#archoncore

It had taken a few days to get around to him, but by the time he started coughing, he knew what was going to happen. All there was was to bear it.  Not that Archon was taking it bravely; he’d seen the serious looks on Klynt and Doc Mathye’s faces as they spoke about it. He didn't want to die, and he especially didn't want to die slowly or painfully, but there was simply nothing else to do except let the doctor work out the problem. He watched the two of them enter Dana’s room in the little living space the boarders called home and come out with grave expressions. Well, Doc Mathye did. Klynt wore a mask. That probably meant something worse than if she hadn't.

Archon had holed up in his room, coughing fits interrupting fitful sleep, until he was told the entire tavern and everyone living there was being moved. He was too tired and nervous to object, simply wandering his way to the barn as instructed to find the stalls turned into pseudo-sickrooms. His stomach lurched, wondering if the worn wood and dirt would be his last home.

Dustwatch arrived, as well as garrison healers, though no one really seemed sure what to do. More people arrive to be quarantined, townspeople who’d been in the Saltlick recently, and a few others. Archon hoped it didn't get to them too, whatever it is. He curled on a cot, sweating and shivering under blankets smelling of mothballs and dust, and hoped Doc Mathye got on with fixing it already.

What surprised him was the level of help they received. People didn't come in, of course, and he didn't blame them, but the evidence of their assistance was obvious. Home-cooked meals in mismatched crockery, freshly laundered clothes, some fresh food from the fields or donated well-loved blankets to keep people warm during cold desert nights. Hell, Doc Mathye had set up a little workshop just outside, and that couldn't be healthy. He was going to get himself sick too.

He considered what might have happened back home. Much as he missed it, he knew Ul’dah had its particular issues. It talked about keeping people safe, but he had little doubt a quarantine there would have been much more than throwing food into a building and waiting until the sickness passed or the sick did. 

Thankfully, the sickness did seem to pass. Archon’s breathing evened out and the shivers came less frequently, though he still felt as if he’d been run over by a rroneek.

***

It didn't last. On the third day, the illness came back with a vengeance. Those townsfolk who hadn't been too sick when they came were taken to bed now, definitely ill.

Archon woke with a splitting headache and groaned quietly. His entire body hurt, every muscle tense, while he trembled violently under the blanket.

He heard someone near the entrance to his little sick-bay and cracked an eye to find Doc Mathye standing there, frowning. “You're not being dramatic, I suppose?”

“I’d be dramatic for a papercut, not the fuckin’ plague,” Archon rasped in a voice like sandpaper, ripped raw from days of coughing. “Please, doc. Figure this out. Dependin’ on you.” Maybe a little too much pressure, but it was true.

The doctor left and returned with another medicine, still bitter-tasting, and Archon could see the circles under his eyes, the stubborn set of his lips. This thing is going to kill them both, and everyone else in this barn, if Mathye doesn't figure it out soon. Archon felt useless–worse than useless, a drain, but there was little he could do.

Klynt had checked on him a few times as well, checked up on all the Saltlick boarders. He’d barely spoken a word to her, pretended to sleep more than once. He didn't want to see that worried face she made. She should sleep too. It wasn't her fault.

Zoissette had been around, as well as someone else he didn't know, a quiet, dark-skinned elf. Archon had no idea what they were doing. The fact that Zoissette was working on whatever plague this was probably meant it was quite a bad one, but also that they were putting their all into fixing it. At least there was that.

***

He almost missed the hubbub, not that he really knew what had happened anyway. He’d been dozing when a woman began shouting, screaming as if she'd been poisoned. Archon heard the jangling of the Duskwatch’s spurs and the retreating voice of the hysterical woman, then Mathye’s low, concerned tones. Towering sunflowers nearly reached the ceiling over by where it happened. Sunflowers inside? Perhaps he was hallucinating. Maybe Mathye wanted to cheer them up. That idea was ridiculous enough that he choked on a laugh to himself and the sunflowers faded from his attention.

***

Every breath came out as a wheeze, and every wheeze seemed to be a chant: Help. Help. Help. Every muscle was sore; coughing felt like being punched in the chest and the blankets were soaked with sweat as he shivered underneath them. If any stray thoughts made it past the weight of fatigue, they were quickly swallowed and choked by the foggy pressure that clouded his head. Archon alternated between sleeping, gazing out with glazed eyes at the corridor of the world he could see from his stall-cum-sickbed, and sleeping on his other side (which included the exhausting endeavor of turning over).

It was Zoissette who appeared at his little cell this time. Probably. She wore a strange mask–he couldn't blame her–but the figure was Zoissette-shaped, and the muffled voice brusquely ordering him to drink something sounded like her. She carefully handed him a flask from a collection and bustled off.

Archon was beyond the ability to determine what it was. It wasn't as if it could make him much worse, surely. He downed whatever it was in the glass and set it aside.

He didn't know how long passed. That wasn't unusual. What was different was a calm heaviness easing over him like a blanket, gradual but unrelenting. Some niggling part in the back of his mind buzzed in alarm, but perhaps Zoissette had simply decided it was kinder to give him a faster way out. Ah, well. She could have at least said goodbye. Archon huffed a sigh and let the medication pull him under into sleep.

***

He awoke the next morning.

This in itself was surprising enough, much less the fact that his breathing now sounded more like a whisper than a broken accordion. He still felt sore and weak, but actually rested, and the fog in his mind had lifted enough that he could put his present situation together with whatever Zoissette had given him. Getting out of bed still seemed like far too much effort, but perhaps turning over was–no, nope, still terrible. Well, Archon would take the wins he had. Breathing was a good start.

Zoissette arrived a while later with more of the same mixture as before. “Drink this.”

Archon took it. “Will it–” He had to pause for a coughing fit. “Will it put me to sleep again?”

“Yes. You need to rest. Even Klynt and Mathye are resting, and getting them to stop moving is a trial of its own.”

He’d completely forgotten about Klynt and Mathye. Archon felt a bit guilty–they had been a large part of the reason this medicine existed, after all, and had probably made themselves terribly sick doing so. He covered his awkwardness by drinking the medicine and handing the bottle back. Zoissette moved on wordlessly once more, and Archon let the blanket of unconsciousness cover over him.

***

It was dark outside when he woke next. He had no idea what time or day it was; it didn't really matter anyway, when they were all the same.

The bed in the corner is not big enough for the both of them, really, but as Ement shares a home with his sister and a very romantic ghost, that’s off the table, at least for now. The only other option would be one of the client rooms, and Ement feels his stomach flip at the very thought. So he lets Archon tuck himself in toward the wall first, and then hesitates, something in him still so unsure, not about Archon, but about himself. He still can hardly believe he’s not mistaken, and surely any day Archon will realize he has better options than a broken war veteran who can offer him nothing.

Archon barely notices as his own attention is focused on buzzing nerves. He slips under the sheets, facing the wall, trying to put as little pressure or expectations on Ement as possible. He also knows he tends to hold things in his sleep, and clutching a pillow is probably a better idea than turning Ement into an accidental teddy bear, to save them both embarrassment. Somehow he’s afraid he’ll do it wrong, not be what Ement expects or wants, and it will hurt all the more for having tried to make it real.

For his part, Ement swallows his nerves and follows, lying on his back and pulling the covers over himself.

“Night,” Archon murmurs.

“Goodnight.”

It takes only a few moments for Em to realize it will be difficult to fall asleep. For one, there's something moving in the bed–Ement jerks the first time it bumps him, before realizing it's only Archon's tail twitching.

“Ah–sorry. I can turn over if it bothers you,” Archon says.

“No, no. It's fine.” How curious. Does that happen all night, or just as he falls asleep? Do miqo’te do the same thing? Ement’s struck by a wild desire to grab Archon's tail, just to see what would happen, but puts it out of his head. The range of things he never considered, having lived among mostly elezen his entire life… How many more were there to discover? Would Archon find him rude for not considering them before? Like Ement is considering him some exotic thing? Well, not much Ement can do about it now but keep an open mind. He’s finding he quite enjoys many of the things he learns, anyway. He resigns himself to lying there for as long as it takes to fall asleep, and strangely, that somehow helps him relax enough to actually get there. He doesn't notice when he drifts off.

***

Three Weeks Later

***

When Ement wakes in the morning, he finds Archon’s face tucked into his shoulder, the man breathing evenly with an arm thrown possessively over Ement's chest. His horn is digging into Ement’s clavicle–probably what woke him up–but the cursory glance Ement gives it assures him it won't break the skin.

He could use a pull from his box. Crispy breathing wheezes through his lungs, but moving would wake the other man. Instead, he takes a moment to simply look, following the lines of Archon's face. The customary khol he always wears is gone from his eyes; no subtle glitter or shine of other makeup. It makes Archon look both younger and older at the same time. Without his usual sly smile, he looks too serious, almost sad. Ement inspects how the scales and skin meet, fascinated by the way they intersect and move, and his attention falls lower, to where fine trails of tiny scales wind their way behind his neck. He follows one with a finger, absorbed by the texture under his fingertip, and Archon shifts and sighs. He brings the hand back up, tracing butterfly-light over the ridge of a horn. This, Archon doesn't seem to notice, at least not as he sleeps. The horn feels different than the scales: harder, stiffer, like… Well. Like horn. He hadn't been sure what the scales would feel like until the first time he had touched them, but the tough material seems to be flexible enough to allow adequate movement. They remain a marvel to him.

Archon's arm on Ement's chest is slim but defined, the muscles slowly filling out as he practices magic with the circus troupe. More scales, both in large patches and in delicate sweeping lines, and Ement thinks about what it must be like to have decoration built into your skin. Not that he’d ever say that, not in those words–he’d choose something more flattering, like what is it like to be so beautifully filligreed, but still. Is it bothersome? Not to be able to remove when one wishes to be unobtrusive? Or a blessing that makes one stand out?

Archon stirs again and makes a quiet noise, then breaks into an enormous yawn than displays twin pairs of pointed canines.

“I'm sorry,” Ement says. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Mmmn,” Archon grunts. The arm around Ement squeezes tighter for a moment before releasing again.

“If you're awake, though, I’d like to get my medication.”

Another noncommittal noise. Ement takes it as obliging and slips out of Archon's grip. He pads barefoot across the room–it feels exceedingly nice, with all the carpets, what an excellent idea–to fire up his little box. It sparks and the components inside hiss quietly. Ement gives it a moment, then takes a draw and coughs. The first of the morning is always the worst, but a few more and he can feel the drugs beginning to work.

“Bring it back.”

“Hm?” Ement turns to see Archon unmoved, eyes still closed.

“Bring it back to bed. S’cold now,” Archon mumbles without bothering to open his eyes.

Ement chuckles. Ah, so that was it. “I fear that you would not survive the Coeurthan winter, my dear. I suppose that means it falls to me to protect you from the biting chill.” He sets the box on the nightstand and gets back into bed. He uses the pillow to prop himself against the headboard, and Archon immediately presses against him again.

“S’ shorter than giving every reason.” Like the way he makes Archon feel actually somewhat competent and the little thoughtful gestures he does and the simple pleasure of feeling the man next to him. Archon shivers under the covers and settles. Ement runs an idle hand through Archon’s hair and the pair settle back into comfortable silence, interrupted by the hiss of Ement’s machine as he takes the occasional draw from it.