#ss.gi

they say it’s good to try and live a life with no regrets. thoma gets it, but unfortunately falls victim to the late realization that he shouldn’t be subjecting himself to near-weekly gastrointestinal torture.

he doesn’t exactly know why he continues to put himself through it. he doesn’t know why he continues to accept his lord’s absurd food offerings. he doesn’t know why he keeps playing his hotpot games and getting lady ayaka to join him (bless her heart, but her ingredient choices are something else).

whatever the reason, he finds himself hunched over, gripping the edge of your kitchen counter, questioning his life decisions. he shouldn’t have tried to get competitive with the traveler over a hotpot game, and he shouldn’t have ignored the gut feeling that there was something odd about the dairy-based drink lord ayato had given him.

archons, his stomach is killing him. and he didn’t have it in him to decline your request for help when you showed up at the yashiro commission headquarters. he was particularly afraid of disappointing you, so with a pained smile on his face, he had simply nodded and followed you to your quaint home.

now, he is paying the price.

“thoma?” you gasp, noticing his posture. “is something wrong?”

he doesn’t move, afraid of what might happen. normally, he can ride out the pain and nausea, but this? this was another beast entirely! not to mention, it had hit him hard in such a short amount of time.

“thoma,” you repeat, walking closer to him. “are you okay? do you want to sit down?”

“no,” he mutters. “i-i’m gonna be fine. just give me a moment-”

his stomach chooses that specific moment to let out an ominous gurgle.

“thoma?” you whisper gently, almost like you were afraid to break him. “are you going to be sick?”

he’s about to deny your statement, but another gurgle stops him. this time, it climbs up his throat. 

“oh. oh, dear. i’m sorry,” you frown, running a hand through your hair. “i should have insisted you come another time. sorry.”

“not-” thoma presses a hand to his mouth to muffle another gurgle, then grits his teeth. “not your fault.”

worry starts to course through his body. one, you’re blaming yourself for his predicament. two, he’s inconveniencing you. three, he’s probably going to vomit but he does not want you around to see it. four, the question of where he is going to vomit remains unanswered.

“oh, regardless, there’s nothing wrong with telling me you’re unwell. you deserve to rest too, you know?”

he isn’t looking at you, too focused on keeping it together, but his heart squeezes at your gentle tone of voice. thoma can only muster a weak hum in response, which is immediately followed by a short, wet burp. 

“i’ll get a bucket from the storage room,” you offer, and he hears you walk towards the back. “you go get comfortable.”

his face heats up at the embarrassment of making these sounds in front of you. the moment he thinks you’re out of earshot, that’s when he allows himself to wrap one arm around his stomach and belch deeply into his fist. 

as expected, it doesn’t really do anything to help—he just feels gross.

“okay, here.” thoma hears your footsteps again, and you stop next to him. “um, do you want to sit down?”

he has no clue. would it help? 

“thoma?”

“i-” he’s cut off by another belch, and he avoids looking at you. “sorry.”

“thoma, you’re sick. do not be sorry.” there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder. “take it easy. you’re not the first sick person i’ve taken care of. plus, you’ve already done a lot for me the past few months. it’s about time i return the favor.”

thoma whimpers. he’s not sure when he was last given this kind of treatment, but it makes his heart ache a little. 

you put the bucket on the counter, pushing it towards him. “get it up, okay? whatever makes you feel better.”

saliva starts to coat his mouth heavily. archons, please. his stomach rolls, and he cannot help the guttural belch that escapes his mouth.

“sorry,” thoma says, mouth hanging open as he starts to breathe irregularly. the urge to gag is so, so, strong.

“again, don’t-”

he belches again, much wetter this time; the force takes him aback, bringing tears to his eyes.

“don’t be sorry.” you continue. “just get it up.”

thoma whines, starting to register his mind and body accepting his fate. he continues to let up a few streams of nauseous burps, his hands progressively moving closer to the bucket.

“ugh,” thoma groans. “this su-”

his stomach lurches instantly, forcing his utterance to morph into another deep belch. that’s when thoma feels something come up along with it. his eyes are squeezed shut, but he can tell that whatever he had just brought up has hit the bottom of the bucket.

“okay, there we go.” your hand rubs his back up and down. he can’t tell what it is about the motion—or perhaps it’s the fact that you’re doing the gesture—but he lets his body take control.

not even a few seconds pass before more of his stomach contents come up. he tries hard not to think about the taste and texture, because it is absolutely vile. 

“you’re doing great,” thoma hears you comment when he finds a moment to catch his breath. he coughs for a bit, hoping to dislodge chunks of whatever in his throat. “how are you feeling?”

he shakes his head, letting his head hang forward. “not done.”

“alright, give me a moment. i’ll get you some water and tea. hopefully you can stomach them and replenish your fluids.”

“thanks,” thoma mutters, before his upper body convulses again. 

he hasn’t even realized just how close his face has gotten to the bucket beneath him, nor how much more he has curled in on himself. thoma just hopes and prays that he’ll feel better after this.

time passes by in a blur. at some point, you’ve resumed your backrubs, but thoma eventually moves on to dry heaves, unable to bring anything up. you take this as your sign to help him sit down on the floor as you clear out the bucket. he leans his head against the bottom part of the counter as he waits for your company.

suddenly, there’s a soft cloth dabbing at his face. his eyes fly open, and you’re kneeling across him. for the first time in what felt like hours, he makes eye contact with you.

“hey,” you give him a soft grin in return, and he cannot understand how you don’t seem the least bit fazed by what had just happened. “got some stuff on your face.”

weakly, he nods; he can only imagine how messy he looks—vomit, sweat, tears, and whatever else. snot, maybe. archons, he should not be letting you do this for him. yet, he doesn’t have the energy to protest.

thoma doesn’t know when he closed his eyes again, but he opens them in the abrupt absence of your touch.

“hey, think you can stomach some water?”

he blinks at you and the cup in your hand. can he? well, how bad could water be? he is thirsty anyway, now that he thinks about it. slowly, he reaches out a hand to grab the cup you offer.

“small sips, okay? just in case,” you remind him gently, which he’s thankful for. he stops drinking halfway through, a tad bit afraid that it could just come back up as quickly as it went down.

“alright,” you take the cup from his hand and set it back on the counter. “so, i have a couch over there.” you point to the main area. “do you want to lie down for a bit?”

“sure,” thoma responds in a breathy voice. he doesn’t expect you to hold your hand out for him, but he takes it; he lets you pull him up and guide him, even if the distance he needs to cross is rather short.

he sighs in relief at the chance to lie down, learning against the arm of the couch. no expectations, no appearances to keep up, no people to please and respond to.

“are you comfortable?” you ask after a few seconds, voice so kind and considerate that he kind of wants to kiss y- uh.

“yes,” he clears his throat. “thank you for everything. i am sorry for the mess and…”

“of course. please don’t worry about it, thoma. and the furniture repairs can wait.” you hum for moment. “do you still feel unwell?”

“i…” thoma pauses and shuts his eyes as he tries to determine what he feels. he’s all wrung out, but he doesn’t feel in the clear just yet. “sort of.”

“aw.” he can hear the pout in your voice—he sees it when he turns his head to look at you. “i wonder what happened to you?”

he exhales through his nose. “long story.”

“i’ve got time,” you joke, in the hopes of lightening the atmosphere.