faderift | closed; i get eaten by the worms

WHO: Benedict, Colin, Leander
WHAT: grippe club for men
WHEN: now-ish
WHERE: Gallows Chapel, a side room reserved for early quarantine
NOTES: gross. (if you want a starter, ask.)

for benedict;

Perhaps Benedict slept through the arrival, or perhaps he witnessed it. He might even have tried to say hello, and found his neighbour unresponsive, either too ill to acknowledge him or unwilling to expend what little energy he had for the sake of being polite. Now, though...

Now, should Benedict turn to see the cot newly installed some feet away, he will find Leander's face likewise turned toward him, strangely flushed and bloodless, heavy-lidded eyes fixed in a bleary stare. Pale lips parted just slightly. Sweat-dampened curls dark on his forehead. Thin inside the loose sleeves of his linen, most of his body a few peaks and valleys beneath the infirmary blanket, and utterly listless.

One may forgive him for assuming the worst.

for colin, after benedict is removed;

—The other nurse, meanwhile, will be given no opportunity to think the worst as long as Leander is awake, for he keeps himself stoic, blandly arranged in repose and lacking expression, following the young man with only his eyes. In contrast, he looks boyish in sleep, lacking some indefinable tension beneath his skin, with only a slight crease between the eyebrows to belie his peaceful rest.

Or seeming rest. He has ample eyelashes to disguise a pair of watchful slits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's very late, possibly even early morning before sunrise, when Benedict awakens again with a coughing fit. It takes him some time to work it out of his system, and then he lies back with a weary sigh, his head lolling to rest facing the opposite direction from where he began.

And that's when he notices he has company. He gives a little start, whispering "Leander," as he does-- and if he didn't know any better, if he couldn't see that the man is breathing, he'd think him already dead.

Well, he's awake now.

Indeed.

Leander, not quite a corpse, in trade for the sound of his own name, finally blinks. Closes his lips, too, into a thin smile. Turns his face away, back toward the ceiling, inoffensively. Clears his throat. At length, through the sleepy thickness of fever,

"I was surprised to see you in here."

Benedict has been here a day or so, and although still quite ill, isn't as badly off as some who have just come down with it. His fever, at least, has lessened, even if the cough remains.

"So was I," he admits uneasily.

Leander's only two days in; it'll be downhill from here. He's found a period of reprieve from the coughing, at least, by swallowing infrequently and breathing intentionally shallow, which he expects will get him fussed at, eventually—if he can make it last long enough, anyway. Which he doesn't expect he will.

"You don't look like you're dying." He chances a swallow, which seems fine, "I can't imagine why else," until it doesn't. Pardon him while he stubbornly weathers this round with his mouth closed.

Benedict looks at him a moment longer, then turns his gaze to the ceiling, stifling a cough in the palm of his hand. He waits for it to pass, then lets his hand drop limply to his side again.
"I don't know... how long I've been here," he admits in a rasp, "...or how long you've been here." Come to think of it, he can only guess at what time it is right now.

Deep breath in, one more stuttered cough apparently for good measure... and he seems to be through for now. Never has anyone sighed a more beleaguered sigh than he just has in this very moment.

"Hardly a day. I wouldn't have, but Sister Sara insisted. Might've knocked me out and dragged me in here if I hadn't come peacefully."

This merits a little smile.

"She seems like that," Benedict murmurs. After a moment, he adds, "I'm sorry you got it too."

Is he? Leander's scrutiny rolls back over yonder. After an uncomfortably long pause, during which he's either weighing something important or attempting to achieve basic cognitive functions—it's hard to tell—

"Why?"

In the time that Leander has taken to respond, Benedict has almost dozed off again. The question wakes him up again with a fluttering blink, and he has to take a moment to remember what he said.

"...because it's miserable," he says, as if that should be obvious.

A number of sharp responses come to mind, but he's already uncomfortable enough. It would be frivolously masochistic to provoke this milksop of a human being into any outward expression of self-pity. In the event of these being the final days of Leander's life—a very real possibility of which he's all too aware—he'd might as well spend them as agreeably as he can.

So, instead: an aggrieved sigh, punctuated by one half-hearted cough.

"Yes. It is that."

A little nod, and Benedict seems all right with leaving the conversation there. He and Leander haven't historically gotten along, but the peace offering (if that's what it was) in the cells has neutralized his opinion of the man, and he knows well enough that talking excessively while feeling like they do is a bad idea.

It's possible he's just happy to have someone around.

He closes his eyes again, letting silence fall between them.

Silence, strangely companionable, and soon enough: sleep. Leander, as Benedict may be glad to learn, does not snore or toss or wake up screaming from demonic nightmares—just little mage things—and he will be out for quite a while. More like a long series of naps, interrupted by increasingly unpleasant coughing spates and the occasional resentful sip of water, but still—he is determined to deny consciousness.

And he looks peaceful, otherwise. Like a boyish, sweaty corpse recently laid to rest.

Which is exactly how he will feel whenever he wakes up.

It's hours later when Benedict stirs again, roused by the heavy footfalls of an approaching guard who stops by his bed and hands him a letter.
He takes it, reads it, and looks up at the guard, then around at the room, then back of the letter with a whispered "what?? why?"

Leander is still watching the guard with an unconcealed withering eye—two of them, in fact—and continues to do so until the offending presence has once again receded from bedside. If he knew about germs he would climb out of bed and spew them directly on this man, grasp his lapels and cough in his face, into his mouth and eyes, just to spite his existence. Alas, at this time he can merely hope he too will breathe the miasma, take it one step further and die from it.

(Like Leander himself still might decide to do, out of spite for someone else entirely.)

There is no sympathy in his voice, and he may still be eyeballing the guard, when he asks, "What is it now?"

Edited 2020-02-24 17:39 (UTC)

"It's C--" Benedict almost answers, but thinks better of it. He and Leander may have made their relative peace, but that doesn't mean he's suddenly trustworthy.
"Nothing," he says in a defeated sigh, looking back to the letter and resting his head back down, his back turned to Leander. He doesn't get to lie there for long, however, as the guard, who only left for about five minutes, returns.

"Up," they say, "you're going back downstairs."

Bene regards them carefully, then slowly stands, still holding the blanket from the cot around his shoulders for warmth. He's not well yet by a long shot, but he promised himself he wouldn't make any fuss, and he still intends to hold to that.
Still gripping the letter in one hand, he almost looks at Leander as he's led out, but forces himself not to.

closed; i get eaten by the worms

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they're friends now

time for matching bracelets

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