closed; i get eaten by the worms

[sarcophage]

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.

Comments

[altusimperius]

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.

[sarcophage]

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."

[altusimperius]

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.

[keenly]

He heard Leander was here a few days ago and spent his little free time darting around the city of Kirkwall. Now that Benedict has been moved and Colin is back on duty here, he is able to smuggle in a small package along with his medicines and gear. He works quietly, first making sure to add more water to the kettle. This patient is dealing with more lung issues than some, so the steam will be paramount. Once everything is seen to, he sits down with a candle and a book. If the patient is sleeping peacefully, he should be allowed to sleep for as long as he can.

[sarcophage]

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.

[altusimperius]

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.

[sarcophage]

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."

[altusimperius]

This merits a little smile.

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

[sarcophage]

He isn't. Sleeping peacefully, that is. Not for several minutes now.

But nothing very interesting has happened in those several minutes, which by now are beginning to feel like several hours, so he gives up by way of staring openly until Colin notices. Or until he interrupts his own silent scrutiny with a few pathetic, wheezing coughs, hardly stifled by his closed mouth.

Bah.

[keenly]

Colin glances over at the patient when he coughs, setting aside his book and coming over to examine him and ask the usual questions to determine whether he is delirious. The most important one being:

"How are you feeling?"

[sarcophage]

His eyes follow Colin all the way, locked in focus despite sleepy lids. Feverish to the touch: yes. Pliant for any necessary movement: yes. Happy about being touched: absolutely not.

"Ill."

[keenly]

A smile as if nothing is wrong.

"Exactly as you should, with the grippe turning into a robust winter lung fever. But we'll nip that short in quick order if you keep rested and breathing in that steam. Let me know if there's anything that would make you more comfortable."

A slight shift in energy as he changes from healer to person.

"I have something for you." Without waiting, he stands and ventures toward the fabric-wrapped package he set aside earlier.

[sarcophage]

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?"

[sarcophage]

"I don't want anything."

Not at all true. He wants some very particular things, none of which are achievable in this location, in his present condition, nor with present company. It might sound like mere cantankerous opposition born of discomfort, were he not calm in his delivery, which he is, as usual.

[altusimperius]

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.

[keenly]

Colin simply brings it over.

"A peace offering. I tried to get your old box from Yseult, but I had no luck. So I went shopping in Kirkwall. I know it's not the same, but Lexie said you like things with esoteric value some months ago. So I found this."

He passes him a jet-black cigarette box, bog oak inlaid with enamel and intricately carved.

"There was an old man who'd died and they were selling his things, and that's where I found this. You get this kind of wood in Ferelden, and it's hundreds of years old. I also have cigarettes to go in it, and you can have them after you've been discharged from here."

He looks straight at Leander. "I did not steal the old one from you. I only told Athessa about it to get her opinion on what you might trade for it. If you throw this across the room, or..." a smile "...into the ocean, that's your prerogative. But it would be rather a shame."

[sarcophage]

He follows the gift with his eyes, but makes no move to take it. Wherever Colin decides to set it down, if anywhere, is where it will sit. Listening patiently. No shift in expression, no answering smile or frown.

"Sell it," he answers, almost without delay. "A collector will pay more for this than you managed to scrape together. Sell it and pay the difference to the infirmary." Reedy, beginning to cough, "They could use it."

[keenly]

Colin nods and picks the box back up, setting it back where it was without question.

"As a healer working for that infirmary, thank you. And as a person..." His head bobs. "I'm sorry I spoke to you the way I did."

[sarcophage]

"That's fine."

That he's sorry. He ought to be. Whether he's genuinely remorseful or only moved to the feeling by having been subjected to Flint's authority, Leander isn't inclined to care; it's well to know he himself won't be subject to any more moral pantomiming while he's confined to bed.

"You said it's lung fever?"

[sarcophage]

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."

[keenly]

If Leander is determined to remain a martyr, Colin decides, at least an attempt was made to bury the hatchet.

"It's trying to be," he says lightly, "but we're working very hard to nip it in the bud. Speaking of, I have a tea I would like you to drink."

He picks up a cup he prepared earlier and goes to the fire. Aside from the large kettle producing herb-infused steam, there's a small pot of hot water. He uses a dipper to transfer some water to the cup before bringing it over.

"Once it's cooled enough for you to drink," he says, "I'd like you to drink it all. It will help your body balance the level of phlegm."

In addition to numerous herbs, added via a small fabric bag that keeps the loose leaves from escaping into the water, there is honey.

[sarcophage]

If plain indifference makes Leander look a martyr, so be it; he is no more touched by the attempt to make amends than he is by this blanket's willingness to keep his legs warm. Colin's presence is not offensive, it is simply there. Like interactive furniture.

"Very well. Thank you." The cup, he does take, after sitting himself up without audible complaint, and simply holds it for its warmth. "How awful is it? I'd like not to be surprised."

[keenly]

"I'm afraid I can't predict the future," Colin says. "This might be the worst it gets, or it might yet get worse, depending on how you respond to treatment. Compassion does seem to ease the discomfort, if you'd permit me to cast on you."

[sarcophage]

"I meant the brew. If we had a fortune teller on hand to direct, this might be less of a slipshod company. Although we'd probably find a way regardless." Lifting the cup, inhaling the vapour, "And I do know how healing works."

[keenly]

Another polite smile. He is going to be kind and professional if it kills him.

"It's actually quite a pleasant tea, for most, but it may not be to your taste. Long pepper, ginger, lemon peel, elfroot, and honey. Would you like for me to cast on you?"

[sarcophage]

"No, thank you. Conserve your energy for someone else."

Not that he doesn't need it, probably, but he is more tolerant of discomfort than some are apt to be. No nurse will hear him complain for the sake of complaint.

Clearing his throat, "So we're clear, while I harbour no resentment, it's unlikely we will become friends. If it's in your nature to try, fine. But in this case you ought to save yourself the disappointment."

[keenly]

Colin gives him a Very Patient Look.

"I am not trying to be your friend," he says gently. "I am trying to get you well.
And you let me worry about my own energy."

[sarcophage]

This exchange is ripe for transformation into another argument; instead, just as patiently, ever so gently,

"I am asking you... to leave me alone."

[keenly]

"Of course." A bob of his head. "You get some rest. I'll be right over there."

And he goes to his chair and picks up his book about medicine and continues reading it.

they're friends now

[altusimperius]

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.

time for matching bracelets

[sarcophage]

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.

[altusimperius]

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?"

[sarcophage]

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?"

[altusimperius]

"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.