glowed amber during the day, and plants that bloomed when she brushed her fingers over them.

Caelum shouldered the door open with one sharp breath.

Inside, he moved straight to her bed, putting her in direct sunlight like a cat seeking its warmth. He eased her down, not like glass, but like something he couldn’t afford to break. Her body sagged into the mattress, one arm slumping off the edge like she couldn’t be bothered to lift it again.

Her chest rose shallowly.

Then didn’t rise again.

Just for a beat.

Too long of a beat.

Caelum hissed a curse in a language no one alive should’ve understood and dropped to his knees beside her, pressing two fingers to the side of her throat. Still beating—but skipping, tripping.

He exhaled slow. Controlled. Just barely.

Behind him, the door opened.

“Did you threaten to rip someo- whoa. What happened?” Lyca’s voice cut in like a knife, her boots heavy on the stone. “What’s wrong with—”

“Get Seraphina.” Caelum didn’t look up. “Now.”

“Is she—?”

“I said get her.” His voice could’ve cracked marble.

Lyca was gone a second later.

He turned back to Solène.

Her fingers twitched once—too fast, like nerves misfiring. Her body gave a full-body shiver, but not like cold. Like a power surge.

Her aura—usually so soft, so calm—was flickering violently, like the shimmer off pavement in unbearable heat. Even her skin seemed slightly luminous, but it wasn’t beautiful.

It was wrong.

“What the hell did you drink,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. It was soaked through with sweat.

He should’ve seen this. Should’ve gotten to her sooner.

“Typical. Can’t go five minutes without getting yourself wrecked, can you?” His words were sharp, but his thumb traced her brow in soft, careful strokes.

She opened her eyes.

Barely.

“Cael…” Her voice was dry. Thin. She blinked once, disoriented. “Why’re you…in double…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t clone myself for you. The original is more than enough to handle your constant near-death whims.”

A faint snort escaped her lips—then turned into a sharp, hitching gasp. Her body arched slightly, a ripple of tension moving through her spine like she’d been struck by lightning. Her fingers curled into her quilt, nails gouging into the fabric.

“Hey—hey. Solène.” His voice was still steady, but lower now. Urgent. “Look at me.”

“I—I can’t—feel my fingertips,” she slurred. “Feels like—I’m buzzing? But wrong. Like…like I’m a tuning fork someone hit too hard.”

“Because someone fed you a night-aligned infusion. Probably brewed for me or the wolves.” He crouched closer, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. Her skin radiated warmth that didn’t belong. “It’s shorting you out.”

“Great,” she rasped. “Love… a good magical overdose. Ten outta ten. Would recommend to absolutely no one.”

Caelum closed his eyes for a half-second, jaw clenching. Then: “Do not pass out.”

“I’m not… trying, bat-boy.”

“You look like a fevered corpse.”

“Bite me, Dracula.”

He rolled his eyes, before he slid his hand under her shoulder blades and lifted her slightly, so she wasn’t flat on her back. “You need to metabolize the infusion faster. But your alignment’s rejecting it like poison.”

“Mmhm,” she murmured. “That… sounds like a you problem.”

“It is when you are the one falling apart.”

Her limbs twitched again. Then her body seized—just briefly—and she let out a muffled whimper before biting it back.

That broke something in him. Carefully—so carefully—he pressed his palm against her sternum. Not to heal. Not directly.

To stabilize. To anchor.

The room dimmed around them—his half responding instinctively, shielding her from any external energy, drawing the light inward.

“You’re going to be fine,” he murmured, low and deadly. “You don’t get to burn out over a cup of someone else’s mistake. That’s not how this ends.”

“Bossy,” she croaked.

“Keep sassing me. That’s how I know you’re still alive.”

Her eyes fluttered again.

“I don’t… want to go dark,” she whispered.

Caelum leaned forward until his forehead touched hers, just for a moment.

“You won’t,” he promised. “Not while I’m here.”

Solène’s body trembled in sharp, staccato waves—like something inside her was misfiring. Her breath hitched again, followed by a whimper she bit off behind her teeth, and Caelum could feel it now: her energy was wrong. Unraveling. Fighting against itself like static against a melody.

Her magic—usually so steady, radiant and warm like golden silk—now flickered with oily streaks of something darker. A residue of moon-forged energy trying to settle where it didn’t belong. The day rejected the night, and in doing so, it tore her from the inside out.

She doubled forward suddenly with a wet, gagging cough.

“Move—hold on,” Caelum muttered, arm wrapping around her back as he maneuvered her forward, off the side of the bed. A shallow metal basin materialized in his hand with a sharp pulse of magic, summoned from their room’s corner shelf.

Solène barely managed to grip the edge of it before the first violent retch overtook her.

Bright, acidic—too hot. Like her body wasn’t just purging the drink, but her own core. Sweat plastered her hair to her face, and each convulsion looked like it threatened to unravel her further. Her knuckles whitened. She didn’t make a sound—just shuddered through it, quietly, with her teeth clenched like she was afraid of what might escape if she made a noise.

Caelum stayed knelt beside her, one foot on the floor, the other leg positioned behind her for stability. One hand pressed against the center of her back, the other curled firmly around her hair, sweeping it away from her face.

“I told you to stop drinking things you didn’t identify first,” he said, softly. His voice was tight. Controlled. The undercurrent trembled with fear, but it never broke. “You’re too trusting. It’s insufferable.”

She heaved again, too far gone to answer, her breathing ragged now.

Her skin had taken on a near-luminescent pallor—less alive than glowing too much. Magic poisoning. The raw incompatibility of night-rooted energy tearing through the nerves, hijacking her alignment, trying to rewire her into something she wasn’t.

Caelum shifted closer. Laid his palm just below her shoulder blades and sank into his own magic—deep, black-violet currents that smelled like cold stones and crushed violets, like candle smoke and dried blood. He let it rise in him—not to push into her, but to draw the imbalance out.

He inhaled slow, steady, and focused.

“Give it to me,” he whispered. “Come on. Give it back.”

He opened himself like a conduit and let the imbalance flood toward him—let her body treat him like a magnet pulling out the wrongness. He could feel it: thin ribbons of night-aspected magic crawling from her chest, her throat, her solar plexus. It was sluggish, reluctant. Her core resisted him—not because it didn’t trust him, but because it was confused.

She made a thin, keening noise—barely vocalized—before collapsing sideways, her head falling against his chest.

He caught her instinctively.

Wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pressed his palm to her ribcage, fingers spread, grounding her.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice rough now. “Just stay with me. Don’t you dare fall asleep, daylily. Not until it’s out. Gods, where the hell is Seraphina?”

Caelum pulled Solène closer, hoping that the more he held her, the more the night would bleed out of her.

-

The door finally cracked open.

Caelum didn’t lift his head. He knew who it was by the precise grace of the step, the scent of rain-soaked roses and old parchment.

“Seraphina,” he said flatly. “She’s been poisoned.”

“I can see that.” Seraphina was already moving, gliding to his side with the confidence of someone who had seen death and said not today a thousand times before. She crouched, lifting Solène’s wrist in one hand, two fingers on the pulse.

Her brow furrowed.

“This wasn’t malicious,” she said, low. “But it’s potent. She took in something designed for a body tied to the dark. Shadowroot. Wyrm-silk. Maybe blackmoon pepper. She shouldn’t be glowing like this.”

“She drank something meant for me,” Caelum said bitterly. “Or Lyca. Or Everest. It wasn’t labeled.”

“She’s not metabolizing it,” Seraphina said. “Her alignment’s rejecting the imprint. If it anchors to her core, she’ll seize—magically and physically. Her own body will collapse on itself trying to stabilize.”

Caelum gritted his teeth. “What do I do?”

Seraphina met his eyes—and something softened. Just briefly.

“You’re already doing it. You’re pulling the energy back through the path it entered—through connection, through touch.” Her eyes flicked to the way his palm still pressed over Solène’s ribs. “But it’s not enough. Not unless she wants to give it.”

“She’s delirious.”

“Then you better make her listen. I will grab one of Amancio's texts to see if there's anything else.” Seraphina said, "Watch over her."

Caelum shifted Solène back onto her bed, guiding her head onto his lap. She blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, her mouth parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t decide on a word.

“Solène,” he said, more urgently now. “Listen to me. You have to let me take it. You’re holding onto it like it’s part of you.”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned closer, brushed her sweat-dampened hair back, his voice sharp with panic veiled as sarcasm.

“I’m not asking for your soul, you stubborn sunbeam, I’m asking for the poison. Let me have it.”

Her lips trembled. “Hurts.”

“I know it does. That’s why I’m here.” His breath caught. “Let me take the pain. Just this once. What hurts you will give me a boost.”

A long pause. Then—

“…Fine,” she whispered, barely audible.

And just like that—

It moved.

Her body arched with a shudder, and Caelum felt the shift. Her magic unlocked the gate it had slammed shut in panic. The corrupted energy peeled away from her core and into him—a bolt of cold that struck through his chest and burned like frostbite.

He hissed. Eyes clenched. But he didn’t flinch.

He held her.

Held her until the worst of it passed.

Until her breathing evened.

Until her fingers found the fabric of his sleeve and clenched, tethering herself as much as she could.

Seraphina touched his shoulder gently.

“She’ll sleep now. The rest will pass on its own.”

Caelum nodded, jaw still tight. “You’re sure?”

“I am.” Her eyes softened again. “You did well.”

Caelum didn’t answer.

He just sat there, back against the couch frame, Solène curled weakly across his lap—safe again, for now—and rested his cheek against the crown of her head.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, he let himself tremble.

-

Time passed.

The manor quieted as the sun slipped lower, shadows lengthening into soft fingers that kissed the stone floor. Somewhere far off, the wind stirred the hedges, and someone—maybe Juniper—was laughing in the garden. But the laughter didn’t reach here.

Here, the world was still.

Solène slept twisted on the bed, curled toward the source of warmth she must’ve known by instinct even if she’d been too far gone to sense anything consciously. Caelum hadn’t moved in hours. He sat with her weight folded into him, one arm still beneath her shoulders, the other draped loosely across her waist, hand half-curled near her ribs.

His head was tilted back against the wood frame of her headboard, eyes closed.

Not asleep, exactly. He never truly slept when someone else was in the room.

But he’d dozed.

Long enough for the air around him to shift, just slightly. The shadows that always hung close to him had grown sluggish, denser in places—curling like ink at the corners of the room. And beneath his skin, something felt wrong.

He could feel it—coiled beneath his ribs like old smoke. The energy he’d pulled from her hadn’t dispersed. It hadn’t absorbed like it should have. It sat inside him, inert and foreign, like a meal that wouldn’t digest.

He hated it.

Still, he didn’t move.

Solène stirred with a faint, pained breath. Her face twitched like something in a dream had hooked its claws in her, and her brows furrowed against some distant ache.

Then her body tensed.

A full-body, jerky motion like she couldn’t tell up from down for a moment.

She groaned. Low and raw. And then blinked blearily, her lashes fluttering as she tried to find the edge of the world again.

Caelum’s eyes were open before she could speak.

“You’re alive,” he said flatly, with all the enthusiasm of someone confirming a missed dentist appointment.

Solène made a face like she regretted that very fact.

“I feel like I got hit by a cart,” she rasped. Her voice was cracked and papery. “Then the cart backed up. Twice.”

“Well,” Caelum said, voice dry, “your dramatics are intact. That’s comforting.”

She shifted, trying to sit up—but her limbs felt like someone had replaced her bones with wet fabric. Everything was tingling, but not in a pleasant way. It was more like her nerves were bruised, like the outline of her body didn’t fully belong to her.

She blinked slowly. “Why do I feel like my soul went skinny-dipping in a swamp?”

“Because it did,” he said coolly. “And I was the one who had to fish it out.”

She winced and rolled to her side, bracing herself on one elbow. “My head is boiling. My fingers feel… fuzzy.”

Caelum hummed. “Residual magic static. You took in about three full mouthfuls of an infusion brewed for a night-aligned bloodline.” He tilted his head. “You’re lucky you didn’t combust.”

“Oh, perfect.” She winced again. “I love being told I almost died while still feeling like death.”

“It wasn’t almost,” he said evenly, but softer. "I'd never let that happen to you, sunshine."

That silenced her.

She looked at him properly now—and saw it.

His skin was pale, but not in its usual marbled, cool-toned way. He looked drained, like ink diluted with too much water. His shirt clung slightly to his chest, and his jaw was tight, like he was holding something down.

And then her eyes caught on his mouth.

“Caelum,” she said, blinking slowly. “Your fangs are out.”

He clicked his tongue. “Yes. Thank you for pointing out what I already know.”

“They weren’t out before.”

“They weren’t supposed to come out at all,” he muttered.

"Your bottom ones..." She paused. Her voice went quieter. “They're... broken. Is that… because of what you pulled from me?”

"No, you didn't do that," Caelum said, "They've been broken for a while."

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmured, guilt threading her voice. "I know your fangs only come out when you're in pain..."

“I know you didn’t,” he replied, too quickly. "And, no, they come out other times. Once yours grow in fuller, you'll understand your own triggers."

They sat in silence.

Then, as if to break the heaviness: “You’re lucky I was watching. If you’d gone down in front of some overly friendly hedge witch again, I’d be cleaning blood out of the drapes right now.”

“Caelum.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he added, ignoring her tone. “For the rescue. For the part where I sat here and absorbed the magical equivalent of hot tar so you wouldn’t fry yourself from the inside out.”

“You’re very selfless,” she deadpanned.

“I am a saint, darling sunflower,” he said, smirking without humor.

But as he shifted to stand, something in his movement faltered. He swayed—just slightly. Enough that she saw it.

“Caelum—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Solène pushed herself up further, wincing as her limbs complained. “You absorbed it all, didn’t you?”

“I filtered it. A conduit.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Caelum turned, finally looking at her. There was something in his eyes—faint, but wild. Like the magic he’d taken was still buzzing under his skin, rattling his bones. His irises shimmered faintly with that unnatural violet that came out when his magic was overclocked.

“It’s not a clean energy,” he said. “It doesn’t sit right. Doesn’t want to be burned off. It wants to stick.”

“So you’re poisoned now.”

He smiled faintly, mockingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m immune.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m resistant.. It's night magic, not daylight. Not safe for you, perfect for me. If not a little volatile, but everything I do is volatile. Keeps you on your toes.”

Solène reached for the basin still beside the bed and pushed it aside, forcing herself upright inch by inch. Her head spun. Her chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out with a blunt spoon and left unfilled.

“You look awful,” she said.

“I always look awful,” he snapped. “That’s my charm.”

She laughed—just once—but then sagged forward, her hand gripping her nightstand

“Magic hangover,” she groaned.

“Congratulations,” Caelum said dryly. “Your first. I’ll embroider you a badge.”

She looked up at him again, eyes gentler now. “…You didn’t have to hold me through it.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I literally did. You nearly rolled off the couch mid-seizure. I’m not letting your skull meet the floor just because your pride gets in the way of accepting help.”

A pause. And then, even softer—

“I will let you throw up on my boots again, though, if it means you stay alive.”

Solène exhaled slowly, exhaustion pulling at her bones. “…Thank you.”

He scoffed. “Don’t make it a habit.”

She smiled faintly.

Then whispered: “You’re still holding my hand.”

Caelum blinked.

Looked down.

Indeed—his fingers were still loosely tangled with hers, calloused thumb pressed against the soft skin of her palm like he’d never let go.

He withdrew it sharply.

“Accident.”

sorry but i’m introducing a new character again because… i felt like it? idk its my blog and i’ll do what i want (iykyk)

anyway. meet vale. vale is a 21 year old indie musician who lex has basically taken as someone he mentors. despite their typical location difference (vale is in LA, lex usually being in australia), lex is pretty much all vale has.

if you have any requests, questions, comments, etc., let me know! my ask box is open!

tw for emeto, overheating, self neglect (accidental)

The afternoon air shimmered with heat. That kind of brutal, sticky summer heat that clung to skin and turned breath thick—made worse by the stomping bass from a nearby main stage and the relentless swarm of bodies moving through the open grounds like honey-slow currents.

Vale had just stepped off a mid-size stage at the edge of the festival’s sprawl, the last echoes of his set still vibrating through the speakers as crew broke down cables and fans trickled away in sweaty clusters to go find the next set to catch.

His shirt, long since abandoned halfway through the set, hung from his back pocket, soaked through and crumpled like it had been dragged through a river. He looked every bit the radiant post-show performer—flushed, glistening, vibrating slightly from adrenaline and energy drinks.

Internally, though, it was a different story. His stomach felt like it had been carved from stone. Tense and distended, heavy in a way that no muscle flex could disguise. The carbonation and caffeine had settled badly in his gut, bloating it tight beneath his ribs. Every breath jostled it. Every motion reminded him how close he was to a line he couldn’t uncross.

But the crowd had been good, and Vale never left a good crowd without at least trying to thank them. He signed a few posters, let some people snap a quick photo with him, gave hugs when asked even if the way some fans clung to him made him swallow back small gasps, and even forced a wink and a joke when someone complimented his set.

All the while, his hands trembled just slightly, and he was holding his breath in between sentences—not that anyone could tell. It was all part of the act.

Until he couldn’t.

He slipped away when no one was looking, ducking behind a cluster of black road cases lined up behind the tech tent, into the narrow strip of shade that curved like a protective shell around the stage’s back end. The second he stopped moving, the illusion shattered.

His knees nearly buckled, and he caught himself with a hand against the side of one of the cases, knuckles white against matte black metal.

He didn’t try to sit. He knew better. Sitting might jostle things the wrong way. Standing was its own gamble, but at least he had the wall. Plus if he sat, he might not get up.

He pressed his other hand over his stomach—bloated and unrelenting beneath his palm—and let his head fall forward, hair sticking to the sides of his face as sweat traced along his jaw. The pressure was unbearable. He swallowed against it, throat tight, jaw clenched.

“There you are Vee”

Vale didn’t startle, but his shoulders tensed reflexively. He knew that voice.

Lex stood a few feet away, not too close—just enough to be present without crowding. His long, dark hair was tied back today, a pair of sunglasses tucked into the neckline of his black tank top, and there was a quiet sort of gravity in the way he held himself.

“You looked like hell during the last song,” Lex said, voice low, matter-of-fact. Not teasing. Not alarmed. Just honest. “You okay Vee?”

Vale let out a weak breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t sound so strained.

Lex didn’t wait for a denial or a confirmation. He didn’t need one. His eyes had already flicked downward, catching the way Vale’s stomach had pushed outward in unnatural tension, the taut skin flushed a few shades redder than the rest of him. Lex had lived in his own body long enough to know what it meant when the stomach looked like that. There was too much in there. Pressure that wasn’t going anywhere useful.

Lex has spent enough time with Vale in the last year that he knew that the moment Vale’s body stopped holding it in out of sheer spite, it was going to find a way out. Violently.

“C’mon,” Lex said gently. “You can sit in our tent for a while. It’s shaded, it’s quiet. Kelly is running drinks to the other volunteers for a few hours. You’ll be left alone if you want to be.”

Vale didn’t answer right away. His eyes had gone glassy—shiny, distant—but he nodded once, jaw ticking like he might break apart if he did anything else. Lex didn’t push. He just stepped forward and guided him away from the case with the barest touch to his wrist.

Their tent wasn’t far. Just a narrow little structure with the rain flap half-open, the inside a blessed patch of shade and cooler air from the battery-powered fan humming in the corner. Lex unlocked it either a small key, unzipping it and stepping in, gesturing Vale to follow. The minute Vale stepped inside, he wobbled again.

Lex caught his arm. “Sit before your body makes the choice for you.”

Vale did. Carefully. Slow enough not to jar anything loose, lowering himself onto the padded floor of the tent, legs stretched out in front of him, palms behind him for support.

Lex crouched nearby, silent for a moment. Then, after a beat, he unzipped a small pouch and handed Vale an electrolyte powder packet, a water bottle, and a clean, gallon-size zipper storage bag from their med stash—just in case.

Not a word was said. But they both knew.

The tent was dim and hushed, a welcome contrast to the thrum of festival chaos just outside its canvas walls. Inside, Vale had folded in on himself—knees drawn tight to his chest, his sweat-slicked forehead resting against them like he could disappear into the pressure. His breath came in shallow, uneven drags, each inhale catching slightly as though the very act of breathing stirred the ache in his gut.

Lex stayed nearby, wordless. He watched Vale’s back rise and fall too fast, his ribs flexing with every shift of his diaphragm like his body didn’t quite know how to settle. And even without being told, Lex could see it.

The way Vale was sweating—not just from the heat, but that particular kind of clammy dampness that coated his skin like dew on metal. The subtle tremble in his fingers. The way his stomach looked wrong—bloated high beneath the ribs, firm and distended, the kind of tightness that spelled danger more than vanity. Lex had lived long enough in his own skin to recognize the look: the deep, painful pressure of a stomach full of acid, gas, liquid, and regret.

Without a word, Lex pulled a small tub of makeup remover wipes from his tentmate’s stash and knelt down next to Vale. The wipes were cool to the touch, and he used gentle, practiced swipes to clean around Vale’s temples, under his eyes, across the painted bridge of his nose and the sweat-streaked remnants of shimmer clinging to his jaw.

It was tender work, but Lex didn’t frame it that way. Just something to do. Something helpful, getting rid of the glitter and eyeliner and all the dirt and stickiness that came from summer festival sets.

Vale didn’t flinch. But his eyes, bleary and unfocused, cracked open briefly—glassy and dazed, pupils too big in the shade. Lex saw it then, plain as day: pain. Not the sharp kind, but the dull, nauseating spread of it, the kind that made your whole body feel wrong. Vale’s throat worked in a swallow that looked difficult. His lips parted slightly, then closed again.

Lex didn’t ask him to talk. Didn’t make him name it.

He knew that expression. Knew what it meant when someone couldn’t say the words because saying them would break the last thread of composure.

Vale shifted—only slightly—but it was a shift toward defeat. He uncrossed one arm, shakily pawing at the hair clinging to his cheeks, trying to lift it off his neck like the weight of it alone might tip him over the edge.

“Can you…” Vale rasped, and stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “Hair. Can you—”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. The words dissolved into a soft gag, barely audible, jaw tightening as he clamped his mouth shut again.

Lex moved fast. One hand went to his own wrist where he always kept a hair tie wrapped like a bracelet. He snapped it free and gathered Vale’s damp hair into a quick ponytail—no finesse, just practical—then stayed close, shifting slightly behind Vale and holding the gathered hair in one hand to keep it taut and out of the way.

With the other hand, he reached for the zipper bag—the biggest one they had—and unsealed it with a quiet flick.

He placed it gently in Vale’s lap, just in time.

Vale lurched forward with a ragged inhale. The first heave came hard, a full-body contraction that pulled his stomach inward like a collapsing lung. A low, wet gag broke from him, followed by the brutal rush of liquid that hit the bottom of the bag in a torrential spill.

It was loud—the splash unmistakable, the velocity of it a sick echo in the quiet tent. Lex stayed where he was, calm and unwavering, one hand still holding Vale’s hair, the other sliding to Vale’s stomach, warm palm pressing against the taut bloat.

Vale coughed weakly between waves, throat burning, gasping around bile. But it wasn’t over. The next round came just as forcefully, the bag slowly filling with sloshing, frothy, acidic fluid—clear with streaks of unnatural color from the energy drinks, fizzed out and warm, speckled with foam. Every ounce that left his body sounded like it hurt.

Lex’s hand shifted slightly, pressing firmer into the curve of Vale’s stomach.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Let it happen. You’ll feel better once it’s out.”

Vale groaned softly between gasps. His whole body had taken on a pale, sweaty sheen, his stomach still too hard under Lex’s hand but starting—barely—to soften beneath the pressure. Every time Lex rubbed gently, it seemed to coax another spill from him. When that didn’t work, he applied more pressure, firm strokes down the center and across the upper curve, as if daring the rest of whatever Vale had to give to come up. The harder the pressure, the more that came. Lex learned it from Soren, now he just hoped it would be enough to make Vale feel even marginally less disgusting in the heat.

Another wave hit—less violent but still forceful, a slow dribble giving way to a long, convulsing gush that left Vale shaking. His breath hitched, and he gasped again, panting wetly over the bag. But the worst of it was passing. At least, for now.

Lex kept rubbing his stomach, gentler now, loosening the tension with open palm strokes and small circular motions, careful not to speak unless Vale looked like he needed grounding.

“It’s okay Vee,” Lex whispered eventually, voice steady and low. “It’s just your body hitting the wall. It’ll pass.”

Vale whimpered—not quite a sob, more like the pathetic, helpless exhale of someone thoroughly wrung out. He didn’t lift his head. His hands clutched the now heavy, warm bag, knuckles tight around the plastic as if letting go might mean falling apart again.

But Lex stayed.

Not pushing. Not asking. Just there—kneeling behind Vale, fingers sliding through the base of the ponytail to keep it out of the way, other hand rubbing slow, rhythmic circles across the gradually softening swell of Vale’s gut. The tension that had looked ready to burst minutes ago was retreating, visibly. The sharp dome of bloat was dulling, flattening slightly. Not gone, but manageable.

Lex didn’t say you’ll be okay. He didn’t have to. There was no point in that.

Vale’s body was saying it now, in the shaky exhales and the emptiness that settled in the wake of purging. For the first time in hours, maybe all day, Vale wasn’t bracing.

He was just… still.

The zipper bag, still warm and heavy with the aftermath of the first round, had been sealed and set aside, tucked out of sight and out of mine in another garbage bag.

Vale had curled into himself, head resting against a rolled sweatshirt, cheeks pale and clammy. His eyes were glassy, but his breathing had slowed from frantic gasps to something closer to shaky normal. For now.

Lex moved quietly, rummaging through a small cooler until he pulled out one of his saved electrolyte popsicles—meant for emergencies, but this counted. It was already softened by the heat, just pliable enough. He tore the top off and gently tapped Vale’s shoulder.

“Think you can try this?”

Vale blinked up at him, hollow-eyed, lashes wet and stuck together. His lips parted. He didn’t speak—just nodded faintly, barely enough movement to count.

Lex offered it without ceremony. Vale accepted it with a trembling hand and sucked at it in small, uncertain pulls, like he didn’t trust his own mouth. The citrus-berry flavor probably tasted like nothing, but it was cold, and it stayed down.

That counted for something.

“You’re doing okay,” Lex murmured, voice low and steady, rubbing Vale’s shin for a moment, trying not to overwhelm the twenty-one year old but also wanting nothing more than to ease him, even just a little. “Just keep going slow.”

Vale got through the popsicle. Somehow. Then, almost sheepishly, he reached for the water bottle Lex had cracked open beside him. One sip turned into two. Then three. Then more, greedily. His throat was dry, his body dehydrated, and his stomach—emptied but still bloated—tricked him into thinking it could handle it.

Lex didn’t stop him. Not yet. He knew better than to deny someone water unless it was life-threatening. But when Vale reached for a second bottle, Lex gave the faintest of pauses.

“You sure?” he asked gently.

Vale nodded, stubborn through the haze. “I just—” He broke off, winced. “My mouth’s so dry.”

Lex didn’t argue. Just handed him the second bottle and made a mental note to stay closer now. It probably would be for the better. Either help him hydrate, or trigger him through the next wave.

And then, he spoke into his walkie.

“I’m clocking out for a bit,” he said calmly, pressing the button with one hand while shifting a towel under Vale with the other. “Too hot. Might have heat exhaustion starting. Gonna take a break, hydrate.”

The reply was static, then: “All good, man. Take care of yourself.”

He set it aside.

Star, as if summoned by the quiet, padded across the tent and curled immediately against Vale’s side. She was unusually gentle today, almost instinctively aware of the tension in the space. She butted her head against Vale’s ribcage once, giving a soft lick to his side, then laid down with her tiny chin resting on his arm, purring like a distant engine. Vale didn’t react much beyond a weak smile and a twitch of his hand toward her fur.

For a little while… it felt like maybe he was okay.

The popsicle was gone. The water bottles empty. The bloating didn’t look worse—if anything, it had started to even out. Lex rubbed Vale’s stomach slowly, checking for tension, and Vale didn’t flinch.

But then—

Vale’s body betrayed him.

He shifted—just slightly, curling a hand over his gut the way he had earlier—and Lex immediately saw it. The sharp inhale. The flicker of panic that cracked through Vale’s eyes like lightning behind clouds.

“Hey,” Lex said quickly, moving upright. “You good?”

Vale didn’t answer. His lips parted like he might respond, but instead, he winced, dug his palm against the upper curve of his bloated stomach, and rubbed.

It was a mistake.

The moment he pressed down, a burp forced its way up his throat—hot and acid-slicked and wrong. He gagged before he even had time to register it, hand snapping up to cover his mouth with an almost panicked whimper.

But it was too late.

The first wave hit hard and fast.

A violent, splattering gush of warm, acidic liquid forced its way through the cracks of Vale’s fingers, coating his palm and erupting across his lap in a mortifying, unstoppable spill. The force of it bent him forward, body locking up as his stomach convulsed again and again.

Lex was already moving.

He grabbed the towel he’d positioned earlier and tossed it over Vale’s lap to catch the rest, then reached for a fresh gallon-sized bag, snapping it open one-handed.

Vale tried to move, to get the bag, but his body wouldn’t allow it. He barely managed to grab it with trembling fingers before a second wave came—louder than the first, a full-body purge that splashed into the bag with a sickening sound. It frothed up immediately, liquid hitting liquid with nauseating speed.

All the water. All the popsicle. What was left of the energy drinks. It was copious, forceful, bubbling with foam and stomach acid and carbonation still trying to escape as Vale coughed and gagged between spasms.

Lex dropped back down behind him, retying the half-loose ponytail with one hand and using the other to press—gently but firmly—into the bloated curve of Vale’s stomach.

“Breathe through it, easy Vee,” Lex said calmly. “Let it all out, don’t fight it.”

Vale couldn’t respond. His throat was too full, too raw. Another gag tore through him, this one weaker, but still productive. The noise was horrible—choked, wet, involuntary. His body spasmed with it, hips twitching like his own skin didn’t want to be touched.

Lex adjusted, hand now working in slow, firm strokes just under Vale’s ribs, coaxing the contractions deeper. It was messy, uncomfortable, necessary. He could feel how hard Vale’s stomach still was. The pressure hadn’t fully eased—not yet.

“You’re almost there,” he murmured, fingers tracing down the left side of Vale’s abdomen, massaging inward.

Another slosh. Another retch. Then another, drier this time, but still urgent.

Vale’s face was a mess—streaked with sweat and tear tracks, his lips parted in a trembling gasp, chin slick with drool. But he didn’t fight Lex’s help. He leaned into it, too sick to care anymore, and let his body obey what it clearly needed.

Minutes passed like hours.

Eventually… the retching softened. Became coughs. Hiccups. Shaky, wet breaths. The bag in his hands was almost too full now, the liquid inside sloshing ominously with the slightest movement.

Lex gently peeled it away and sealed it with practiced hands, tossing it into the small trash bin in the corner of the tent. He reached for a wet cloth, wiped Vale’s face, his mouth, his chest where the towel hadn’t caught everything.

The worst wasn’t over. But they were through the second storm.

For now.

The second bag joined the first in the corner trash bag. Lex made sure they were sealed tight, zipped and wrapped in a spare towel to spare Vale any further embarrassment. He’d already done the hard part—survived it—but Lex knew how these spells worked. Knew too well the illusion of calm after the worst passed, only for one final wave to come clawing back like it had been waiting in the wings.

And right on cue, Vale stiffened.

No panic this time. No desperate grab for a bag or towel. Just a quiet shift of his body—a hand over his mouth, a furrow in his brow, and then that small, barely-there tremble that told Lex everything.

“Third round,” Lex said softly. Not a question. “Maybe you’ll get a break after this, yeah?”

Vale didn’t respond. His jaw clenched as another thin gag worked up his throat, and he bent forward, Lex quick to slide a smaller bag into his hands.

This one wasn’t explosive.

It wasn’t even dramatic.

Just a drawn-out, breathy series of dry convulsions that brought up watery bile, strings of acid-laced saliva, and the miserable remnants his stomach hadn’t already expelled. A quieter storm, but no less cruel—each retch weaker than the last, Vale’s body folding in on itself as though trying to vanish.

“Easy,” Lex murmured, rubbing slow, grounding circles into Vale’s back. “That’s it. I think you’re through the worst. Give me that if you’re done, yeah?”

Vale let the bag fall limply into Lex’s hands.

“Okay, hey, lay down first me,” Lex said, “Just a second…” Lex had grown so used to the cost of vomiting, especially as much as Vale just did, to the point he knew getting Vale horizontal for a minute would have been the safest option.

Vale didn’t argue. He didn’t even try to sit upright again—he just slumped, eyes fluttering shut, a worn out, pained sound slipping from his throat.

Lex sealed the bag quietly and set it aside.

“Gimme two seconds,” he said gently, brushing sweat-damp hair back from Vale’s forehead. “Gonna call in a favor.”

He grabbed his phone from where it had fallen beside his bag and fired off a quick text to his tentmate.

hey. need a favor. can u grab vale ashburn’s personal kit? should be with his rig. he’s here. not doing great. u can just leave it outside the flap. thx angel.

A thumbs-up came back immediately.

By the time the bag was dropped off, Vale hadn’t moved.

Lex stepped outside, grabbed it, then knelt back beside him. “Here,” he said, voice calm but soft. “Clean clothes. You don’t have to change yet, but it’s here.”

He offered a warm rag next—freshly wet from a bottle, folded over itself. Vale took it slowly, uncoiling his fingers like they were made of lead. He didn’t speak as he wiped his face, then his neck, then peeled off the towel across his lap with a wince.

His skin was blotchy—irritated from acid and sweat and the weight of exhaustion. His stomach, though no longer violently bloated, was still visibly distended, flush with effort and marked by the fading outlines of strain. Lex watched closely but said nothing as Vale slowly, painstakingly sat up. While Vale swapped into the clean clothes, Lex stepped out to toss the bag of sick into trash, away from the tent.

When Lex got back, Vale was using the rag to scrub gently at his skin before tugging the new shirt down over his head.

Once dressed, Vale sank back down with a sigh so heavy it felt like gravity had wrapped around his lungs.

Lex shifted behind him again, this time stretching his legs out so Vale could rest against them. “Come here,” he said, not asking. Just inviting.

Vale let his head fall sideways onto Lex’s thigh like he’d been waiting for permission. The moment his cheek met Lex’s leg, his body sagged, boneless and empty.

Lex smoothed Vale’s hair away from his face and began working through the tangled platinum strands with gentle fingers. The waves were chaotic, sticky with humidity and damp from sweat, some sections knotted tightly near the nape. Lex worked through them patiently, untangling without yanking, humming low under his breath.

Star, meanwhile, had returned. She curled up beside Vale like a guardian, one paw draped possessively over his calf, her purring as steady as rainfall.

“Talk to me, if you can,” Lex said softly, fingertips trailing through Vale’s curls. “You been sleeping at all?”

A pause. Then a hoarse murmur: “…few hours here and there… every few nights.”

Lex frowned slightly, still untangling. “When’s the last time you got a full night?”

Vale didn’t answer. Which was the answer.

“Last all nighter then?” Lex asked, using both hangs to untangle a particularly twisted knot from Vale’s hair.

“Been up since… Tuesday afternoon,” Vale said softly.

Lex sighed softly, “And food?”

“Some.” Vale shifted, uncomfortable. “Just… nothing sits well. Thought maybe it’d pass.”

“Dyspepsia doesn’t usually just ‘pass’, Vee,” Lex said gently. “Especially not when you’re running on caffeine, adrenaline, and fumes.”

“I didn’t want to cancel the set.”

“I know.”

Vale fell quiet again. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes shadowing bruised under-eyes, his breathing evening out slowly.

“When was your last episode?” Lex tried to question again.

“Three… maybe four weeks,” Vale answered.

“You’re in for a spell, you’re due,” Lex murmured. “You know that, right?”

Vale didn’t nod, didn’t speak. Just let out a soft, fractured exhale. Like he hated being right.

Lex adjusted his lap slightly so Vale could rest more comfortably, then rubbed his thumb across Vale’s temple, slow and grounding.

“You can crash here,” he said. “I’m off the clock. You’re not a burden.”

That word hung in the air like smoke.

Vale didn’t respond immediately—but there was a subtle twitch in his brow. A flinch. The word burden had hit a nerve. Lex saw it, acknowledged it, but didn’t pick at it. Just kept combing fingers through his hair, rhythmically.

“You’re not codependent,” Lex added softly. “You’re human. And sick. And I’m not going anywhere.”

That broke something in Vale—not loudly, but deeply. His hand, limp at his side, curled slightly toward Lex’s knee. Not grabbing. Just reaching.

“Try to sleep,” Lex whispered. “You’ll feel better once you’re not fighting it.”

And Vale, too tired to argue, too spent to pretend, finally let himself sink. The edges of consciousness frayed beneath Lex’s steady hands. The hum of the fan. Star’s warmth. The safety of quiet, wordless care. One hand curled into the hem of Lex’s pants like an anchor.

part one can be found here

more lachlen. this one is more plotty, but has sprinklings of sickfic.

if you have any more requests, comments, questions, etc., send them my way. my ask box is open!

tw for emeto, scat, fever induced trauma dumping at the end (just a little).

The phone was slick in his hand, not from sweat this time but from the tremor he couldn’t shake. Lachlen wiped it against the hem of his shirt, barely noticing the smudge of vomit that left a faint streak down the glass.

He was curled half-sideways on the bathroom floor, pants tugged back up but not properly fastened, his stomach empty and hollow, his throat scorched raw. His head throbbed. His body was buzzing—not with adrenaline, but something darker. Depletion.

The air stank of sickness. Vomit. Acid. Something beneath it, sour and bodily.

He didn’t want to text her.

He didn’t want to need to.

But when he looked at the toilet—at the mess in the floor corner, at the state of himself—his chest clenched.

He couldn’t clean this. Not well enough. Not fast enough. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

He cleaned himself up first. As best as he could without showering. Then, using the counter for balance, he yanked down a towel. Using the cloth to cover the mess on the floor.

Everything in his body ached.

But worse than the ache was the shame.

The fact that he couldn’t even sit upright without bracing himself. That he’d lost control. That someone might see him like this. That Dani—Dani, who kept him alive most weeks without even trying—was going to see how pathetic he’d let this get.

You should’ve handled it.

You always do.

He shifted, trying to push himself upright. Made it to his hands and knees before his stomach pitched, sending a fresh wave of bile up his throat. He swallowed it back, but it took everything he had.

The room tilted. His elbows locked.

And then—soft, familiar—

A knock. Two short, one sharp. The Dani knock.

He almost cried.

She didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t need one.

The text had jolted her awake—can you come by?—and that alone was enough to start her moving.

Lachlen never asked for help outright. Not unless something was really wrong. And even then, he wrapped it in ten layers of false calm and self-sufficiency. The last time she’d gotten a text like that, he’d been mid-panic attack in a hotel stairwell, shaking so hard he couldn’t undo the zipper on his jacket.

She expected something like that. She knew that. She’d done that so many times this tour alone.

An anxiety spiral. A rough patch. Maybe tears, if it was bad.

She didn’t expect to open the door and be hit with a smell.

Stomach acid. Body heat. Lingering sickness, faint and sharp and unmistakable.

Her heart dropped.

“Lock?” she called, stepping in. “Hey—it’s just me, I’m not judging you yet.”

No answer.

She found him in the bathroom.

At first, it didn’t look that bad. Just Lachlen, slumped against the tub, damp curls clinging to his temple, clothes clinging to him in all the wrong places. The trash can had been moved—used. The tile glistened in places that shouldn’t glisten.

But when he tried to sit up at the sound of her voice, his hands slipped. His arms buckled.

“Hey—woah, don’t—” Dani rushed forward, crouching down beside him before he could fall again. “Jesus, Voss.”

She placed a hand behind his shoulder, steadying him. Her other hovered over his forehead.

Clammy. Burning.

“Were you gonna clean this whole room yourself?” she asked, trying to sound light, sarcastic. “What’s next, light some sage and banish the trauma?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even look at her.

“Didn’t wanna wake you,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “Didn’t want it to be a whole thing.”

“Well,” she said softly, brushing a sweat-soaked curl away from his brow, “it’s a thing now. What the fuck happened?”

He looked wrecked. Pale, sunken-eyed, skin flushed where it shouldn’t be and ashen where it should’ve had color. There was a bundle of clothes on the floor and Lachlen smelled less like his usual body wash and deodorant and more like the cheap hotel soap. Sure enough, the bar was down to a sliver, still wet and slippery.

She didn’t say a word about that.

“Okay,” she said, voice clipped and steady now, the way it always was when things were bad. “You’re done in here. C’mon.”

“I can clean—”

“No, Lachlen. You can’t. You’re running hot, you’re shaking, and you look like something the cat threw up and then refused to claim.”

He made a noise that might have been a laugh, but it collapsed into a cough.

Dani slipped one arm under his shoulders and the other beneath his knees.

“Dani—what the hell—”

“Shut up. Let me be strong for once, it’s very affirming for me.”

She hauled him up. It wasn’t easy—he was almost a foot taller and about a hundred pounds heavier, all lean muscle—but he didn’t resist. Not really. His body melted into her like he’d finally run out of reasons to pretend. And she was much stronger than he remembered.

She got him into her room two doors down. Laid him in the second bed like it was an altar and he was the last good thing in the world.

Then she went back. Tipped housekeeping an ungodly amount. Hand wrote a note. Made vague comments about an accidental spill and sensitive stomachs.

And when she returned, he was still curled on his side, arms wrapped around his middle like they were all that held him in.

She knelt by the bed. Lachlen almost immediately felt her fingers push sweaty hair off his face.

“Lach,” she said softly, her sarcasm traded for something quieter. “I’m here now, okay? You don’t have to handle this one by yourself.”

-

The light in Dani’s hotel room was low—one bedside lamp on, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the second bed where Lachlen lay curled tight under a lightweight blanket. He hadn’t said much since she moved him, and that silence was telling. Lachlen, for all his brooding and bottling, was never quiet when he was sick—not unless it was bad.

Or if he was sleeping. But the fever flush in his cheeks and the sickly, unsettled sounds coming from his stomach, were clear indicators that Lachlen was most certainly not going to sleep any time soon.

Dani sat at the edge of the mattress, angled sideways to face him. One hand rested on her thigh; the other draped a cool washcloth over the back of his neck with practiced ease, holding it there. He flinched at the touch at first—not from pain, but reflex. His muscles were taut, coiled like a spring wound to its limit.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the cloth. “You gonna let me ask how bad it is, or are we playing the Guessing Game again?”

Lachlen’s throat worked. He blinked. “’M fine.”

Dani didn’t roll her eyes. She almost did. But instead, she shifted closer and spoke low, controlled. “Don’t do that. Don’t start minimizing it. You texted me. At three in the morning. That already tells me it’s worse than you’ll admit.”

He didn’t respond.

She softened her tone again. “C’mon. Let’s triage. Vomiting?”

He nodded. Barely.

“Still?”

“…not recently.”

“How many times?”

He hesitated. “Not many? But a lot… in terms of like...”

“Yeah, alright,” Dani nodded, filing that away. “Diarrhea?”

Another nod. Slower.

She was quiet for a beat. “Any blood? Anywhere?”

“No.” He breathed it like it took effort to push the word out.

“Okay. Thank fuck… or God… or whatever. Anyway, fever?”

He swallowed. His hand—still curled loosely near his chest—twitched. “Dunno. I… feel hot.”

“You are hot,” Dani muttered, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead again, more to comfort than assess. “You feel your fevers. Could be low-grade. Could be climbing.”

“…could be nothing,” he offered, weak but stubborn.

She looked at him sharply. “Don’t start with that ‘maybe it’s nothing’ crap. You know your body better than anyone, and if you’re calling me, it’s because your alarms are going off.”

He flinched slightly. Dani saw it.

Saw all of it.

The muscle in his jaw. The way his breath caught. The flicker of guilt behind his eyes.

“You think this is your fault?” she asked, voice low now. Almost too gentle.

Lachlen didn’t answer.

“Lock,” she said again, and this time there was no teasing in her voice. “You didn’t do this to yourself.”

“I ate something I shouldn’t have.” His voice was thin. Defensive.

“You’ve done that before and walked it off. That’s not what this is. You had dinner at like six, it’s been eight hours. If you exploded like you did, you would’ve been fine by midnight.” She met his eyes, held them. “You’ve got a gut like a washing machine and trauma like a tripwire. You don’t get this sick from one slip. I think you’ve got food poisoning and maybe something else. Something viral. Hell, maybe that virus going through the opener’s crew got you.”

Lachlen turned his face into the pillow, like hiding would make it go away. “I don’t wanna—burden anyone.”

Dani’s laugh was breathless. “Oh, for fu—Lachlen. You could literally be dying and still worry about being ‘too much.’”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even move.

She took a slow breath. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna try to get some fluids in you. Just sips. If that stays down, we go from there. You give me ten percent of your stubborn-ass effort and I’ll do the other ninety.”

“…What if it comes back up?”

“Then we aim for the trash can and try again later.”

They sat like that for a while—her perched beside him, legs tucked under her, monitoring every wince and swallow, every shiver that rippled through his shoulders.

At one point, she reached for the trash can and pulled it closer to the bed, just in case.

It started small.

Lachlen shifted in bed. Subtle. Just a tightening in his shoulders, a twitch of discomfort beneath the blanket. He was still curled loosely on his side, legs drawn slightly in, one hand tucked under his pillow like a child seeking safety.

Dani noticed.

She watched his throat move as he swallowed hard. Once. Twice.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

“You gotta go?” she asked, voice low, already reaching for the trash can just in case.

Lachlen nodded, barely. Didn’t meet her eyes.

“Okay. You good to walk?”

Another nod, slower this time.

She stood, easing out of the way. “I’ll stay close.”

But he didn’t want that.

Didn’t say it, but she saw it—the flicker of guilt, the tightening of his jaw. So she added, just loud enough, “I’ll be right here, not hovering. Swear. Might run to your room and get some of your shit.”

He disappeared into the bathroom without another word. The door clicked shut behind him. Not locked. Just closed.

Dani gave it two minutes before slipping out and heading down the hall to his room. Dani was sure the spare keycard to his room that she had was getting more use than Lachlen’s keycard.

The moment she stepped into the room, the smell hit her again.

She wrinkled her nose but moved efficiently, eyes scanning for the things he’d need.

The journal was on the nightstand. Black leather, pages fraying at the edges. She didn’t open it—never had. That was sacred ground. But she slid it gently into her hoodie pocket.

Next: the Bible.

It was well-worn, soft in the hands from years of use. Not for show. Lachlen didn’t preach. He didn’t talk about his faith often, but it lived in him like a rhythm—present in the silences, the way he breathed, the way he carried grief and grace together in one body. She grabbed it too.

Next: one of his old metal water bottles, the one covered in chipping paint and a few stickers from Lex that half peeled away. Something about the familiarity made it easier to drink from, like it was tied to a version of himself that was in control. Maybe it would help.

Lastly: a hoodie. Not his favorite one—the one he always wore when he was depressed, that was probably due for a wash without Lachlen being sick in it—but the thinner, soft gray one he wore during long travel days. Lightweight, comforting. Still folded at the foot of his bed. She took it without thinking.

By the time she got back, she could hear the toilet flushing.

She slipped inside quietly, placed the items near the bed, and didn’t say anything when he opened the door, pale and unsteady, and wordlessly climbed back into bed.

She did notice, though, how he barely looked at her. How he kept his head low.

He was sweating again.

Not just from the bathroom trip. There was a heat rising from his skin now—radiant and wrong. The fever had breached whatever wall he’d been holding it behind, and it was burning through him now, slow but steady.

Dani twisted the top off the water bottle and offered it to him. “You gotta drink, Lach.”

He took it.

Sipped once.

Made a face.

“S’warm.”

“I’ll get you a cold one in a bit. You need fluid now. Besides, cold water might trip up your stomach.”

She waited. He drank more.

Two sips. Three. A pause.

Then—

“…I’m sorry.”

Dani blinked.

“You’re what now?”

Lachlen didn’t lift his head. “Sorry. For… for this. For making you deal with it.”

Dani’s heart kicked sideways.

“Lachlen.”

He kept going.

“I didn’t want to ruin your night. Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“It is a thing,” she said, voice sharper than intended. “It’s a thing because you’re violently ill and couldn’t even stand earlier.”

“I could’ve handled it,” he murmured, lashes low, breath too shallow. “Just needed time.”

“You were throwing up into your own hands, Lachlen. You couldn’t sit up. And you—”

He flinched again.

And suddenly, Dani saw it.

The shimmer of tears not quite shed. The twitch in his fingers. The way he was curling in on himself, like he was bracing for something.

For being yelled at. For being told he was dramatic. For being made to feel small.

Like he used to be.

And her heart cracked clean open.

“Hey,” she said, softer now. “Hey, no. You’re not in trouble. No one’s mad at you. I’m not mad. I’m worried about you.”

He blinked slowly, eyes glassy. She reached forward and rested her hand gently against his wrist.

“Lach, you don’t have to apologize for needing help.”

“I just…” His voice broke a little. “I don’t want you to quit.”

That did it.

Dani leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to the back of his hand.

“You think I’d leave you over this?” she whispered. “Over you getting sick? Lachlen Voss, you idiot. You’re stuck with me. I’ve sat with you through panic attacks and trauma spirals. Fatigue crashes. All of it. You are stuck with me.”

A wet sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob. His shoulders trembled.

“Good,” he breathed.

She squeezed his hand once, then pulled back. “Now. If you throw up again, I want it in the bucket, not in your hoodie. Deal?”

He managed a nod.

She handed him his Bible and journal. “Here. I brought this.”

His fingers curled around the worn leather. He looked at her like she’d just saved his soul.

She reached for the cold cloth and swapped it out again. She wrapped an arm around Lachlen, staying close to him.

start writing fics again. This one ended up being way longer than I thought it would be so it’ll be two parts!

i have missed lachlen and dani so i decided to write something with them.

if you have any requests, comments, requests, etc., send them my way

tw for emeto, scat, sickness

The venue smelled like beer and old wires, thick with heat and the buzz of residual adrenaline.

The show had gone well—really well, actually. The kind of night that reminded Lachlen why he still dragged himself out here. He could still feel the phantom thrum of the last song in his chest, like the bass had carved itself into his ribs.

He’d even eaten before a show. That should’ve been the warning sign.

It wasn’t much—just some takeout ordered by one of the load in crew members who extended the food offer to Lachlen and Dani, some kind of pasta with grilled vegetables and what he thought were mushrooms. Protein, carbs, good for his energy.

And truth be told, it tasted too damn good to stop.

He downed half the plate before a bite caught him off guard. The texture was wrong—slicker than mushroom, meatier. There was a chew to it that made his stomach shift, his brain trying to decide if it had been an outlier or if he’d just made a mistake.

He swallowed anyway.

The show was already starting when the ache began. Not sharp. Just present. A low, coiling discomfort behind his belly button. Like something had sunk too deep and settled in the wrong way. But he powered through—movement was easier on stage. Music made things bearable. His body always felt better in motion.

It wasn’t until after, when the green room had emptied and his adrenaline started to bleed out through his sweat glands, that he realized he wasn’t shaking because of the cold.

He wiped his face with a towel and blinked at himself in the mirror. His skin had taken on that subtle grayish cast that only he could see—like the hue of fatigue painted thinly over his cheekbones. But his eyes were still bright, pupils normal. Heartbeat steady.

Just the meat thing, he told himself.

He knew the drill. Peppermint tea. Activated charcoal. Half a ginger chew tucked in his cheek. It would pass.

By the time they were back at the hotel, Dani had vanished off for a call and Lachlen was alone in his room, stripped down to sweatpants and a tank top, trying to stretch out his body the way he always did post-show.

Light yoga. A few reps. Core. Something easy. Something familiar. Something to stretch his body just enough that he wouldn’t wake up miserably tense.

The mat unrolled beneath him like a promise. But when he dipped into his second set of crunches, his stomach roiled—not just discomfort, but a slow-motion slosh, like something inside had unbuckled and spilled.

He paused mid-movement, propped on his elbows, sweat prickling along his spine.

He swallowed.

Waited.

It passed—but barely. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple, more from nausea than exertion.

He sat back on his heels, chest rising slow and shallow. His gut felt… off. Not painful, but bloated in a way he knew too well. Unsettled.

Fine, he thought. Just cut the workout short. No big deal.

He stood—carefully—and the motion jostled something deeper. A twinge. A slow curl of heat that climbed his throat, thick and oily. He forced it down.

His water bottle was half full. He took a cautious sip. Even that settled heavy.

He left the mat unrolled on the floor. For a moment he figured once the water settled, he could take something. Then get back to it.

Standing up, though, sent an acidic burn up his throat. That killed that idea.

Instead, he made his way to the bathroom, flipped the light on, and stared at himself again. Closer this time. He could see the tension in his face now—the faint pull at the corners of his mouth, the tightness around his eyes.

His gut gave another uncomfortable flip, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his abdomen, massaging small circles like that would settle whatever had gone wrong inside.

Charcoal, he thought, reaching for the zip pouch in his toiletries bag.

He downed a tablet with another sip of water and turned off the light.

Sleep it off. Just the meat thing.

Lachlen knew he should be more careful. At least, that was what he told himself. More careful, more cautious. Even if his triggers weren’t near as obvious as Soren’s had been when Lachlen opened for Infinite Starline. He should know better.

The air in the hotel room was stale. Not warm, not cold—just wrong.

Lachlen kicked off the sheet for the third time since he laid down, rolling to his side with a frustrated huff. The fabric clung to the back of his knees, damp with sweat. His tank top was a mess, twisted under one arm, the collar tugged halfway down his shoulder like it had tried to flee his skin.

Everything felt too much. The air on his face, the seams in his clothes, the way the mattress dipped slightly where his hips rested.

He was burning from the inside out. Not feverish—not yet. But hot. Uncomfortably, inexplicably hot.

The clock on the nightstand read 2:41 a.m when he looked up again. He’d been pretending to sleep for hours.

The nausea was back. Not sharp—but low, constant, coiled in his gut like something thick and sour. It wasn’t the kind that knocked you sideways immediately. It was worse than that. It was lurking.

Lachlen lay still, jaw clenched, eyes tracing the ceiling in the dark. His stomach turned slowly, dragging a breath from his lungs like wet laundry. He exhaled through his nose and pushed a hand under his pillow, searching for a cooler spot of fabric.

No luck.

After a minute, he sat up.

Too hot.

Still nauseous.

No change.

His hand pressed instinctively to his lower belly—faint pressure. Not quite pain, but not neutral either. A steady discomfort blooming outward. His mouth felt sticky. His tongue was too heavy. He swallowed and regretted it instantly—there was taste now.

Acid. Leftover bile. The way ginger chews sometimes sat too long in his throat when he couldn’t digest them.

He shoved himself off the bed, bare feet slapping against the cool tile of the bathroom floor. The temperature shift felt like salvation, at first.

He turned on the dim sink light.

Didn’t look in the mirror.

He just stood there.

Half-braced against the counter, body tense, waiting it out.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Five minutes. Maybe ten.

He kept thinking the wave would pass. That it would crest and fall and leave him intact.

It didn’t.

His stomach churned, and he doubled slightly, pressing his palm into the porcelain. The cold steadied him for a second. But the nausea climbed. And it climbed with purpose now—thick, sour, urgent.

He staggered backward a step, turning toward the toilet, just in case.

Then it hit.

Not a slow burn this time.

A gut-deep heave that seized his entire body.

He made it to the toilet with half a second to spare. His knees hit the tile hard as he collapsed forward, mouth open and already retching.

Nothing at first—just a dry, wrenching gasp that clawed at his throat.

Then came the bile.

Then the pasta.

His stomach turned itself inside out in sick, wrenching pulses. Acid stung his nose. Sweat gathered at his temples, cold and relentless, and the tank top stuck to his spine like he’d showered in it. Each heave pulled at something deeper—his ribs, his spine, the brittle edges of his restraint.

By the time he stopped, he was gasping, knuckles white on the toilet seat, forehead pressed to the lid.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t dare.

His stomach gave another lazy twist—threatening more—and he whimpered, low and half-formed, like his body was already grieving the next round.

When he finally pulled himself upright, it was in shudders. He rinsed his mouth, trembling as he leaned over the sink. Spat twice. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed a towel and pressed it to his neck.

Still too hot.

The nausea hadn’t left.

His gut felt wrong. Empty but not eased. Like his body was still holding onto something it hadn’t figured out how to destroy yet.

Lachlen rinsed his mouth again, even though the taste still lingered—acrid, bitter, bile-slicked. His throat ached. His stomach was cramping now, not just twisting, but seizing up in little fists just beneath his ribs, like it couldn’t decide whether it was empty or still in danger.

The bed, when he glanced back at it, looked too big. Too hot. The sheets were a wreck—half kicked off, damp with sweat and curled like vines around the mattress. He didn’t want to be in it. Couldn’t.

He turned instead toward the hotel room’s couch—standard issue, dark gray, short-backed, the kind designed to look expensive and feel like penance. But it was across from the window unit, and he needed the air.

He tugged the trash can from the bathroom on his way out, setting it on the floor beside the couch. Just in case.

Lowering himself into the cushions felt like sinking into static. Every muscle was tight. His skin buzzed with discomfort. His heart wasn’t racing, not quite, but he felt it—too present in his chest, like it was working harder than it should for the position he was in.

Still, he exhaled. Slowly.

Just a break, he told himself. Even if it’s ten minutes.

He didn’t fall asleep so much as float.

A half-conscious drift, still nauseated, still overheated, but lulled by the dull hum of the A/C and the relative quiet of his body.

His arms were folded over his stomach, fingers twitching against his tank top in little unconscious movements. The can was within reach. He could feel the edge of it with his socked foot, resting there like a tether.

For a moment—just one—he let himself think it might have been the worst of it.

And then his stomach turned.

Not gently. Not a warning.

A sudden, sickening drop, like the floor of his gut had vanished and taken everything with it.

He was upright before he could think—barely snatching the trash can in time, hands fumbling on the rim as the first heave ripped through him.

This time there was no preamble. No acid or breathless retching. Just an immediate, brutal purge. Wet and heavy, splattering against the plastic, the sound loud and echoing in the otherwise silent room.

His whole body convulsed with it. Shoulders hunching. Eyes squeezed shut. Sweat breaking anew across his forehead.

It came again, and again—violent, breathless, like his stomach was determined to evict everything, even what wasn’t there.

By the end of it, he was gasping, one hand clutching the armrest of the couch like an anchor, the other braced on the rim of the bin. His face was pale, lips tinged with gray. He trembled.

He waited.

Listened to the silence.

Felt the sickening ache in his belly deepen into something uglier. Sharper. Not just nausea anymore. Something lower. Urgent.

The pressure shifted.

No, he thought. No, no, no—

He stood too fast, the world tilting under his feet. The trash can nearly tipped with him. He shoved it aside and half-ran, half-staggered toward the bathroom—

He barely made it.

He hit the toilet hard, both knees slamming into tile as he yanked the waistband of his sweatpants down just in time. And then—

Everything came loose.

It wasn’t like the vomiting. There was no violent force. Just an unstoppable, humiliating release that left him shaking and gasping and folded in on himself, too exhausted to even swear.

The cramps that followed were sharp, rhythmic. The kind that dug into the muscles of his abdomen and refused to let go. Sweat ran down his back in thick lines. His thighs trembled. His teeth clenched.

By the end, he felt emptied in every sense of the word.

But not finished. Not even close.

His stomach was still making noise. His legs were too weak to stand.

He was dizzy. And hot. And still sweating.

By the time the diarrhea eased, Lachlen was cold again.

The kind of cold that felt internal—bone-deep and crawling. It made him shiver in starts, made his sweat turn tacky against his skin. He pressed a trembling hand to the wall and waited until his legs remembered how to work. Then he dragged himself upright with all the grace of a dying deer and stripped out of his sweat-soaked clothes.

The shower was quick. Barely warm. But it helped.

He crouched under the spray with his eyes closed, forehead against the tile, and let the water wash the stench from his skin, the acid from his throat. When he stepped out, he felt almost human. Still sick, still wrong—but not actively dying.

He towel-dried with slow, shaky hands. Found the electrolyte powder Dani always made him pack. Mixed it in a plastic cup and drank half before his stomach warned him to stop.

He checked his meds.

Antiemetics: low. Antispasmodics: out.

Loperamide: still sealed. He didn’t trust it yet—not until he was sure his body was done. This wasn’t the first time he was bad off. Though he couldn’t remember the last time he was this bad.

So he took nothing.

He sipped the rest of the drink slowly. Curled back onto the couch. He draped a dry towel across his chest like a weighted blanket, let the soft hum of early-morning traffic bleed in through the window. He’d grabbed his bible from the nightstand, but as soon as he was lying down he barely had the energy to sit up, let alone focus on text of any kind.

His body quieted. Not peaceful, but… muted.

The kind of lull that felt like a truce. Maybe enough to sleep off the rest.

-

4:21 a.m.

The pain hit like a trap snapping shut.

He didn’t even open his eyes—just knew, on instinct, that it was time.

Lower GI pressure bloomed fast, molten and urgent. He threw the towel aside and stumbled toward the bathroom barefoot, phone clutched in one hand more out of habit than planning. His legs felt like water. His mouth was dry again.

He didn’t bother with lights. He sat on the toilet in the dark.

The diarrhea came fast, liquid and punishing, and he closed his eyes against the sudden spike of abdominal pain. His whole lower body felt like it was pulsing with heat, nerves raw and skin cold despite the sweat building along his spine again.

He braced his free hand on his thigh, muttering half-formed reassurances to himself. “Okay, okay, it’s fine, just ride it out—”

And then—

The nausea hit.

Not the kind that builds.

The kind that detonates.

His stomach flipped so violently it felt like it turned inside out. His mouth flooded instantly, salt and bile and sick.

He froze.

No—

He twisted, gagging, trying to lean forward, but the pain in his gut shot up his spine and forced him back down.

He slapped a hand over his mouth—too late.

The first heave broke through his fingers, thick and hot and fast, splashing down his arm and across his thighs. He barely managed to pitch forward, hunched over his knees, vomit splattering onto the floor between his feet.

It kept coming.

His whole body convulsed—heaved—and he couldn’t move, couldn’t shift off the toilet because his bowels were still emptying. Every retch triggered a fresh cramp below, and every pulse of diarrhea worsened the pressure in his abdomen, until the two forces were in direct conflict.

He whimpered through the next wave—vomit hitting the tile with a wet slap, the smell rising fast in the confined space. He reached blindly for the edge of the tub and missed. His hand smeared something slick across the edge of the tub as he retched again.

By the fourth round, he was crying. He barely managed to grab the trash can after the second. Now his stomach was entirely shot and his face grew damp with salt and sweat. Not sobbing. Just leaking.

Silent tears tracking down his cheeks while his body folded in half again and again, burning from both ends. His thighs shook. His hands trembled. His jaw ached from the clench of fighting it, of losing.

The taste in his mouth was rot. The pressure in his gut was agony.

And still—it didn’t stop. Not soon enough.

When it finally did—when the heaves slowed, when the cramping dulled to a miserable, pulsing throb—he collapsed sideways against the tub. His knees were still locked around the toilet bowl. His cheek was pressed to cool porcelain. The tile beneath him was wet and sticky.

His body was trembling all over. The kind of tremble that starts in the bones. That speaks of dehydration and fever and sheer shock.

What the fuck was going on?

He couldn’t clean up yet.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t even think past the next breath.

But in the brief, awful stillness…

He tapped his phone once.

And pulled up Dani’s contact.

He blinked hard, breathing shallow, and tapped her name.

4:42a.m.

Last night when I was perusing tumblr I was a little surprised when I came across some emeto audios (I'm new here, lol). As it turns out, I had this saved recording of myself throwing up from a few months ago when I had a bout of the flu. I recorded it just for me to go back and listen to, never with the intention of anyone else hearing it. I thought I was totally weird for recording it.

Coming across those audios last night made me feel less alone. Clearly other people have recorded themselves getting ill too. I'm glad we can be weird together 😅 and I've decided to post mine (it took me a hot minute to figure out how)!

For context, I live by myself and pretty far from family, so I was on my own. I had been running a decently high fever the past two days and fighting some chest congestion. The stomach stuff started the morning of this recording: just really bad nausea and cramping. At the time of this audio, I was freezing and too weak to move to the toilet so what you hear is me leaning over the edge of my bed to throw up into a rubbish bin.

Or any combo of those really? Thank you!!

I cant believe someone sent me this/remembered those characters!

I changed a bit of the lore and the name of the half ghost character to something i liked better!

so may i offer Hemlock (a half ghost half human apprentice), and his mother and father figures and teachers, Seraphina and Amancio.

tw for supernatural (not the show) characters {witches, half human half ghost, and a vampire}, emeto, overwork, self pressure, fear of disappointment, emeto

if you have any questions, comments, or requests, send them my way!

Hemlock's room was a dim sanctuary within the sprawling, ancient mansion. Dust motes danced in the slivers of morning light that pierced the heavy, velvet drapes, casting an ethereal glow over the worn hardwood floor. The ornate, brass clock on the mantel ticked relentlessly, its hands pointing to an hour well past dawn.

Normally, Hemlock would have been awake long before now, his restless nature never allowing him more than a few hours of sleep. Yet today, the quiet shadows of his room held him captive, wrapping him in a cocoon of fitful slumber.

He awoke abruptly, his body heavy and his mind foggy. The moment he opened his eyes, a wave of nausea washed over him, accompanied by a dull ache that radiated from his bones.

Hemlock blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the world remained a blur, the edges of reality fuzzed and indistinct.

With a groan, he forced himself to sit up. His head throbbed, each pulse a reminder of the unnatural duality that existed within him.

Being half-ghost, half-human was a precarious balance, and today, it seemed, the scales were tipped unfavorably.

Hemlock’s ghostly side amplified his human frailties, turning a simple illness into something more sinister.

He glanced at the clock, his heart sinking. He was late for his lesson with Amancio. Panic flared briefly, but he quickly suppressed it. Amancio was known for his patience. Amancio was gentle, Seraphina not so much. But he had a lesson with Amancio, and Amancio always worked with him. Plus, surely, he had never been late before, therefore Amancio couldn’t be mad.

ADditionally, Amancio he had a deep well of curiosity and an even deeper commitment to training his proteges. Hemlock knew that, much like himself, the revelation of possible illness would peak Amancio’s interest and they both could explore the effects of his duality on something as mundane as a cold or whatever this was.

Well, not a cold. Hemlock felt nauseous. So, whatever it was, maybe his duality would help him. Or hurt him. He was interested to find out and surely Amancio would be too.

Ignoring the protests of his body, Hemlock swung his legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor sent a shiver through him, but he welcomed the sharp sensation. It was a reminder that he was still here, despite the ghostly tendrils that threatened to pull him into the abyss.

He dressed quickly, his movements slow and deliberate. Each task felt monumental—buttoning his shirt, tying his boots—yet he persevered, driven by a determination to not let his ghostly affliction hinder his progress.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror; his usually bright eyes were dull, ringed with dark circles, and his skin had taken on a pallor that was almost translucent. He looked more ghost than human today, and between the exhaustion and his appearance he wanted nothing more than to laugh at how ridiculous this was.

Steeling himself, Hemlock left his room and made his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and lingering magic, a testament to the building’s long and storied history. As he approached Amancio’s study, his steps grew heavier, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

The door to the study was ajar, and Hemlock paused briefly before pushing it open. Inside, Amancio stood by the window, his tall, lean figure framed by the morning light.

His dark hair, flecked with silver, was tied back neatly, and his piercing blue eyes were fixed on the grounds outside. The vampire’s presence was commanding, exuding an aura of both power and elegance.

Amancio turned as Hemlock entered, his gaze focusing on Hemlock.

“You’re late,” he observed, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of curiosity. “Unusual for you.”

“My apologies, Master Amancio,” Hemlock replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I… overslept.”

Amancio’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in Hemlock’s appearance. “Interesting,” he murmured. “You do not look well… are you alright?”

Amancio came closer, his steps almost floating, gliding, as he got closer. He brushed some of Hemlock’s white hair back, looking closer at him.

Hemlock nodded, swallowing hard. “I do not know… I do not feel normal. But I’m ready to begin our lesson. I want to see how the duality affects me…”

Amancio’s lips curved into a slight smile. “I’m rubbing off on you, I see. Like mentor, like apprentice. Very well. Let’s see how your condition affects your abilities today.” He gestured towards the center of the room, where a circle of runes was inscribed on the floor. “Begin with the basic summoning. Try summoning Seraphina, I haven’t seen her all morning.”

Hemlock took his position within the circle, feeling the familiar tingle of magic against his skin. He closed his eyes, focusing on the spell. Normally, the words would come easily, the magic flowing through him like a river. But today, it was different. His voice wavered, and the energy felt unstable, like trying to grasp smoke.

The room grew colder, the temperature plummeting as Hemlock struggled to maintain control. His ghostly side surged, fighting against the illness weakening his human half. The runes flickered, the light within them sputtering as if caught in a fierce wind.

Amancio watched intently, his expression inscrutable. “Interesting,” he repeated softly. “Push through it, Hemlock. Harness the instability. You will be okay.”

Hemlock gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. He could feel the magic slipping from his grasp, his body trembling with the effort. But he refused to yield.

With a final, desperate surge of will, he channeled the energy, directing it towards the center of the circle.

No luck. No Seraphina. Not because she was hiding, Hemlock knew that. He just didn’t have the ability to summon as effectively as normal.

Hemlock fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The exertion had taken its toll, leaving him weak and disoriented. Amancio approached, his expression thoughtful.

“Remarkable,” he said quietly. “Your ghostly side amplifies your human frailty, yet also enhances your potential. We will continue to explore this.”

As Hemlock looked up at his mentor, he saw not disappointment, but intrigue.

Amancio’s eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and pride. Despite the pain and the struggle, Hemlock felt a flicker of hope. He had faced the shadows within and emerged, if not victorious, then at least unbroken. And in the echoes of his struggle, he found the strength to continue.

“Are you sure you want to continue?” Amancio asked, “As enticing as this research is… I do want you safe.”

“No, I want to continue.” Hemlock insisted.

Amancio helped Hemlock to his feet, his grip firm but not unkind. Hemlock's legs felt like jelly, and his vision was still a bit fuzzy, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with, or could deal with until something changed, until the scales tipped one way or the other.

"I'm ready for the next exercise, Master Amancio," Hemlock said, his voice steady despite the trembling of his body.

Amancio raised an eyebrow. "You are eager, I'll give you that. But eagerness can lead to recklessness."

Hemlock nodded, a slight flush creeping into his already pale cheeks. "I need to know how my ghost side interacts with my human side, especially under these conditions. I have to understand it if I’m ever going to control it, control anything for that matter."

Amancio studied him for a moment before nodding. "Very well. We’ll proceed. Let's move on to flight control."

Hemlock took a deep breath, steadying himself. He focused on the sensation of weightlessness, the feeling of his ghostly side asserting itself. Slowly, he began to lift off the ground, his form shimmering slightly as the air around him grew colder.

At first, it was smooth. Hemlock hovered a few feet above the ground, his movements controlled. But then, a sharp pain twisted in his stomach, and he winced. The room spun, and he struggled to maintain his altitude. He clenched his jaw, pushing through the discomfort, but it was clear he was struggling.

“Does he look pale to you?” Seraphina appeared beside Amancio, voice cut through the air, soft yet filled with concern. She had entered the study silently, her presence almost as ghostly as Hemlock’s abilities. Her eyes, a striking mix of green and gold, were fixed on Hemlock. “i mean… paler than even a half ghost boy would be?”

“He’s ill my dear,” Amancio told her. “but he is devoted to trying to balance his abilities while his illness of the human side wars with the spectral side of him.”

“He’s much like you,” Seraphina said, “Entirely too stubborn.”

Amancio glanced at her briefly before returning his gaze to Hemlock. “Indeed. He’s too stubborn for his own good. More so than myself.”

Amancio and Seraphina’s playful banter was interrupted by the dull thud of Hemlock hitting the floor. The half-ghost, half-human boy knelt on the ground, his arm wrapped tightly around his stomach, his face contorted in pain.

“Oh, ‘lock…” Seraphina said softly, her voice filled with a tender concern. She knelt beside him, her presence a calming force. “What’s wrong?”

Hemlock’s vision swam, the room around him blurring into indistinct shapes. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile from rising in his throat. Bile and… god he wasn’t sure if something else would come up too.

“My stomach really… really doesn’t… doesn’t feel good…” Hemlock struggled to say, Seraphina observed the small dry heaves that broke up his speech, which made her stand swiftly and grab the trash bin by Amancio’s desk that typically was there for show and nothing else.

She placed it near Hemlock.

“What’s going on?” Amancio questioned, “Did you utilize too much?”

“No… my stomach… all of a sudden… I feel like I might be…” He didn’t finish the sentence as he lurched forward, retching violently, thankful Seraphina had some sense, or intuition, or whatever made her grab the bin. The nausea that had been a mere whisper now roared, his body rebelling against his determination.

Seraphina went to say something, but was cut short as Hemlock convulsed again, the sound of his retching tearing through the room. She placed a hand on his back, offering what comfort she could. “Oh, Hemlock…”

Hemlock gasped for breath, his body trembling. “I can’t stop now,” he muttered, his voice raw with pain. “I need to understand this. How my duality affects something as mundane as illness. I have to know.”

Amancio stepped forward, his expression stern but not unkind. “You are pushing yourself to the brink, Hemlock. There is a limit to what even you can endure.”

“I don’t care,” Hemlock replied, his voice a stubborn rasp. “I need to do.”

“You already got good information,” Seraphina said softly, her hand still resting on his back. “But you can’t destroy yourself in the process.”

Hemlock shook his head, the motion making him dizzy. “I have to try. Please, let me continue.”

Amancio sighed, a deep, resigned sound. “Very well. But we will monitor you closely. The moment it becomes too much, you will stop. Is that clear?”

Hemlock nodded, his resolve unwavering despite his weakened state. “Yes.”

“Then let us proceed,” Amancio said, his voice carrying a weight of both authority and concern. “Begin with flight control again. Focus on maintaining your altitude despite the discomfort.”

Hemlock took a deep breath, steadying himself. He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar pull of his ghostly side. Slowly, he lifted off the ground, his body shimmering as it became less solid. The air around him grew colder, and for a moment, he felt a surge of triumph.

But then, the pain in his stomach twisted again, sharp and unrelenting. He convulsed mid-air, his concentration breaking as he retched, the sound echoing through the room. His form wavered, becoming more ghost than human, before he collapsed to the ground once more.

Seraphina was beside him in an instant, her eyes filled with a mix of frustration and concern. “Hemlock, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“I have to,” Hemlock whispered, his voice barely audible. “I need to know.”

Amancio knelt beside him, his expression grave. “Your determination is admirable, Hemlock. But there is a difference between pushing your limits and destroying yourself.”

Hemlock looked up at him, his vision swimming with unshed tears. “I just want to be strong. To control this.”

“And you will,” Amancio said firmly. “But not like this. You need to rest and heal. Only then can you truly master your abilities.”

Seraphina's expression softened, and she gently placed a hand on Hemlock's shoulder. “Come now, Hemlock. Let's get you to rest for a few moments. Just a short break, and then you can return to training.”

Hemlock looked between them, his stubbornness warring with the undeniable exhaustion he felt. Finally, he nodded, allowing Seraphina to help him up.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a reluctant murmur. “Just for a little while.”

They guided him back to his room, Seraphina’s presence a comforting balm to his frayed nerves. As she helped him settle into bed, she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“I will offer you a deal,” Seraphina said, “Calypso is one of my students. Her lessons are never long… rest through hers and once her lesson is complete, I will come get you, does that sound fair? Besides, even if you don’t think you need a break, surely Amancio would enjoy one for himself, you know him.”

“Fine…” Hemlock nodded slowly.

“Rest now,” Seraphina said softly. “We’ll resume when you’re ready.”

Hemlock nodded, his eyes already drooping. The bed felt comforting beneath him, making his body ease up even slightly on how terrible he felt. And despite his determination to stay awake, sleep claimed him swiftly.

Seraphina returned to the study, where Amancio was waiting. His expression was thoughtful, his eyes dark with concern.

“He’s determined to destroy himself,” Amancio said, his voice a low rumble, “He is more reckless than most fledglings…”

“He’s not trying to destroy himself,” Seraphina replied, her tone gentle but firm. “He’s desperate to prove himself. To you, especially.”

Amancio raised an eyebrow. “To me?”

Seraphina nodded. “I sensed it in his thoughts and feelings. He’s driven by a need to make us proud. But more than anything, he’s afraid of disappointing you.”

Amancio’s eyes softened, a rare vulnerability showing through his usual stoic demeanor. “I didn’t realize… I’ve always pushed him hard, but I never thought he’d push himself to this extent.”

“That’s why you need to talk to him,” Seraphina said, her gaze unwavering. “He respects you more than anyone. My words won’t reach him in the same way yours will.”

Amancio sighed, a weight settling on his shoulders. “Very well. I will speak with him.”

They returned to Hemlock’s room, finding him asleep, his face pale and drawn.

Seraphina sat beside him, her touch gentle as she stroked back his white hair, pushing it off Hemlock’s face. Her fingers brushed over his head, almost like petting a puppy. It didn’t wake him, in fact Amancio observed that it made Hemlock gradually less tense. Even the way Seraphina rubbed his arm, every kind and affectionate touch.

Amancio pulled a chair close, his expression pensive as he watched the young wraithling.

“He’s so fragile,” Seraphina murmured, her eyes filled with a maternal warmth. “And yet, so strong. He just needs guidance.”

Amancio nodded, his gaze never leaving Hemlock. “He’s remarkable. And stubborn. Much like myself.”

“He’s just a kid, Amancio,” Seraphina’s voice was regretful. “Well, he’s young. Twenty three years as a human… how could that just be stolen like this?”

“It is much like us, dear Sera,” Amancio said softly, “You were once but a girl, a young woman really. A nurse, weren’t you? During the war…”

“I was, indeed,” Seraphina said softly, “And you were but a boy not unlike Hemlock… an author, a poet, a soldier…”

“And yet, there was no other option for us except a cease of existence,” Amancio said, “Much like him, much like many of us.”

For a while, they sat in silence, the room filled with the soft sounds of Hemlock’s breathing. Eventually, Hemlock stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked up at them, disoriented and still feeling the residual nausea.

As he processed Seraphina and Amancio, he inhaled sharply, panicked.

Seraphina smiled warmly, brushing a hand over his hair again, “How are you feeling, young wraithling?”

“A bit better,” Hemlock lied, trying to sit up. But as he did, another wave of nausea hit him, he groaned softly, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

“You poor dear…” Seraphina said, her voice filled with concern. “Let’s see…”

She stood, getting off the bed from where she sat and looking around the room. No bins, but she did find an empty vase on the windowsill.

“Glad neither of you are big fans of floral arrangements,” she said, laughing lightly.

She quickly brought it over, just in time as Hemlock retched dryly. She sat next to him, keeping it steady. She watched him, listened. Her senses were heightened snd the way she could hear Hemlock’s stomach gurgle and writhe made her cast a sympathetic look toward him and a concerned one toward Amancio, though she said nothing.

She heard it then, the way acid came up his poor throat, she tightened her hold on the vase and held him by a shoulder just as he retched again, this time bringing up not only the remnants of his stomach contents but also a strange, translucent substance that shimmered eerily in the dim light.

Amancio’s eyes widened slightly, his curiosity piqued, moving the chair closer without getting too close.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Your dual nature is purging both human and ectoplasmic matter.”

Hemlock wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, his eyes filled with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I didn’t mean to get sick. I’m sorry.”

Seraphina placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Hemlock. You needed the rest. We’re more concerned about your well-being.”

“I’m sorry…” Hemlock said, and then mumbled something. Neither Amancio nor Seraphina caught it.

“What was that, wraithling?” Amancio asked softly.

“Gonna… gonna throw-“

Hemlock shook his head, his nerves made his stomach churn once more. He retched again, harder this time. Seraphina holding the vase steady for him. The ectoplasm mixed with the more familiar bile, splattering in the vase. One or the other or both got stuck in his throat.

He coughed, hard, but the hard coughing only made him practically projectile expel stomach acid and ectoplasm in a thick sludge that felt thicker and thicker each time.

“You’re alright,” Seraphina soothed, her touch gentle, rubbing his bad, “Just breathe through it. Amancio, grab some water…”

Hemlock retched again, harder. Seraphina felt his stomach pull in, his back shake, heard the thick substance splatter in the vase.

After a few more minutes, the sickness seemed to pass, leaving Hemlock weak and trembling and hyperventilating but no longer in immediate distress. Amancio watched him with an analytical gaze, his mind clearly working through the implications of Hemlock’s condition.

“Your body’s reaction is both fascinating and concerning,” Amancio said finally. “It appears your ghostly side is trying to cleanse itself in tandem with your human side. You will not be training for the rest of the evening but I will be closely monitoring your condition and notating it in your species file…”

Hemlock shook his head, “No… no… I want to keep training…”

“I do not factor in what you are asking for,” Amancio said, “You are too ill to continue and your condition is entirely precarious…”

“But I can’t quit,” Hemlock insisted, “Really I’m fine…”

A confused look crossed Seraphina’s face, shifting her gaze from Hemlock to the contents of the vase, then back to Hemlock and back to the vase again.

“That,” Seraphina said, tilting her head toward the vase, “Is definitely a symbol that you are, in fact, nowhere near as fine as you say.”

“But I am!” Hemlock tried to insist, “I promise. I don’t want…”

“You haven’t disappointed us, Hemlock,” Seraphina said firmly, cutting him off as she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’ve shown incredible strength and determination. But you must learn to listen to your body.”

Amancio nodded in agreement. “Pushing through pain and illness does not make you stronger. It’s knowing when to rest and when to push forward that will make you a true master of your abilities.”

Hemlock looked between them, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty. “I understand. I’ll try to be more careful.”

Seraphina’s eyes softened with affection. “We’re here to help you, ‘lock. You don’t have to prove anything to us. We already see your potential and your strength.”

Amancio leaned forward, his gaze intense yet kind. “Your journey is not just about pushing limits but also about understanding them. We will help you find that balance.”

Hemlock took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you down.”

Seraphina smiled warmly. “We know you won’t. Now, let’s get you more comfortable.”

As they helped him settle back into bed, Hemlock felt a sense of calm wash over him. Seraphina sat beside him, arm wrapped around him, letting him rest his head on her shoulder while she went back to running her hands through his sweaty hair. A simple vanishing charm made the vase disappear and someone conjured or grabbed another bin, setting it next to Hemlock’s bed. Amancio now sat with his records journal in his lap.