#implied scat

Scaramouche should’ve known the moment he’d been assigned on this little mission with Childe, that one of two things would happen. Everything would go to shit being more of a hassle than it was worth or they would succeed, but not without Childe doing something idiotic.

Surprisingly neither had happened, Childe’s presence hadn’t been as irritating as usual. If anything Scaramouche found himself slightly at ease in a strange way. Perhaps maybe, just maybe this was the world’s way of telling him he should’ve been more careful, the calm before the provable storm so to speak.

Scaramouche gives a soft groan as he opens his eyes ever so slightly, his head is killing him, throbbing so violently to the point he could feel it in his teeth. In his still groggy state the headache combined with the fog clouding his mind makes it nearly impossible to gather his thoughts, each one slipping through his fingers before they could fully form.

However, despite that Scaramouche is aware of a few things. One, he’s more than likely hungover, which rarely happened to him, not because he didn’t drink but because he wasn’t human, so it typically took a decent amount to get him to that point in the first place.

Scaramouche shifts, licking his lips and cringing when he tastes the familiar stale bitter, and sour taste of alcohol coating his mouth, a faint memory of him drinking wine out of a barrel last night floating to the forefront of his mind as a slight queasiness settled in his stomach makes itself known.

The second thing Scaramouche registers when he turns his head slightly is that he’s laying in bed next to Childe, who is seemingly deep in sleep, his soft breathing filling the room. Another memory from last night returns to Scaramouche’s mind, him and Childe getting drunk and wandering, halfway stumbling, back to Childe’s room.

From what Scaramouche could see, both of them were half-dressed and he faintly remembered the two of them clumsily trying to remove each other’s clothes only for exhaustion from the mission combined with the wine to put them to sleep.

Scaramouche becomes aware of the last thing when he sits up a bit further and he swallows thickly, muffling a soft airy hiccup into his hand when his stomach lurches, seemingly sloshing with the motion of the ship around him.

Another soft groan left his mouth and he scowled as he rested a hand on his stomach, rubbing it absentmindedly as he attempted to ignore the queasiness settled there.

He’s not surprised about being at least slightly nauseous considering everything but that didn’t mean he liked it.

Mumbling a soft curse under his breath he begins attempting to climb out of bed. After all, he really, really didn’t have the energy at the moment between the god-awful headache and nausea to deal with Childe at the moment.

Which is seemingly why Childe chooses that exact moment to wake up. A low groan comes from Childe’s lips as his eyes flutter open.

“Scara,” Childe mumbled as he narrowed his eyes slightly. His entire body feels stiff, but that was likely due to sleeping in an awkward position most of the night.

The taste of stale dried alcohol coated his tongue in a bitter taste. Besides the slight dull ache he felt at the base of his skull Childe feels a bit surprised that his hangover is all but nonexistent.

“Don’t call me that, you idiot,” Scaramouche hissed as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering in front of his stomach as if he were afraid to touch it.

The ship seemed to slowly sway around him, and Scaramouche instinctively clutches at his stomach when it makes a soft almost inaudible gurgling noise. He can’t help but feel slightly uneasy.

Childe yawned as he sat up taking note of both of their slight states of undress. He is missing his scarf, and his jacket as well leaving him in his pants and unbuttoned red shirt.

On the flip side, Scaramouche is missing not only his hat but his shirt and socks as well and at the moment, he had a good portion of the wrinkled blanket wrapped around himself.

His indigo hair is slightly on the fluffy side, both from when he’d been sleeping and where Childe’s hands had been running through it.

That and his lack of clothing are the only clues that show what he and Childe had been attempting to do. The faint hickeys Childe had left on his neck long healed before either of them fell asleep.

“Something wrong with you,” Childe sighed with a scowl as he ran a hand through his hair.

He was used to Scaramouche’s usual attitude but at the moment it seems as if Scaramouche’s words have an extra bite to them. Not to mention that he seemed slightly paler than usual.

After a moment though it seems to click for Childe, which he attributes to the last dregs of sleep still faintly clinging to him.

A soft snort leaves Childe’s mouth. “You’re hungover aren’t you?”

In an instant, Scaramouche glared at him which lets Childe knows his assumption is correct. “Shut up,” he snapped.

Scaramouche climbs to his feet and Childe watches him for a moment slightly amused. Especially when Scaramouche begins muttering under his breath as he searches for his clothes.

“I don’t wanna hear that from some brat who can’t handle his ale,” Scaramouche grumbled. “You-“ he stops for a moment, closing his eyes and clutching at his head when a horrible ache streaks across his skull.

His other hand going to his stomach and rubbing it slightly when that slight twinge of queasiness seems to increase. The swaying of the ship does little to help, if anything it feels like it’s making it worse, whatever contents he has in his stomach feeling as though they were being gently swirled.

And Scaramouche swallows, before giving a soft groan. He says nothing however, instead he simply stays where he is, crouched on the floor his eyes closed as he attempts to will his body to stop fighting him.

He hears Childe chuckle softly and the sounds of the blankets shifting as Childe moves. “Hold on,” Childe told him.

Scaramouche says nothing as he does his best to push down his feelings of unease. He didn’t even quite know why he felt this way at the moment either, maybe it was simply because this was the first time he’d been hungover in many, many years. Honestly, after all these years he just believed it was impossible to happen again.

Perhaps that should’ve been a clue to him that maybe something else was wrong, but with his head currently throbbing in time with his heartbeat, he doesn’t allow himself to give it a second thought.

He can’t help but jump slightly when he feels Childe’s hands on his shoulders. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed as he snatched his arms out of Childe’s grip.

The sudden movement has another soft groan leaving his mouth, especially when it feels as if it sends his brain rattling around in his skull.

Beneath his anger though is humiliation, a few cups of firewater and a barrel or two of wine should not have affected him this much. In terms of immortality, Scaramouche was very young at only 500 or so years old, he’d seen beings both younger and older than him drink wine like water without issue.

But perhaps what was even more humiliating was the fact that Childe seemed completely fine. He hadn’t drank as much as Scaramouche of course, nowhere even close but for a human, he’d drank a decent amount of the fire water.

It was infuriating.

“I mean I could leave you there on the floor if you want,” Childe told him as he reached out grabbing Scaramouche’s arms once more.

Scaramouche is silent for a moment before opening his eyes slightly and glancing over at Childe. “This is your fault, I hate you.”

Hearing those all too familiar words Childe gives a soft snort, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Getting Scaramouche to his feet is fairly easy thankfully, although Childe can’t help but think of how a person holds a cat as he does.

Scaramouche sighed softly, his gaze on the floor, a scowl on his face. While he is no longer clutching at his stomach, Scaramouche still has a hand clutching his head and Childe steadies him slightly when he sways a bit.

From what Childe could see Scaramouche was a bit pale at the moment, not to mention the way Scaramouche’s hand would occasionally rub at his stomach almost absentmindedly.

“Wait here for a second,” Childe sighed, he waited for Scaramouche to give a soft hum letting him know he’d heard him before he moved away.

Scaramouche is quiet as he simply listens to the soft yet familiar noises of Childe moving around the room.  He hears the sound of a cabinet opening, along with some rustling and the sound of the sink running.

It isn’t long before Childe returns to the room, a glass of water and some medicine in hand. He didn’t know if regular medicine like this could work on Scaramouche honestly, even when Scaramouche was sick the man just seemed intent on sleeping it off rather than actually taking anything for it.

It was a little strange as during those rare times where Scaramouche was sick it almost seemed as if he’d go into a hibernation of sorts, often sleeping most of the day. It wasn’t surprising to Childe honestly after all Scaramouche wasn’t human.

Although the first time he’d witnessed Scaramouche getting sick had been a bit of a shock, mainly because Childe had found him half-conscious in his front yard half-buried in the snow and with a puddle of vomit next to him.

“Here,” Childe said as he held out water and medicine to Scaramouche.

Thankfully the other man had decided to sit down on the edge of the bed to get his bearings a bit. Taking the items, Scaramouche stares at the pills with a frown.

“What are these,” he asked as he looked over at Childe who was gathering Scaramouche’s clothes from where they’d been discarded.

“The white ones are painkillers and the blue ones are for your stomach,” Childe explained as he paused for a moment. “They didn’t come from Dottore if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Scaramouche rolled his eyes but said nothing as he tossed the pills in his mouth, he sipped at the water carefully while it felt incredible on his dry throat it made his stomach feel a bit strange.

A slight heaviness forming there as he continued to drink, he pauses with a scowl, his hand going to his stomach when a slight ache erupts along his stomach. It doesn’t hurt honestly and is more of a slight annoying twinge. What does have Scaramouche worried, however, is the fact that the slight tilting and rocking of the ship has the water he just drank swirling slightly in his gut.

Practically brushing against the walls of his stomach. Setting the water aside he grabs his clothes from the small pile Childe had placed them in and begins getting dressed intending to take a nice bath when he returned to his room.

He glanced over at Childe with narrow eyes. “How in the fuck are you not hungover?”

At that, a familiar smirk crosses Childe’s face and he pauses in the middle of collecting his own clothes that were lying around the room. “Maybe you’re simply losing your tolerance in your old age.”

Another glare is sent Childe’s way which he ignores. A huff leaves Scaramouche’s mouth. “Stupid brat.”

~~~

Scaramouche sighed as he slowly made his way back to his room intending to sleep for at least a little while. As he walks he massages his temple, his head is pounding violently in time with his heartbeat, each small noise, the soft warm lights of the lamps in the ship’s hallway felt as if they were scraping his eardrums and drilling his eyes.

Scaramouche stops walking for a moment, muffling an airy hiccup into his hand, his stomach feeling as if lurches slightly when the ship rocks and tilts beneath his feet.

His hand goes to his stomach scowling when it seemed to gurgle softly, and once more he becomes aware of the water sitting heavily in his gut merely exacerbating his queasiness.

Each time the ship seemed to tilt and sway beneath his feet, no matter how gentle the motion he could feel it in his stomach. The water sloshing and shifting in his gut in an almost nauseating fashion and Scaramouche finds himself swallowing thickly, the hand on his stomach trembling ever so slightly.

This was not due to the nausea but instead his fear and anxiety that he was doing his best to suppress. Scaramouche honestly hated being sick with every fiber of his being, being reduced to such a pitiful helpless state.

But what he despised even more, and was something that even terrified him was the action of vomiting itself. It was such a visceral way one’s body could lose control, and it was all but unstoppable and that’s what terrified Scaramouche about it.

It was why he often did everything he reasonably could to prevent something like that from happening. Beyond that though getting sick brought other fears with it as well, ones of being hauled off to Dottore’s lab and being experimented on. Displayed on that awful exam table like a butterfly pinned to a wall.

Just the thought of it brings forth some less than pleasant memories and Scaramouche can’t help but shudder slightly, noticing that it feels a bit warm in the hallway for some reason.

Another hiccup bubbles from his lips and Scaramouche muffles it into his hand. His face twisted as he cringed when a rather loud burp rumbled passed his lips bringing with it the faint bitter taste of the medicine he’d taken.

Scaramouche gives a soft huff, shaking his head slightly before he continued walking to his room more than a little eager to get some sleep.

When he finally reaches his room he finds that he does feel slightly better which he figured is thanks to the medicine that Childe had given him. He kicked off his shoes with a sigh as he trudged over to the bed and all but collapsed on it.

When he’d boarded the boat he’d remembered being slightly annoyed that his bed wasn’t too particularly comfortable, but at the moment it felt like heaven.

With both his headache and the queasiness in his stomach seemingly easing up, but not the exhaustion he’d woken up with, Scaramouche does his best to attempt to go to sleep.

~~~

It is around dinner when Childe walks into the ship’s dining room, it’s as alive with noise as usual which brings a smile to Childe’s face.

There’s a slight familiar ache to his muscles which considering he’d been training is nothing he’s not used to.

Childe pauses however when something catches his eye, Scaramouche is sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the room with a few of the nearby other tables being empty as well, no doubt because the Fatui subordinates were giving him a wide berth as usual.

Childe couldn’t help but be curious though, especially considering the fact that Scaramouche didn’t often stick around in the ship's dining room, often having his meal delivered to him in his room or simply getting whatever he wanted and leaving. The rare times he stayed in the dining room were times when Childe was already there or had arrived with Scaramouche to drink some alcohol.

As Childe gets his dinner and approaches Scaramouche’s table he notices something else a bit odd, that Scaramouche is sitting nearly completely still, his face buried in one of his hands which was propped up on the table by his elbow.

He has a nearly empty plate of food in front of him, and a slightly full glass of ice water beside the plate.

“What a surprise, I didn’t expect you to be here,” Childe said as he sat down in a chair close to Scaramouche.

Scaramouche doesn’t say anything however and if it weren’t for his breathing Childe may have assumed that he had dozed off or something. Was it just him or did Scaramouche look a bit pale beneath the lights of the dining room?

“Let me guess, still hungover from this morning,” Childe asked, and a soft snort left his mouth when Scaramouche gave a low groan in his throat seemingly in response.

Childe was willing to admit that it was slightly amusing seeing Scaramouche in this state, after all, it wasn’t every day that Scaramouche wound up hungover.

Scaramouche groans again and Childe can't help but think that the noise sounds slurred almost and he frowns as he looks at Scaramouche. It is only when Scaramouche shakily raises his head that Childe realizes that something is wrong.

Scaramouche’s face is pale as a sheet, as if all the color had been drained out, his eyes are half-lidded and slightly glazed over. Childe can see a fine layer of sweat coating Scaramouche’s face as well.

Scaramouche can’t help but flinch ever so slightly his hand clutching at his stomach when it makes a low growling noise, he hates this. Archons does he hate this so, so much. The way each tilt and shift of the boat has his stomach sloshing and churning sickeningly. His meal sitting in his gut like a heavy rubber ball being tossed around a room, wave after wave of near relentless nausea washing over him.

The scent of the food around him which would normally be appetizing instead stinks of grease that seems so heavy in the air it nearly coats his tongue. He felt strangely and uncomfortably warm, his normally form-fitting yet comfortable clothes clinging to his skin in a smothering fashion but they especially felt weirdly tight around his abdomen much like a rubber band.

Scaramouche grits his teeth, it's annoying but most of all for Scaramouche it was viscerally terrifying in a way he has only felt a few times before and it’s something he’s afraid to acknowledge honestly. That this wasn’t a hangover that somehow, for some reason he was sick.

His stomach growls again, its contents practically boiling and bubbling like an overactive cauldron, it almost feels as if the organ is rippling and writhing like a ball of snakes beneath his fingers. Scaramouche clutches at his stomach a bit tighter beneath the table, swallowing thickly when it feels as if the room is shifting beneath his feet.

Childe is quiet for a moment or so as he stares at Scaramouche, a frown spreading over his face. “Was that your stomach,” Childe asked both surprise and concern mingling together in his voice. It had been amusing when Scaramouche had simply seemed hungover after all while they could be horrible sometimes they eased up eventually.

This however seemed like something else entirely, almost as if Scaramouche was sick. Scaramouche and Childe honestly didn’t know what they had going on, more often than not both of them used each other to simply kill time when it was convenient and when boredom struck whether that be through fighting, fucking, or drinking.

It made things interesting honestly and also seemingly made it easier to bare each other’s presence bit by bit. While they could still go for each other’s throat at a moment's notice there were also quiet moments between the two when no one was looking, these moments weren’t quite gentle either though sometimes clumsy and rough but it worked for them.

It’s probably why what Scaramouche says next though has that concern Childe is feeling only growing.

“S-something’s wrong,” Scaramouche softly, the words slurring slightly as he speaks. Swallowing thickly and closing his eyes, Scaramouche grits his teeth taking shaky breaths in through his nose.

Childe glances up around the dining hall for a moment noting that things were still rather lively, although whether out of fear or respect none of the subordinates were paying attention to them yet anyhow. It would be best to leave now honestly, to try and possibly get Scaramouche somewhere secluded.

“Can you walk,” Childe asked him quickly, he knows he can just pick Scaramouche up but he didn’t want to risk setting off the man’s clearly volatile stomach, plus he knows that Scaramouche wouldn’t appreciate the gesture in the slightest.

“I-” Scaramouche begins, opening his mouth but he quickly closes it when a sloppy, airy hiccup bubbles from his lips. Scaramouche curls in on himself slightly as he bows his head to discreetly cover his mouth with his hand.

Childe sees Scaramouche’s body tense up as his stomach lurches slightly. Childe hears something audible gurgling and surging up Scaramouche’s throat the noise sounding much like someone drowning. Scaramouche makes an odd noise similar to a closed mouth gasp, his body tensing up further as he manages to catch the liquid just as it fills the back of his throat.

Scaramouche gives a very audible swallow, his body shuddering slightly before he shakily lowers his hand from his mouth, panting softly as he quickly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand to get rid of the drool he can feel trickling from the corner of his mouth.

He needed to leave now, before something horrible happened. Maybe if he laid down, maybe that would ease the fear, anxiety, and panic writhing in his chest and cloaking him like a blank. Maybe there was some chance of averting this disaster if he could just get to either his room or Childe’s but preferably his room.

He looked over at Childe from the corner of his eye. “Le-let’s go,” he said softly his words slurring as he did his best to swallow back the saliva nearly overflowing his mouth.

Scaramouche does manage to get to his feet surprisingly, although Childe does quickly reach out to steady him when he sways for a second or two.

~~~

The walk back to Childe’s room feels as if it takes longer than it should at least for Scaramouche and he doesn’t know if it's because of the dizziness, the headache, the nausea, or the fact that his body is trembling like a newborn deer.

He has to be extremely careful as he walks, his dizziness and unsteady legs nearly causing him to trip more than once when the ship feels as if it tilts and rolls beneath his feet. Childe’s hands steady him more than once as he walks at his side.

As they reach Childe’s room and go inside a small amount of relief washes over him now that he’s away from so many of those subordinates, so many prying eyes that would see him at one of his weakest moments.

Scaramouche stumbles over to the bed and sits down with a soft sigh his hand going to his stomach when it makes a harsh sickly gurgling noise, a deep ache spreading through his stomach feeling as though he were being punched. Wave after wave of dizzying nausea washes over him relentlessly, all while his stomach writhes beneath the trembling hand he has placed on it as if the organ is trying to claw its way out through his skin, tense almost harsh gurgling noises leaving his stomach.

The pain settled there just won’t disappear and the heaviness caused by the mass of food in his gut does nothing to help things, it feels as if it’s all congealing and hardening into an actual ball that’s rolling around his stomach each tilt and lurch the ship makes seems to send the mass of food churning in that direction.

“Hey,” Childe said gently laying a hand on Scaramouche’s shoulder.

Scaramouche however shrugs him off, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he attempted to swallow back whatever he felt bubbling at the back of his throat be it bile or air. He hates this with every fiber of his being, he couldn't be sick he wouldn’t allow it.

“Leave me alone! Get out,” Scaramouche hissed hating how his voice wavered and he quickly swallows the saliva threatening to overflow his mouth. He could still get this under control, he just needed time.

Childe gives a soft snort at Scaramouche’s words. “It’s my room?”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche said softly his words ending in a slurred groan as his grip tightened on his stomach. His nails practically digging into the skin, warmth stings Scaramouche’s eyes his fear and frustration growing stronger with each wave of nausea that rolled over him.

He hears Childe sigh, before hearing him begin moving around the room. He tries to focus on that and not how he could feel the back of his throat spasm every so often threatening to make him gag. “Who did…you tell last time…” Scaramouche manages to force out.

Childe stops in the middle of picking up the small trash can from the corner of the room when Scaramouche speaks, and he turns to look at him. If Scaramouche didn't look well before he without a doubt looks sick right now, his pale face carrying a green tinge to it, drool trickling from the corners of his mouth as he planted softly.

“Hm? Do you mean that time I found you passed out in the snow,” Childe asked with a scowl.

Scaramouche gives a small stilted nod. “Who…did you tell about what you saw,” Scaramouche demanded although in his current state he can’t muster up the usual energy for it. But if Childe had told anyone about Scaramouche’s secret, about his fear of illness well Scaramouche would make sure Childe would never open his mouth again later.

He expects it, for Childe to tell someone, which is probably why his answer surprises Scaramouche so much.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Childe sighed as he picked up the trash can before turning back to Scaramouche. “I don’t plan to either.”

For a moment Scaramouche and Childe simply stare at each other, and Scaramouche thinks he sees something that looks like concern or worry on Childe’s face. For once Scaramouche finds himself looking away, a soft nearly inaudible huff leaving his mouth as he closes his eyes again. “Weird human.”

Scaramouche hears Childe approach him but thinks nothing of it, even when he feels Childe carefully sit down on the bed beside him.

Then to his surprise, he feels Childe grab him and pick him up. “Wha…” Scaramouche whispered his eyes wide in dumbfounded shock as Childe shifted him carefully, and Scaramouche can’t help but notice that Childe’s touch is weirdly gentle for once.

Actually, now that he thought about it since this morning Childe’s hands had been careful whenever they gripped him, the touches firm but not applying any more pressure than they needed to. Scaramouche doesn’t know why this small minuscule thing stands out to him but it does.

It is only when Childe places Scaramouche down so that he’s sitting on his lap that Scaramouche that he finally speaks. “W-what…in the fuck are you doing,” Scaramouche hissed and he tries to struggle but is stopped when that deep ache flares to life across his stomach.

Childe frowned as Scaramouche fell quiet and instant, his eyes widening when a soft whimper slips past Scaramouche’s lips before he can stop it. Childe can feel Scaramouche’s body trembling, shivering in his lap, he feels warmer than usual as well and Childe reaches up with one hand feeling Scaramouche’s forehead noting that unsurprisingly he seems to have a bit of a fever.

Sighing softly he glances down at the trash can he’d placed in front of them on the floor. “Okay just bear with me for a second alright,” Childe told him as he reached down, his hand nudging Scaramouche’s out of the way so that he can gain access to his stomach.

Childe gives a soft hiss at what he finds. Scaramouche’s stomach is taut and very bloated, his fingers sinking ever so slightly into the now soft skin there. The organ growling and gurgling violently beneath his hands as the taunt heaviness of it pressed back against his hands, nearly rippling and writhing like a ball of pissed-off snakes.

No wonder Scaramouche was in so much pain, and Childe can’t help but grimace slightly in sympathy.

“Alright…just let me know if I’m hurting you okay. I’ll do my best,” Childe told him, hoping that his tone was reassuring enough. Scaramouche merely gives another weak broken whimper in response, his entire body tense and trembling in Childe’s grip.

Childe begins to carefully rub Scaramouche’s stomach, his hands moving in small soothing circles as he attempts to help it settle even slightly.

It’s nearly completely quiet save for Scaramouche’s soft shuddering breathing and the rather harsh gurgling of his stomach. Childe can’t help but be rather worried because while he’s seen Scaramouche sick before, it’s never been to this extent and honestly if Childe hadn’t known any better he’d think Scaramouche may have been poisoned honestly.

Scaramouche gives a slurred groan, his body tensing up further, the world seems as if it is almost spinning around him and he cringes curling further in on himself when his stomach makes a harsh growling noise as if snarling at him. It almost felt like someone had his stomach in a vice grip and was squeezing it tightly practically wringing it. The drool overflowing in his mouth begins to become too much to swallow back resulting in it trickling from his mouth down his chin, the back of his throat spasming with each breath.

Childe’s touch which is admittedly been soothing is doing nothing but making things worse, his stomach churning and sloshing violently in the direction of Childe’s rubbing.

Childe pauses when Scaramouche gives a nauseated-sounding hiccup and squirms slightly in Childe’s lap for a moment. “Scara,” Childe asked with a scowl, concern clear in his voice.

Scaramouche however doesn’t answer him, his breathing shuddering as he sits perfectly still in Childe’s lap.

Childe hears Scaramouche’s stomach make a loud, sickly growling noise, practically snarling. Before he can say anything however Scaramouche begins struggling almost frantically to get out of Childe’s grip and Childe lets him go, staring at him with wide eyes as Scaramouche quickly bolts to his feet.

Scaramouche darts towards the bathroom, with a hand, clamped tightly over his mouth. He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste but manages to make it slamming the door behind him.

For a second or two Childe sits there still in shock.

Scaramouche was definitely sicker than he’d first believed.

~~~

Scaramouche feels as if his stomach is trying to wring itself out like a wet washcloth as he sits on the toilet, an arm wrapped tightly around his stomach as he leaned forward slightly, panting heavily over the small trash can he’d hastily pulled into his lap when his stomach had finally had enough.

A near river of drool trickles from his lips like a faucet as it drips into the trash can. Sniffling Scaramouche gives a low very weak groan of pure misery, as a rush of heat prickles at his skin, the saliva flooding his mouth and dripping from his lips takes on an almost metallic taste, and tears of frustration gather in his eyes because he knows that there’s nothing he can do anymore and he hates it.

Scaramouche’s breathing hitches, his body tensing up as his stomach suddenly makes a loud, sickly gurgling noise and a loud rumbling burp pried itself from his lips as he gags weakly, a small yet dense trickle of thick, lumpy tan and green vomit dripped almost lazily from his lips as it falls into the trash can.

A horrific, utterly revolting rancid sour taste similar to spoiled meat and stale grease coated his tongue. The food he’d forced down in some vain hope that it would ease his symptoms had done nothing but fester in his stomach refusing to digest and that nausea that had been torturing him this entire time bursts to life.

Scaramouche does manage to take a deep breath right before a gurgling, rumbling burp pries itself from his lips so loud it seems to practically echo in the bathroom and his stomach heaves pain exploding across it as if fireworks were going off in his gut.

A wet, sickly hiccup pries itself from deep in the pit of Scaramouche’s stomach, the noise becoming garbled halfway through as an enormous, thick, wave of lumpy dark tannish vomit falls from his lips. The mess is dense, resembling thick freshly wet oatmeal as it nearly congeals together while falling from his lips.

The plastic bag lining the trash can crinkles loudly under its newfound weight as the mess congeals into a slimy almost glistening pile in its bottom.

As Scaramouche gives a garbled retch so violent it stings his throat, he feels something gurgle and shift almost beneath his stomach, thankfully however he’s already sitting on the toilet considering his stomach is intent on killing him as it tries to turn itself inside out from both ends.

Tears prickle his eyes and trail down his face as he choked up another wave of that thick, lumpy vomit, the slop pouring from steadily for a few moments before tapering off leaving him coughing wetly and gasping for air as a near torrent of drool dripping from his lips in thick threads. His face is a mess of bile, tears, sweat, and saliva.

Scaramouche can’t help but feel lightheaded, his head pounding and his breathing harsh. His body feels abnormally weak and shaky.

However at the moment, despite being horrifically nauseous his stomach seems to give him a brief reprieve although that tightness and heaviness is still present in his stomach, it still feels strangely full and Scaramouche knows that sadly this isn’t over for him.

He manages to clean himself up a bit before he staggers towards the door on heavily trembling legs, he feels extremely dizzy and weak. He’s panting as he opens the bathroom door being faintly surprised to see Childe standing there concern written all over his face.

Scaramouche doesn’t look good as he leans against the door frame, panting harshly as he looks up at Childe through half-lidded glassy eyes. His face is washed out, nearly ashen grey, slick with sweat, and his entire body trembling.

“Still feel sick,” Childe asked.

Scaramouche gives a slow stilted nod and manages to push away from the door frame and goes to take a step forward when his legs give beneath him.

Childe all but lunges forward catching Scaramouche under his arms to help hold him up and steady him. “Okay, it’s alright I gotch you,” Childe murmured softly as Scaramouche leans heavily against him, his body nearly limp.

Scaramouche gives a weak groan in response to his words, a simple acknowledgment that he’d heard Childe that doesn’t expand the minuscule amount of energy he has left.

As Childe carefully picks him up into his arms and carries him to the bed Scaramouche says nothing for once too spent and feeling far, far too awful to put up any of his usual complaints.

“I went to your room and got you something to sleep in since I figured you’d want to rest,” Childe told him softly as he sat Scaramouche down on the edge of the bed.

Scaramouche slowly glances at the yukata Childe had gotten for him but says nothing, merely slowly nodding again. Looking as if he’s doing his best to stay awake.

He remains quiet as Childe helps him change clothes, although eventually, he does speak as Childe is in the middle of tying the sash albeit slightly clumsily, Scaramouche’s hands gently resting on his to help guide him.

“Don’t…tell anyone,” Scaramouche whispers, his voice barely audible and raspy.

Childe is quiet for a few moments as he works, only meeting Scaramouche’s gaze when he’s finished. A soft sigh leaves his mouth, “I promised you I wouldn’t tell anyone last time. Nothing’s changed.”

Scaramouche gives a soft hum in response, closing his eyes for a moment, a slight grimace twisting at his lips when his stomach gives a low growl and that nausea washing over him in waves seems to spike sharply.

He really does hate this, he despised how weak and exhausted he felt. Hell, he was sure that if he tried he wouldn’t be able to draw enough elemental energy to himself to use his powers at the moment which left him defenseless.

Perhaps it was good that he’d gone to Childe’s room rather than his own. Scaramouche wasn’t well liked by his subordinates to put it lightly, although they did fear him and seemed to respect him due to that fear, if one of them found him in such a weakened state there was no telling what would happen.

“Such a weird human,” Scaramouche mumbled as he opened his eyes slightly.

Childe gives a soft snort of amusement. “I’ll get you some medicine and water really quick,” Childe told him as he got to his feet.

If he hadn’t felt as if his body were trying to kill him he may have complained, he may have told Childe to shut up so that he could think in peace but instead he doesn’t. He finds himself seeking out Childe’s soft touches and gentle words for once, as strangely enough, they seem to ease the fear and anxiety still layered over him like a blanket ever so slightly.

Scaramouche chalks this odd behavior up to the fever that is raging through his body combined with whatever was turning his body against himself. He’s sick after all as much as he hated to admit it, but although he hates it, it also gives him a convenient excuse.

A scapegoat for anything strange he may say or do at the moment. And once he’s returned to normal he won’t have to acknowledge this feeling ever again.

Scaramouche flinches, his hand going to his stomach when it gurgles loudly sending pain bursting along his stomach. The pain, the heaviness, the violent nausea all of it is still there, gripping his stomach as if trying to pop it.

Hearing Childe’s footsteps returning to his side Scaramouche opens his eyes as a distinctly wet-sounding hiccup pries itself from between his lips, and he feels bile bubbling at the back of his throat.

Childe pauses when another nauseated hiccup leaves Scaramouche’s mouth followed by a slurred groan of sheer misery as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Seeing Scaramouche’s quickly deteriorating state, Childe places the cup of water aside on the nightstand and quickly picks up the small trash can he’d placed by the bed earlier.

Scaramouche’s eyes flutter open, his grip on his stomach tightening as he opens his mouth slightly, seemingly to speak. Childe all but shoves the trash can into Scaramouche’s lap holding it for him just as a rumbling garbled burp has a surge of slightly watery, lumpy vomit spraying from his lips.

“Just try to get it up,” Childe told him gently, a scowl on his face as his other hand goes to Scaramouche’s back. Patting it when he begins coughing and spluttering, sounding as if he’s practically choking or drowning.

A retch so harsh that it both sounds and feels as if it’s clawing its way up from the very pit of Scaramouche’s stomach, has him lurching forward, tears prickling at his eyes once more. A stream of dense, slightly watery vomit pours steadily from his lips like thick slop being poured from a bucket.

Scaramouche gets no break nor chance to breathe as the mess streams from his lips, practically congealing in the bottom of the trash can glistening with bile and saliva in the light of the room. Childe can’t help but be shocked by just how much Scaramouche is still bringing up truthfully.

It wasn’t that Scaramouche couldn’t eat a lot but more that he didn’t think Scaramouche would’ve practically gorged himself while he felt like shit.

Childe’s hand leaves Scaramouche’s back to grab his shoulder instead when Scaramouche’s eyes begin fluttering and he begins weakly slumping forward, that near stream of vomit that’d been pouring from his mouth finally tapering off.

Scaramouche is left gagging weakly and panting, thin threads of bile and drool dripping lazily from his lips into the trash can. He stares almost blankly into space through eyes glassy with tears.

“Scara? Do you think you’re done,” Childe asked as he peered into Scaramouche’s face.

The other man is clearly fighting tooth and nail to stay awake. He’s trembling and shivering beneath Childe’s grip, his skin slick with sweat despite the heat Childe can feel radiating off of him from his fever.

Scaramouche feels as if he’s floating underwater,  the world and sounds around him nothing more than a blur. Although he is able to register two things, Childe’s familiar hands on him and Childe’s voice.

“Here, the medicine should help,” Childe murmured as he held the pills up to Scaramouche‘s mouth. And Scaramouche opens it allowing Childe to place the pills on his tongue.

He can feel Childe’s hand on his back as the glass of water is brought to his lips, the water is slightly cold and feels nice on Scaramouche’s sore throat.

The glass of water leaves his lips, and Scaramouche sighed softly as he feels Childe guide him to lay down on the bed.

The sounds and world around Scaramouche are fuzzier now, even fainter. But he is aware of Childe covering him with the blanket.

When Childe’s fingers begin gently stroking through Scaramouche’s hair, Scaramouche can’t help but lean into the soothing touch.

Four days, Felix had only pooped once in the last four days. It wasn't even a decent poop, it was just a couple pebbles that were around the size of an owl pellet. Felix was constipated and he was miserable.

Initially it wasn't even all that bad. It started with him just generally feeling like he needed to poop, but then nothing would come out, no matter how late ng he sat on the toilet. Now on top of the constant feeling of needing to defecate, he had become a bit bloated and his abdomen was beginning to hurt.

The Stray Kids members had a performance on Music Bank, and Felix really wished he could have stayed home, or at least get some pain meds. However, he had overslept that morning and had to almost literally run out of the dorm. By the time he reached the van he just wanted to curl up in pain, but he didn't want to concern the members on such short notice.

They had performed God's Menu, and even though the dance didn't have s whole lot of jumping or spinning on his part, it was near torture for him to get on the ground and back up acting as if he was totally fine. Felix decided that when he got back to the dorm, he was going to try to fix his problem.

When he arrived at the dorm, Felix called the first shower. When he got into the bathroom he went into their medicine cabinet and grabbed the laxatives. He didn't even remember why they originally had gotten the laxatives, but was grateful they had it nonetheless. The package said to only take one dose, but he was feeling so bad that he took two doses instead. When he still hadn't gotten any relief after an hour, he took another half dose.

Felix now felt around seventy times worse, the cramping had only increased ten fold and his abdomen had seemingly become even more bloated and hard. The other members had gone off to do their own things for a while, so Felix was left alone in the dorm to wallow in his own self inflicted misery.

Sometime later, Seungmin arrived home. Seungmin knew that Felix had decided to come straight to the dorm after their as opposed to the other members, but even so, it was a bit too quiet. Normally Felix would be blasting music while making something in the kitchen or he'd be playing video games. Seungmin didn't hear any of the familiar noises and assumed that he must be sleeping.

When he rounded the corner to the living room, Seungmin had not been expecting to find Felix on the sofa curled in on himself whimpering in distress. He didn't know what the problem was yet, but he knew that Felix tended to revert to English when sick, so he felt that would be the safest bet.

"Felix, are you okay?" Felix just shook his head while wrapping his arm tighter around his abdomen. Seungmin was a little concerned at the lack of verbal response, but did get enough context to know that the problem was his stomach. He quickly felt the older's forehead for a fever before going to collect supplies.

A few minutes later Seungmin returned with a heating pad, pain medicine, and some tea. He slowly coaxed Felix to sit up so that he could take the medicine and drink some tea. “Felix, can you tell me how long you’ve been feeling bad?” Seungmin asked with concern etched into his voice. “I’ve been constipated all week. Now that schedules are over for the week, I decided to take some of the laxatives in our medicine cabinet. Now I’m in even more pain than before. Mistakes were made”

Seungmin internally sighed in relief as it appeared that Felix hadn’t caught a bug. He didn’t have to call Chan to get schedules postponed or cancelled. He just needed to figure out how to make the younger Aussie feel better. “Lix, what would make you feel better?” Seungmin had asked in a tone far more serious than he meant. “Rub my tummy please?” Felix had asked just barely above a whisper while blushing a little. Seungmin just shook his head at the unnecessary embarrassment and plugged in the heating pad before sitting down on the couch himself.