writing is SICK

A violent storm had struck London, dealing a harsh blow that rendered infrastructure and economy alike unconscious for the snow choking out the alleyways and piling on rooftops. The grounds of the Phantomhive estate had fared a little better, though not much, and to cross the sea of white that surrounded the manor seemed as insurmountable as walking across the Atlantic.

In short, Sebastian was stuck with no hope of escape unless his master saw fit to send him on a covert mission into town. It seemed unlikely; if any crime had somehow managed to persist through the oppressive snow, they had no way of learning about it, and there was little chance of falling short of supplies (Sebastian having predicted the storm and finding within his duties to order extra provisions from town).

He entertained himself the first few days by showing off for the other servants, because they'd taken to following him around in a line like particularly inept little ducklings. All except Tanaka, who seemed content enough to sleep by the fire, unbothered by the cries of astonishment and admiration that Sebastian's tricks earned him. Juggling, gymnastics, calisthenics, musical improvisation— All this and more he exhausted before Ciel had finished reading the breezeblock of a novel he'd selected a few days prior.

This had been a long day, but at last, the sun saw fit to take its bow and beat a slow, agonizing retreat across the sky, turning everything purple and silver, and it was time to see the young master to bed. Ciel was still working on his novel and seemed disinclined to move, so Sebastian carried him upstairs to his bedchamber and deposited him in an armchair by the fire, to a disappointing lack of reaction. He'd been hoping for an indignant squeak at the least. But Ciel continued to ignore him.

"Forgive me if I speak out of turn, my lord," Sebastian began, crafting the sentence with care. A small delight it was, but how he enjoyed these meandering phrases! "But it seems to me that this downtime is perhaps better spent furthering your education."

"I think not," Ciel murmured, turning the page in his book.

"No?"

Ciel looked up, finally, and his eye narrowed with slight mirth. "Are you really that bored already?" He didn't wait for a reply before continuing, "I think you are, aren't you?" This, too, appeared to be rhetorical, because he only paused long enough to sit up before going on again: "Don't think I didn't hear you showing off earlier. And the others singing your praises. Like you aren't human, they said."

A cold fire blazed in Ciel's eye now, one that promised a vague and unpleasant fate for his opponent. Usually that fate was a bloody death at Sebastian's hands, but, as they were alone in the room, it seemed that Sebastian was the opponent this time. How thrilling. Sebastian smiled, squinting until his eyes shut. "Then surely my lord also heard me reassuring the others that I am, in fact, a mere human."

"Is that really good enough, though?" Ciel's grin had grown positively wicked and his book lay forgotten in his lap. "If you were truly human, you would know that we tend to trust our lived experiences over anyone else's mere words. Sooner or later, they'll want proof. And I think we should give it to them." Sebastian inclined his head. The moment of suspense washed over him as he waited for Ciel's next words: "What could be more human than falling ill during a cold snap?"

Sebastian blinked, the single indication he allowed Ciel that he had been caught off his guard. It wouldn't be fair otherwise. "Ill, my lord?"

"Yes, I think a 'flu should do quite nicely. Scare them a little."

"What are your orders?" Sebastian asked, falling to one knee. This could be a bit of fun. He'd never been ill before.

"Just that," Ciel said. "Come down ill with the 'flu tomorrow. Or approximate it." Offhand, he added, "And yes, that's an order."

"Yes, my lord."

"And I trust you'll make it appropriately dramatic." Ciel's eye glimmered in the firelight. "I know how you love to show off."

—

Sebastian did not generally sleep, but he tucked himself into bed that night in his trousers and shirt. Not owning pajamas or a nightshirt had not been an oversight on his part; he fully intended to wear his usual clothing around the clock, with the occasional change made as circumstances dictated. A flowing white nightshirt simply did not fit the aesthetic.

Blowing out the candle by his bedside, he willed himself into a light sleep and drifted gently to the following morning, his form shifting all the while. He knew how the 'flu came on: it crept up so slowly and quietly that the unfortunate victim had only the vaguest idea it was there. Then it pounced.

And so, the symptoms tiptoed through the night, a little trickery with his body temperature, a little irritation of throat and lungs, a headache that flared like fireworks when he moved his head.

The headache was by far the least tolerable aspect of this part of the plan. The snow-bright light dazzled in his eyes when he awoke to the sound of the servants panicking from somewhere upstairs. The kitchen, judging by the vibrations from their footsteps. Sebastian got up and began to dress, leaving his tie crooked and his hair slightly mussed. Not too much, just yet. Wouldn't want to overdo it. He kept his face pale, but added a yellowish cast and let the rims of his eyes take on an irritated red sheen to imply lack of sleep. Satisfied, he made his bed and began the march up the stairs.

What was ordinarily effortless became nearly insurmountable, and he had to stop and catch his breath when he was only three-quarters of the way up. A few coughs found their way up his stinging throat and he scowled. No use in wasting a good show when there was no audience.

Finny's voice came, high and clear, from down the hall. "Shouldn't we go and get him?"

"Nah," said Bardroy, sounding distinctly like he had a cigarette clamped between his teeth. Yes, now that he was closer, the smell was apparent.

"But what if somethin's happened?" Mey-Rin demanded. Sebastian could practically see her clasping her hands by her jaw, eyes wide behind her glasses.

"He probably just overslept," Bardroy said in that obnoxious tone of unearned authority he so loved to employ. "God knows I wanted to, as cold as it is." Sebastian reached the doorway and waited just out of sight. "He's probably all curled up in bed, comfy as a pug in a rug—"

"Good morning, all." Sebastian stepped around the corner, smiling until his eyes shut. If there was one thing he could not abide, it was to be compared to a dog, of all things. "Forgive me; I seem to have overslept. I take it Tanaka has seen to the young master?" Finny, Mey-Rin, and Bardroy nodded in abashed unison, Finny and Mey-Rin blushing fit to faint. Sebastian nodded shortly and walked further in. "Good. Then, seeing as Bardroy was left unsupervised, I shall have to see to breakfast in a hurry, as I am certain he would know better than to" —a rogue cough tried to force its way up his throat and he was forced to clear it— "endanger the young master with his cooking."

"Hey!" Bardroy exclaimed, but Finny shushed him, apparently to allow Mey-Rin to take center stage for a moment.

She was still blushing up to her ears. Sebastian smiled kindly, narrowing his eyes and looking directly at her to make it worse. "Yes, Mey-Rin, what is it?"

"F-forgive me, Sebastian, but-but-but… your tie is crooked, and I thought—" She reached out to straighten it. "I'm sorry!"

Sebastian caught her hand before she could fully withdraw it. "Thank you, Mey-Rin. Now." Releasing her hand, he lifted his gaze. "I really must insist that you return—" He turned his head to the side and coughed into the crook of his elbow. Not too harshly, just enough to spark mild concern. Regardless, it made his head throb and ring like a struck bell. "R-return to your duties at once."

He watched them with keen eyes as they nodded with a collective "Yes, sir!" Mey-Rin hesitated, looking him over. Finny did not smile as wide as he usually did. And Bardroy's eyes narrowed as he turned to go.

Sebastian smiled.

He listened to them gossip as he did his work, though the pain in his head made it harder to focus and the generalized weakness made it harder to keep his hands steady. In fact— He was actually shaking. His body hurt, too, particularly the legs. His knees wobbled when he stood in one place for too long.

"Cor, I've never seen Sebastian lookin' like that!" Mey-Rin's voice was a ghostly buzz, the vibrations too subtle for a human's ears.

"What, pale and creepy?" Bardroy shot back.

"No, no," Finny chimed in, "Mey-Rin's right! He looked like he was about to fall over."

The vibrations of their voices rattled in Sebastian's head, exacerbating his headache to the point of nausea. Well. That was unexpected. He stopped straining himself in favor of focusing on the task at hand: preparing breakfast for the young lord.

Only sheer force of demonic will allowed him to set the table without faltering. He stood, swaying, slightly, in his usual spot and watched Tanaka escort Ciel to the breakfast table. Bardroy, Finny, and Mey-Rin peeked at him from beyond the far doorway. He blinked, slow and languid. His legs trembled.

Ciel made no mention of his tardiness and did not smile at the rattle of the lid against the teapot. Tea splashed onto the tablecloth, a few droplets staining Sebastian's pristine gloves. His head ached, hot. He wanted it to stop, all of it. This game, this 'flu, this maddening weakness.

Interesting.

It seemed the psychological toll of illness was a subtle thing, more subtle than even the symptoms.

"Stop." Ciel stilled Sebastian's hand with his own. "Something's wrong."

It wasn't a question, which allowed Sebastian to slither around his oath of truthfulness. He had to take a deep breath to steel himself before facing the ordeal of speech. "I can assure you, my lord, despite my tardiness, breakfast has been prepared to my exacting standards."

"You would, of course, inform me if you felt you were unable to perform your duties."

"I would hardly be fit to call myself the Phantomhive butler if I allowed myself to be so rattled by something as simple as oversleeping."

"You look ghastly."

Sebastian swallowed back a few coughs that exploded like firecrackers in his chest and made his eyes water. "I'll be fine, my lord," he choked, and staggered backwards a few steps so as not to cough directly on Ciel. For he couldn't hold them back now, relinquishing all but the tiniest sliver of his self-control to the monster of the 'flu. It was on him now, the miserable, shuddering heat of fever and the all-over weakness that made even standing a chore of the highest degree.

"Sebastian?" Ciel's manufactured alarm would have fooled all but the sharpest observer. Somewhere beyond the blur of his tears, Sebastian watched him stand up and freeze.

"Do forgive me," Sebastian said, recovering himself. His head spun with an unfamiliar giddiness, stomach turning over. He wasn't going to be sick, was he? That had not been part of the plan; it was too inelegant, too unsightly, not at all befitting the butler aesthetic.

The room tilted sideways and someone shouted, but he couldn't make out the words over the roaring in his ears. Then the floor dropped out from under him and all was nothing.

He let a bit more of his control and awareness slip away because he felt truly awful. No more play-acting; he was miserable. Even the small sliver of awareness he allowed himself was agony. Someone touched him and the rough wool of his uniform scratched against his neck and he was cold and hot by turns. He felt his body shiver and all his muscles ached in response to the effort.

"You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?" a voice asked. Bardroy.

He let awareness wash over him in delicate waves, so as not to overwhelm himself and cry out. First hearing, though there wasn't much to hear. Just the crackle of the fire and Bardroy breathing from somewhere off to the side. Smell and taste, too, revealed little information. Fire and Bardroy and illness. Touch was more interesting, though nearly overwhelming. His body hurt and the hot-cold sensation was unbearable. He began to tremble, unable to fight the base urge to keen and curl in on himself. The only solace was something soft against his skin, so wonderfully, wonderfully soft.

"Hey, hey." Bardroy's voice came gentle and concerned from somewhere above him. "Calm down."

Lastly, sight. He cracked his eyes open and immediately shut them again in response to the pain that pulsed outward from the back of his head. He opened them again, just not so wide, and found Bardroy staring down at him. "My quarters?" he asked weakly.

"You fainted." Bardroy put a hand on his shoulder, like he was afraid Sebastian might cut and run. The soft fabric between them rubbed against his skin. Sebastian fell back, limp, and looked down at himself.

Someone had dressed him in careworn white pajamas. Even buttoned to the top, they slid down to reveal far too much chest, which was flushed pink, and the sleeves ended between his first and second knuckles. But they were soft, softer than anything Sebastian had felt in a good long while. Certainly softer than anything Ciel owned, in the way cloth got when it was well-used and well-loved.

Bardroy caught him looking and adjusted himself so he could sit on the edge of the bed and still face Sebastian. "Oh yeah, lent you some pajamas. You didn't seem to have any, so." He shrugged.

"Thank you, Bardroy," Sebastian said, meaning it for the first time ever. He hadn't realized how stifling his tailcoat and trousers had been until they were off, and the relief was such that he might have shed a tear if he'd thought it would earn him any quarter. Instead, he sighed and nestled into his pillow as a shudder rippled outward from his core.

Bardroy's gaze softened and he reached a hand out as though to smooth down Sebastian's hair only to pause and pull it back. "Get some rest," he said with intolerable tenderness. "Call me if you need anything."

Sebastian nodded and blinked slowly, lids growing heavier.

"And Sebastian?"

"Hm?"

"I do mean that." Bardroy smiled, sickeningly fond. "I'll be right here."

In some ways, respect is a dangerous thing. Cyrus is curled over on himself, his clammy forehead pressed against the tabletop and one arm wrapped around his stomach. The maps of Pasio sit untouched in front of him and a few highlighters roll slightly with the trembling of the table. Something is obviously wrong, but the fear-respect he's instilled into the hearts of his unexpected companions keeps their tongues still and their heads down. They make excuses for their silence.

They're working on the problem, after all, the problem he's supposed to be helping solve. A potential island-wide power outage is not the kind of thing to be taken lightly, especially not with Lear breathing down all their necks. It's a small mercy for all of them that he's not in the room now, and that's only because Cynthia has gone to keep him at bay. That the problem is dire enough that she felt the need to ask Cyrus for help should speak volumes, but Lear's teenagerish whine is audible from the hall.

Cyrus' headache is the least of his concerns, but the sound of Lear's temper tantrum does him no favors. He swallows hard, trying to gather the willpower to sit up. His stomach clenches in open defiance at the thought, and his face, hidden in the table, contorts in response. He has no control over himself, no control over the situation. He's too sick to even sit up and not one person in the room is prepared to lend a hand, not that he would even take it.

Sophocles and Clemont might if they notice his condition get worse, but they are young and eager to prove themselves, too wrapped up in solving the puzzle. Volkner is more aware of him but more careful as well. He has never had cause to work with Cyrus before; he very well could be deep in thought.

In the hall, Lear's voice rises to a shout, "Fine! But you'd better make it quick." Cyrus braces both hands on the edge of the table and drags himself up. Pride has never been very important to him, but pragmatism defines him. Getting on Cynthia's bad side will not serve him and Lear has just issued an ultimatum. So, ignoring the tight, drumming nausea building in his belly, Cyrus reaches for the nearest highlighter.

It's a bit like arts-and-crafts for geniuses: the four of them seated around a table with their pens and paper. But instead of coloring sheets, they have maps of all the power lines and hubs on the island of Pasio. They're supposed to be working together, but Cyrus' presence and Lear's subsequent wrath had silenced the conversation Sophocles and Clemont had been having.

Cyrus stares at one of the maps. It blurs in front of his eyes. His insulated Team Galactic uniform is heavy and tight, trapping all his body heat. A necessity in Sinnoh, but a hindrance now that his internal temperature is far, far higher than what it should be. He is pointedly ignoring a fever of 39 degrees, but he can't ignore the way it plays on his spirit and causes unnecessary emotions to flare up.

He swallows back another wave of nausea and rubs his eyes, bringing the map back into focus.

Beside him, Volkner sighs and draws a circle in blue pen. Cyrus watches with detached interest as Volkner adds to it, but the shape of a Voltorb quickly emerges and Cyrus turns away again. Lear is wasting their time. He knows it, Cynthia knows it, and Volkner knows it. Sophocles and Clemont suspect it, but they don't mind as much.

The door opens and shuts. "I brought coffee and donuts," Cynthia says in a strained voice, forcing a smile. The smell hits Cyrus right in the stomach. His knuckles go white around the highlighter, shoulders lurching as bile hits the back of his throat. Sheer force of will keeps him from vomiting all over the table, but there's nothing he can do for the new pallor of his face or the perpetual sweat on his brow. He looks ill. He can feel it.

Volkner gives her a dark look, and only experience with him tells Cynthia that he's not being rude on purpose. "Thanks," he mutters, standing to take the drink carrier from her so she can set the box of donuts on the table.

"And hot chocolate for the kids," Cynthia continues smoothly, but she's watching Cyrus. He makes no move for either the coffee or the donuts; he makes no move at all. He sits there, still and pale. "No luck?" she prompts.

Amidst the chatter and gratitude from the children, Cyrus breaks a little, a hairline crack in his self-control. "It's not about luck," he says hotly, red surging into his cheeks. 

Cynthia's cool look betrays none of her puzzlement. After everything she's seen Cyrus do, she would not have expected a simple electrical wiring issue to be his breaking point. She looks at his unmarked paper, then follows the line of his arm up toward his face. He doesn't look very well today: paler than usual and sweating.

Cyrus reaches for the vent zippers on his jumpsuit. His hand shakes. Cynthia's attention is still on him, the pressure is mounting, but the words trip over themselves on their way to his mouth and he can't focus long enough to sort them out. His zipper has caught on the nylon of his vest and his stomach is still churning in protest at the smell of pastries in the air. "Lear knows," he starts helplessly, putting down the highlighter so he can work at the zipper with both hands. Sweat rolls down his back and suddenly the matter of the zipper supersedes everything else. His only priority is getting some of his layers off, because the heat is making him urgently nauseated in a way he wasn't before. His heart pounds. His head swims. He tries again, "Lear knows perfectly well what the solution is." 

"He said he doesn't want to do that," Volkner interjects, "and I kinda don't blame him. Cutting off the power to this Pokémon Center for the time it would take to make repairs on the generators would be more than just a minor inconvenience. I mean…" He trails off, gesturing around them. They are in the Pokémon Center in question. It's the largest and best-equipped on Pasio, even able to handle minor surgeries.

"Lear is suffering because his spirit dictates," Cyrus argues, his hands dropping from his zipper. Volkner's face appears to waver in front of him, ripples in reality like Dialga and Palkia are near. Palkia is. Safe in a Pokéball on Cyrus' belt. He touches it just to be sure. "He has decided there's another way and he's going to be hurt when he finally decides to accept the truth." The last word is accompanied by a burst of air, a frantic exhale to inhale. Cyrus' heart is pounding now, so intense that he can feel it in his ears. Nausea writhes in his stomach. He shoots to his feet and strides out of the room. The hallway is empty, though a few closed doors hint at procedures in progress. Cyrus finds an open one and staggers through it, kicking the door shut behind him. The procedure rooms all have private bathrooms, but he ends up not even making it that far. The large, stainless steel sink embedded in the countertop proves to be his saving grace; he doubles over and lets his body do what it needs to do.

In the conference room, Cynthia and Volkner are reassuring Sophocles and Clemont that nothing is amiss. Cyrus bends at the waist until his forehead nearly brushes the bottom of the sink, swallowing down mouthfuls of saliva. His stomach contracts at an awkward time and he coughs around the vomit forcing its way up his throat. A sudden wave of dizziness casts him sideways; he braces his forearms on either side of the sink to keep from falling over. His body forces up another wave of vomit, sending a burning sensation all up and down his chest and throat.

And just like that, it's over. The nausea recedes but does not entirely vanish. Cyrus pulls back from the sink and turns it on with his eyes closed, knowing what awaits him if he opens them. He does have to open them to rinse his mouth, but by then the water has done its job. He cleans up slowly, shakily, not giving himself any time to recover. He can do that later. First, he has to disinfect everything.

The work would almost be peaceful if he wasn't on the cusp of fainting. The procedure room is dark and cool. It smells pleasantly of cleaning solution (mostly because Cyrus has sprayed it on everything) and for a moment, Cyrus can convince himself he's safe from the whims and ire of bratty adolescent princes.

He isn't, of course. When he's done cleaning and no longer shaking, when he's wiped the tears from his eyes and the saliva from his chin, he turns toward the door. Pragmatism wins out at the last minute and he checks himself in the mirror before leaving. Aside from a few spots of water on his chest, he is immaculate. He does look ill, but not nearly as ill as he feels, and that's something. He doesn't need anyone's pity. He needs to go solve Lear's problem so he can go back to base and sleep.

That he's not leaving without solving the problem goes unacknowledged in his mind. He doesn't give up. He's never been one to walk away from a challenge.

He re-enters the conference room slowly, taking a cup of coffee and a packet of powder creamer from the paperboard drink carrier. Vomiting has left him exhausted and lightheaded, his eyes threatening to slam shut as though under Darkrai's influence.

The coffee is bitter and doesn't sit well in his stomach, but it's better than nothing. He isn't brave enough to try one of the donuts.

"Welcome back," Volkner says drily, barely glancing up from his map.

Cynthia says nothing, but she watches. Cyrus struggles a little with the powder creamer, his hands unsteady. His eyes are rimmed pink now and if Cynthia didn't know any better, she would guess that he had been crying. The thought draws a wry smile to her lips. Cyrus, who commanded multiple Legendary Pokémon and nearly broke reality, crying over a glorified logic puzzle.

Cyrus downs half the coffee in a few swallows, ignoring the sensation of a knife in his gut. Addressing Volkner, he points with a capped pen to a hub on the map, a Pokémon Center high in the mountains. "What about that one?"

Volkner follows the diagram with his eyes. "So if we cut the power here and re-route it from here—" Cyrus drops the pen and practically convulses as a sudden, violent shiver rolls down his spine. The overtaxed muscles in his stomach all scream in protest and it's all he can do to keep from wincing "—nothing else loses power."

"It appears so." Cyrus sits back and draws his arms in as needles of cold race through him. His head swims and it takes a massive effort not to curl in on himself. Instead, he reaches for his coffee and finishes it, relaxing a little at the sensation of warmth flooding his core. His fever sits at 39.5 degrees. His stomach makes a quiet sound of protest at the unwelcome intrusion and cramps a little as though to warn him against consuming anything else. The coffee tastes like ash.

"Lear said he doesn't want any of the Pokémon Centers to lose power," Sophocles says doubtfully, after a brief whispered conversation with Clemont.

"He can evacuate that area for the duration," Cyrus shoots back, "temporarily eliminating the need for a Pokémon Center there."

"He's not gonna like it," Volkner says in a warning tone.

Cyrus says nothing, struggling to suppress a sudden wave of bile from his rolling stomach. Every instinct tells him that it's time to go, that he's going to be sick very soon, but rocking waves of vertigo keep him pinned to his seat. He leans forward onto his elbow, bracing his mouth against his knuckles to keep a few nauseated hiccups at bay.

Cynthia watches him with a thoughtful frown. In her few interactions with Cyrus, he always held himself with the upright posture of a leader. Everything about him screams brute force as much as it screams intellect. Cyrus is no slouching, sneaking king's advisor. He doesn't hunch in on himself like he's trying to hide from the world. Something has to be wrong with him. "I'll go talk to Lear," she says, watching closely. Cyrus doesn't move. "Cyrus, why don't you come with me in case he has questions?" It's not a request.

Cyrus' steely eyes meet Cynthia's own silver gaze. She raises an eyebrow at him, wondering how she had missed before how pale Cyrus is. The pronounced hollows of his cheeks look gruesome now, the shadows under his eyes practically violet. Closer inspection reveals beads of sweat in his hairline. He sways a little as he stands and has to brace himself on the table, but his challenging gaze never wavers. "Very well."

Cynthia holds the door for him and reflects that he must be accustomed to working himself to the bone, to pushing himself far past his limits. They're only a few paces down the hall when Cyrus stumbles and has to catch himself on the wall. Cynthia's voice does not reach his ears. Nothing does except for the roar of his pulse.

"Cyrus!" Cynthia tries to keep her voice below a shout and just barely succeeds. Cyrus' hand slips off the wall and she can only watch as he keels over in a dead faint.

She kneels by his side, hands hovering by his shoulders, but he's already blinking to awareness. At this proximity, his body heat warms her skin. He's burning up. He's bleeding, too, having hit his head on something when he fell. It's a small, shallow cut, but the trickle of blood is already approaching the carpet. "I may require medical attention," Cyrus murmurs, forcing himself to sit up. It's a bad idea. His head throbs and his stomach does a flip, threatening to spill coffee and bile all over the carpet.

This startles an incredulous laugh out of Cynthia, who sits back on her heels and stares at him. "Cyrus, I'd say you needed medical attention the minute you woke up this morning. How long have you had that fever?"

He shakes his head and forces himself to his feet. He doesn't want medical attention; he doesn't want attention of any kind. Not from Cynthia, not from Lear, not even from his Commanders. He wants to lock himself in a private bathroom until he can go an hour without getting sick all over himself.

Standing is a mistake. Immediately, his heart begins to race and he gasps, unable to get enough air.

It's a frightening sight, even for someone as experienced as Cynthia, but something finally clicks into place as she thinks somewhat wistfully about Sygna Suits. This would be easier if there were Sygna Suits that helped people empathize more readily with each other. But the best she can do is guesswork, and all Cyrus is giving her is stubbornness. "Not here," he mumbles, mostly to himself, and that's when Cynthia gets it. She dashes into one of the procedure rooms and, with nimbleness she didn't know she was capable of, snatches the waste bin and holds it under Cyrus' face.

He wraps his arms around it and sinks to the floor, his head lolling back against the wall. Cynthia watches in tense silence as he gags without lifting his head. His eyes are closed and she surmises, correctly, that he's only half-conscious.

"Cyrus…" Cynthia whispers, but he's past the point of hearing. She kneels and takes his head in her hands. He's burning hot and shuddering violently, unaware of his surroundings. Really, he's unaware of everything except for the violent nausea thrashing in his stomach. Nothing in particular tips him over the edge; one minute he's dry-heaving and the next he's vomiting up a bitter mixture of coffee and stomach acid. It hurts. The tears that spring to his eyes are not solely a byproduct of vomiting. His head pounds, his stomach is cramping, and all the muscles in his body are sore.

For the first time since Cynthia has known him, Cyrus looks his age. She had gleaned from somewhere that he's only 27 and been unable to believe it, but she sees it now. The lines of hatred and despair are gone from his face. She holds his head steady in case he needs to be sick again, but he's gotten it out of his system for the moment. 

The blood on his forehead is smudged now, some of it staining Cynthia's palm. They are well past the point of consent, but still she hesitates. "Cyrus?"

"Hm?"

"You need a doctor."

"No." It's more of a plea than anything. He doesn't want to be this sick, doesn't want the cloying concern from his Commanders once they find out. The thought makes his stomach twist.

The queasy look on Cyrus' face seals the deal for Cynthia. He's staying here until he can walk out on his own.

Cyrus vomits again shortly after an MA inserts the line for IV fluids. To his credit, he keeps his arm straight as he coughs saliva and bile into the hard plastic emesis basin. Cynthia herself takes it away and brings him a cup of water so he can rinse his mouth and buries his shuddering body under layers of standard issue Pokémon Center blankets. They're a shade of pale green that would be soothing if it didn't so closely resemble the sickly color of Cyrus's face. 

He barely reacts, too far gone at this point to do anything more than sigh and fall heavily against the backrest of the recliner he's been placed in. Cynthia pulls up a chair beside him. There's nothing to do now but wait for the antiemetics to kick in. In the meantime, she watches Cyrus' eyelids flutter. He's fighting sleep and she doesn't know why. She sighs, wishing Cyrus would just communicate but unable to blame him for not doing so. If their positions were switched, she certainly wouldn't want to talk to him.

"You can sleep," she says softly. "I can leave."

"I'm not going to get much rest here," Cyrus says. He's referring to the chair, which is, for all its ergonomics and adjustability, still a chair. With Cyrus' insomnia, he's lucky if he can fall asleep in a bed.

Cynthia, of course, has no way of knowing this and opts to change the subject instead of interrogating Cyrus about what would make him more comfortable. "Is anyone expecting you today? Your Commanders?"

Cyrus sighs and rubs his forehead with his free hand. His wound has been disinfected and bandaged, and the medical tape creases when he frowns. "I suppose someone should notify them. Just don't be surprised when they come running."