am i allowed…to request…more sick avery… 🥹✌️
no but fr i love your fics sm. they bring me so much joy 😭😭
Avery hates this.
He hates the walls, hates the ceiling, hates how the room feels too small even with the windows cracked open as far as D3r dared. Being sick already makes his skin feel wrong—too tight, too heavy—and being stuck indoors on top of it turns the discomfort into something sharp and restless, like pacing would help if he were capable of standing without swaying.
He isn’t.
So he’s in D3r’s lap instead, curled in on himself, knees drawn up awkwardly, face pressed into armor that’s cool when Avery feels like he's sweltering and melting in the bad way. It’s not dignified. Avery is acutely aware of that. He’s usually very aware of not being a burden, and being sick only makes that instinct worse.
“I could go outside,” he mutters, voice muffled. “Just for a bit. I’ll be careful.”
D3r doesn’t move his arms, doesn’t loosen his hold even a fraction. “You won’t,” he says calmly. “You’ll push too hard and make it worse.”
Avery scowls, weakly, then exhales in a long, miserable huff. He knows D3r is right. He hates that D3r is right.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Time is fuzzy when everything aches.
Eventually, Avery shifts, pressing closer without fully realizing he’s doing it, fingers fisting in D3r’s cloak like he’s anchoring himself. His glow pulses unevenly, betraying every spike of discomfort, every wave of frustration.
“I don’t like this,” Avery whispers, small and unhappy.
D3r adjusts his grip just enough to pull Avery tighter, one hand steady over his back, grounding and sure. “I know,” he says quietly.
