=^.ᴥ.^=ﾉ

I am not a jinx to the team I am rooting for

I am allowed to watch a game because my viewership will not alter the outcome of the game

I am but a drop in the bucket and the world is not affected by me watching a game

for a moment, everything goes white, bright like the sun, pain making their fingers falter before training kicks back in and they complete the stitch. it hurts but it's no different than all the other times they've had to do this by themselves.

they repeat it in their head. over and over and over again as the wound closes, one agonizing pull after pull.

listing the tasks they won't be able to do once whumper is done with them. the ones they can't afford not to do. thinking about the cleanup - they'll have to stay a bit, to cry and whimper and be pathetic for a while ecause that's what whumper expects, but also, that carpet is dead - and them with it - if whumpee doesn't get started NOW.

planning their route: straight to the bathroom to get the products, the sheets into the washing machine and then straight to scrubbing.

fine as long as whumper doesn't decide to stomp on their hand. or to ruin their ankle again.

whumpee flinches, shame coloring their face an ugly red. they were only, only looking at their friend. how does whumper always know? whumpee turns away, going back to work.

"hey, I mean, I'm only doing you a favour! would you really want to burden someone with the ordeal of dealing with..." a judging stare flays them alive. whumpee hunches into themselves, making themselves smaller, unobtrusive. "...you?" it's spoken with an inflection that something miniscule and insignificant and disgusting would deserve.

whumpee shudders, tears pricking their eyes. they know, they know. why does whumper have to dig it in? obviously, their friend would never like them back. whumpee would never make them go through with something like that— it's not their fault whumpee likes them too much. they don't deserve that. they really, really don't deserve that.

Getting tortured is exhausting. Like, physically exhausting. The crying, shaking, trembling, pain is a huge strain on your body and will wipe you out fast.

very short

(Content: sickfic, fever, dehumanization, living weapon whumpee)

Delta’s eyes flickered once again to the thermometer, and again back to Martino. The doctor’s expression was unreadable — marred with the same fixed displeasure it always had, but nothing more telling than that. No indication of how bad it could be. The number itself didn’t mean much. What mattered was where the heat was coming from, how much he could feel it. But Delta felt cold and clammy, all the way through.

Paris was there, eyes tracking the same paths, making things worse.

“So?” he asked, impatient.

Martino shook his head. Paris huffed, the sharp flare of anger seeming to emanate its own dry and sudden heat. Like opening an oven door. 

“I can do it,” Delta offered weakly, to assuage him. He’d done worse. Surely he’d done worse. He’d much rather push through a fever than a migraine, and he’d done the latter dozens of times.

“He says he can do it,” Paris echoed.

“He’s only saying that because he’s afraid of you.” Martino glared at the both of them. “It isn’t up to him. It’s my call. And you be quiet.”

He tugged sharply at Delta’s hair, eliciting a soft yelp of pain. Delta threw his hand over his mouth immediately, embarrassed. He waited to be hit again for the noise, but nobody bothered.

Paris flinched, then shook his head. To clear it? As if needed anymore fucking emptying.

“Then what’s your call?” He followed Martino as the doctor began his retreat back to the desk. Delta listened intently, but was careful not to turn his head. He felt an odd pressure in his ears. It hurt his balance.

“…If it clears up within the next couple days, you should be fine. But if the fever gets higher, I’m not signing off on anything.”

~

A week passed, and the fever was unmistakably worsening. Those fucking morons had gotten him on antibiotics too late, and he’d yet to see the effects of it. He probably wouldn’t even begin to improve until after the scheduled launch, and wouldn’t be in good form until well after the window had closed. 

Paris had held onto a stubborn, delusional hope that he’d pull through in time. But it was obvious that Delta was deteriorating — it was measured in the total inability to hang onto his surroundings for more than a few seconds at a time. Simon was tending to him, at least. But they went through the same conversations again and again. He reminded him where he was, that he was fine, and that he didn’t need to worry about work right now. It was only the last thing that seemed to really calm him.

Paris bit the inside of his cheek until it drew blood. He interrupted: “Who said that?”

Simon sighed, glancing back at him. 

“Be serious, Your Highness. Look at him.”

Delta, for his part, was only looking down. His face was mostly obscured beneath the veil of long, dark hair. Simon seemed to have the same thought, and began to braid it back and out of his face.

“It’s that bad?” Paris asked, hissing in frustration. He knew it was a useless question. He could see well enough.

“Fine. Fine! We delay it. Whole fucking warfront might be moved by the time we get back to it, but whatever, at least he gets to sleep.”

The room watched the prince in a moment of enduring, confused silence. Except for Delta, whose eyes remained clouded and unfocused, and whole head was practically lolling on his neck.

“…I’m going to interpret that literally,” Simon said gently.

“I was being literal!”

“Of course, Your Highness. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

It was unclear if Delta could appreciate anything in the moment. They left him there on the mattress, still fully clothed. That was more or less procedure whenever he fainted, but it seemed a particular waste when he hadn’t even made it out onto the ground this time. The doctor would probably move him to his own bed soon enough, but that would only happen when all the other equipment was being moved again too. 

Delta had been left alone, but he wasn’t out yet. His eyes were still open, barely, and he kept himself propped up one elbow as if still waiting for orders.

“Shh. Go back to sleep,” Paris ordered him. His voice was quieter when there was nobody else around. “You’re fine. You heard me? We’re going to push it back a week.”

Delta nodded. His eyes closed just as soon as he was given permission to, and he started to lower fully onto the bed. Paris couldn’t resist.

“Aht, aht. Hey.” He stepped forward, lightly cupping Delta’s face and tilting it up. “What do we say?”

“Thank you, sir,” he muttered sleepily.

Aww. Paris released him, letting him flop back down against the pillow.