#overworked

It had been a long and daunting day, your hands trembled as you held them against your cheeks—Fingers cold against your burning skin.

It hadn't even been that long since you'd gotten out of a cold and you'd gotten sick once more, but you didn't dare tell anyone.

Even when you'd be coughing up a storm, leading most to glance at you in concern while others in annoyance.

Not that it mattered.

Your shoes lightly clicked against the academiyas polished floors, books in your bag that weighed you back just a tad bit. Even in such a condition you still dared show up.

Although Sumeru had decent weather, even a light rain could dampen your health.

You sighed, what a day this was...

The sun had already been slowly setting and you had only just gotten home, trying to be careful and quiet so as to not disturb anyone.

"Where were you?" You nearly jumped out of your skin startled as your head whipped to the source of the voice.

Wanderer sighed, "You humans are so fragile.." He muttered before finally stepping out from the shaded hallway, the moonlight shining in through the door where you stood.

"Why are you just standing there?" He grumbled, his patience waning.

His gloved hand reached for your cold ones, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you.

Turning towards you he had already lost half his patience with you—Always fussing over your health even if he'd never bother to say anything about it, his actions always spoke for him.

"I'm sorry—" You began but he cut you off with his arms crossing over his chest and his brows furrowing.

"Stop staying up late studying, you're gonna burn out and forget it all in the morning." He stated, leaving little room for argument.

But what were you if not stubborn?

Obedient, probably.

"But—It was only for a little longer than usual!" You reasoned.

"It's midnight."

The rest of your argument was swallowed back down, had you really lost that much track of time?

Outside wasn't any better, barely any noise to fill what had already been—awkwardly—created.

The silence dragged on until he finally set the back of his hand against your forehead, feeling for a fever only to pull it back after a moment.

"Go take some medicine and sleep," He said. "If I catch you awake I'll knock you out myself."

With that said he simply walked away like it was nothing.

When you'd first moved in with him you'd found him to be quite irritating, his sarcasm and brusque responses led you to believe he wasn't the best to be around. But truly he was far more than what he led on to be.

You'd just have to peel all those layers he'd put up and find him at the center some day.

Your feet gently padded against the wooden floor as you went off to your room, the floorboards occasionally creaking beneath you.

The only source of light was the moon, the luster of it's rays leading you to your door.

Eventually you settled into bed after doing whatever you'd needed, reading some books you'd found and doodling along lined papers before finally closing your eyes to rest.

Everything grew quiet once again, the only sounds in the room being your breathing and the gentle sound of crickets outside.

Then a creak.

You tensed, but you kept your eyes shut.

The sound of someone approaching grew louder before they'd come right beside you, standing over your form before a cold gloved hand touched your forehead.

A quiet hum was heard before they gently kissed your forehead, their lips feather-light against your warm skin.

The moment was ephemeral but it felt eternal.

They lingered in the room for another short moment before turning to leave, shutting the door behind them gingerly while their footsteps grew more faint as they padded through the hall.

It wasn't hard to tell who came to visit, far from difficult in fact. But when morning came you never bothered mentioning it.

If he wanted to hide from you then that was fine, some day he'd come out and you'd find him with joy.

That morning Wanderer wasn't there to greet you, only a bowl of warm soup was left with some medicine right beside it—Not a note in sight.

Paige has had a horrible week.

Media.

Travel.

Stress.

No sleep.

Everything feels loud.

So when Azzi wraps herself around Paige from behind while she’s trying to answer emails—

Paige snaps.

“Azzi, can you PLEASE just stop touching me for like five minutes?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Azzi lets go instantly.

Like she got burned.

Paige regrets it immediately.

But Azzi just nods softly.

“…okay.”

Too quiet.

Paige rubs her face.

“Baby, I didn’t mean—”

“No it’s okay.”

It’s not okay.

And Paige knows it.

But Azzi disappears into the bedroom before she can fix it.

Hours later, Paige finally walks in quietly.

And finds Azzi curled up on the bed crying silently into the pillow.

Paige’s stomach drops instantly.

“…Az.”

Azzi wipes her face quickly.

“I’m fine.”

That makes Paige feel worse somehow.

She sits beside her carefully.

“Hey.”

Azzi keeps staring down.

Then finally whispers:

“…I didn’t know loving you was annoying.”

Paige physically flinches.

“Baby—NO.”

Azzi’s lip trembles.

“You always say physical touch is too much when you’re upset.”

Paige immediately pulls her closer.

“Because I get overwhelmed. Not because of YOU.”

Azzi starts crying harder.

Paige’s voice breaks too now.

“I never want you feeling unwanted.”

Azzi whispers weakly:

“…you sounded tired of me.”

Paige shakes her head instantly.

“Never.”

Then softer:

“I could never be tired of loving you.”

Azzi finally melts into her chest after that.

Aventurine found you like that.

He paused in the doorway, his ever-present smirk twitching. “Now, that’s a twist. Doctor, heal thyself, hmm?”

No answer.

His boots clicked softly as he crossed the room, glancing over your cluttered desk—vials, handwritten notes, uncapped pens, untouched tea gone cold. He tapped a knuckle against the wood, not unkindly.

“Hey. Wake up, darling. You can’t win the gamble if you’re unconscious at the table.”

When you stirred, blinking sluggishly, he let out a slow breath. Relief, disguised as theatrical exasperation.

“You diagnose others like a miracle, but when it comes to yourself… What’s the phrase? Pot calling the cauldron black?”

He sat on the desk, balancing a gold chip on his knuckles. His voice lowered.

“You're burning out. Again. And I know a bad hand when I see it.”

You tried to protest, but Aventurine held up a finger.

“Nope. This isn’t negotiable. You owe me a favor anyway, remember? I’m cashing it in. Right now. You rest. I manage your workload. Try not to faint again while I’m doing your job.”

And for once, his ever-confident eyes glinted with something fragile—concern, almost too real to bear.

“You’re doing it again.”

His voice, low and flat, echoed from the cave mouth.

You didn’t look up—your hands were busy grinding root extracts, your nose stuffed with the acrid stench of curing herbs. There were potions to brew. People to treat. Problems to fix.

But Kinich walked in anyway, crossed the space between you in long strides, and yanked the pestle from your hands. You stumbled a bit. Dizzy. Oh.

“Did you eat?”

Silence.

“...I’ll take that as a no.”

He didn’t lecture. He never did. But his jaw set tight, and the amber-green of his split eyes gleamed sharply.

You hated how he looked at you then. Like a creature caught in its own trap.

Kinich turned, rummaged through your satchel, and produced the stale bread you’d forgotten days ago. Without a word, he broke it in half and pressed it into your hands. His fingers lingered—not soft, but grounding.

“I’ve seen too many Saurians collapse under their own weight. I’m not watching you go the same way.”

You chuckled weakly. “You care.”

He didn’t answer. But he sat down beside you, silent as snowfall, and didn’t leave until you finished eating.

You didn’t notice when he arrived. The dreamscape's remnants still clung to you—fragments of light, a headache blooming like ink beneath your skin.

Sunday stood at the doorway, wings gently tucked, halo dimmed. He didn’t speak immediately.

“You’ve missed four meals,” he finally murmured, eyes golden and heavy with unshed weariness. “And the last time you rested was…?”

You couldn’t remember.

He sighed—not in frustration, but sorrow. “You heal so many, and yet... I wonder who taught you that your suffering is worth so little?”

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t answer.

Sunday moved closer, gently brushing aside your hair. His gloved hands cradled your face, and the warmth of his touch felt unreal.

“I used to believe dreams were safer than reality. But watching you now—fading while awake—it feels no different.”

He wrapped his scarf around your shoulders, guiding you to sit. His wings fluttered once, then stilled. “Let me carry some of your burdens. Even just for a while.”

You tried to speak, to deflect with practiced logic—but he pressed a finger to your lips, eyes luminous.

“For once,” he whispered, “let the healer be healed.”

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