Work Text:
He feels it when he wakes up, the way one feels a storm coming, before it hits, from the heaviness in the air and the prickle at the back of one’s neck. Pins and needles crawl across his temples and the bridge of his nose; a white fog blooms at the edges of his vision, recedes when he looks at it but presses in again whenever he moves his head, pulsing in a rhythm familiar and unrelenting.
Heart. Fuck. Heartbeat, rushing-humming under his skin, echoing like a bell in the hollow space behind his eyes. Stupid - he remembers that from before - he’s stupid like this, even before it hits, thoughts fraying at the edges, fracturing in ways he can’t fit back together.
Get ahold of yourself, he thinks, screwing his eyes shut. When he opens them the fog is gone, for the moment, though traces of it linger at the edges of the window where light slips between the curtains. He tries to ignore it.
His body doesn’t feel like his as he stumbles to the kitchen, his limbs leaden and clumsy, but like something he’s outside of, only directing without inhabiting. He doesn’t remember that from before, doesn’t remember feeling so disconnected, and it frightens him, the distance, the realization that this part is new. His heart pounds against the inside of his chest, pulse quickening, and fear coats his tongue, sharp and cold. Stupid, stupid, stupid -
He closes his eyes again, tries to focus on his breathing, tries to slow his racing heartbeat. It should be no surprise that it feels different now, and the fear itself is proof he’s feeling , not losing himself again to that terrible emptiness. There’s no reason to panic. Panic will only make it worse.
It’s habit more than thought that guides him through the same routine as every morning, making breakfast and tea, splashing his face with cold water in the bathroom. Turning away to go and dress before he can see his reflection. About to leave, he hesitates, goes back to take a remedy in the hopes it will keep the pain at bay. Just long enough to get home , he reminds himself, checking the time on his watch. He just needs to last long enough to get back home, and he can lie down again in the dark until it’s over.
—
(Before:)
He jerks up, awake. A sound, loud and hard, echoes in his room and through his head - rhythmic, insistent. It hurts, like a hammer to his temple, again and again.
He bites his tongue. Tries to get his bearings.
“Hey -“ A voice, outside the door, grating. “You awake yet? Come on, you’re gonna be -“
“Go… away,” he chokes out through gritted teeth, and covers his ears with his hands.
The pounding stops and he takes a shuddering breath. There’s fire behind his eyes, even closed.
“What’s your problem?” calls the voice, Lea’s drawl too harsh, all brass and sparks.
“I said,” he repeats slowly, each word an effort to form through the pulsing pain in his head. “ Leave.”
A pause, and then Lea’s voice again. “You, uh - you okay in there?”
He rolls over, staggers to his feet. He wants to sleep , just sleep until the throbbing in his temples is gone, and if he has to strangle Lea to shut him up, so be it.
Two steps towards the door. The curtains in the window shift, a draft or his passing stirring them. Sunlight glints through between them, hits him like a blow to the face, like meeting a brick wall head-on. He screams and covers his eyes as his legs give out and he falls to his knees on the stone floor.
“Isa?” Lea is calling, distantly. Shut up, he thinks, just shut up shut up shut up -
He feels his body convulse, wracked by the pain cutting into his head. Nausea constricts his throat. He fumbles blind for the wastebasket under his desk. Can’t find it. Doesn’t know which way he’s facing, which way to reach. Drops to all fours instead, forearms braced against the floor, head cradled in his hands in a futile effort to block out the world.
—
(Now:)
It comes and goes in waves, an unrelenting tide trying to drag him down with it. The haze creeps in at the edges of his vision and he pushes it away. The lights refract and form sunbursts that shift and shimmer when he moves. He grits his teeth against it, wills it away.
Six hours. Only six hours. He clings to that when clarity slips away and his other thoughts are too scattered to make sense of, the time counting down until he can get home and crawl back into bed. It’s pathetic, he knows that, but he remembers how it feels when it hits, when the fog pulls away and the pain replaces it. He knows the best he can hope for is to be home before it happens.
But even keeping his eyes down and avoiding conversation, he feels the ache starting to build behind his eyes after an hour, the quiet rush of his heartbeat becoming a dull pressure in his temples. The clouds in his vision press in, blocking out his periphery, and he finds that he can barely see anything to his left without turning his head entirely. His chest and stomach go tight, and he’s very aware of the pulse beneath his skin.
Five hours, he reminds himself, and then, four and a half.
It finally hits in the third hour, the persistent ache suddenly spiking, with a burst like fire or lightning behind his eyes that overlays his vision with sparks. He hears the strained whimper in his own throat when he turns his head too fast, and bites his lip so hard he tastes blood in his mouth.
“You okay?” someone asks next to him, but he doesn’t know who, can’t place the strangely echoing voice or piece together the facial features he can dimly make out into a picture he recognizes.
“Fine,” he manages through gritted teeth, nodding. The movement of his head makes the pain flare, driving into his skull from three directions at once. A sharp, shaky breath. Hands tremble, legs go weak, threaten to give out. He leans on the counter, closes his eyes.
The voices in the room are all too loud, meaningless fragments of conversation ringing in his ears. Disjointed chatter he can’t understand amidst a roar of other noise. Somewhere nearby something is humming at a piercing pitch that feels like it’s driving into his head like a dagger behind his ear.
“I…” he stammers out. The effort of forcing his mouth to speak, to form words at all, hurts even worse, but he has to say something. “I - leave. Have to - noise…”
He thinks someone asks him something, but he can’t be sure; ignoring it he stumbles away towards the bathroom, hoping the noise will be blocked out in there and he can sit somewhere in silence.
The lights are even brighter there, and glare on the clean white tiles, the chrome surfaces and polished glass mirrors. Everything turns into a dizzying mess of white light, flashing at him from all corners of the room, each reflection cutting past his skull directly into his fragmented mind. His eyes burn, tears welling up as he screws them shut, and he feels his body convulse.
Choking back a sob, he staggers forward, reaching with both hands until he feels cold porcelain until his fingers. For a moment he’s able to steady himself against the sinks before the pain spikes again and he doubles over, shuddering, to vomit in the sink.
“Fuck,” he mutters, reaching over to turn the water on. Movement - rush - pain - he gags again, shudders, acid burning his tongue. The walls echo, throw sound back from everywhere, screeching of the pipes he’s never noticed mixed with the sound of strangled retches, grating his ears even more as the noise reverberates.
Need to sit down, can’t stay upright anymore or he’s going to collapse.
His hands aren't his as he clumsily shuts off the tap, barely responding to his thoughts. Familiar in the foreignness: he remembers this, but not from before, not from the headaches he used to get. He gags again, doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or from the memory, and his heart sticks in his throat as if he might throw it up on the bathroom floor. One hand pressed to his mouth, he stumbles away from the sink and towards the back of the bathroom.
In the last stall he shuts the door to lean against it and lets himself slide to the floor, draws his knees in closely, head tucked between his legs, covers his eyes with the other hand to block out the light shining through his eyelids. It barely dulls the pain.
—
( Before: )
He doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t know Lea is inside until he feels a hand between his shoulder blades.
“Go away,” he chokes out through gritted teeth.
“What’s the matter?” Lea asks, his voice still too loud. “Your head?”
“Shut up,” he says. “Shut up .”
“Can I help?” Lea’s hand is still resting on his back, thumb tracing his spine, and for a second -
He shakes his head. “You can leave me alone,” he spits, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to dull the pain. “Tell the others I won’t be there.”
“You sure you don’t want company?” Lea presses.
He starts to answer, gags instead and feels his stomach convulse. A thin stream of liquid spills over his tongue and onto the floor, leaving the taste of acid, sharp and metallic. Lea reaches for his hair, but he slaps his hand away.
There’s a moment of total silence.
“Fine,” Lea spits, and stands up. “ Fine.”
He walks out of the room, his footsteps heavy on the floor, and slams the door on his way out. Isa screams as it echoes in his head, covers his mouth with one hand and bites down hard to smother the sound. Another mouthful of bile comes up and spills over his palm to run down his arm.
He spends a few moments still curled on the floor, trying to steady his breathing despite the stabbing pain behind his eyes. Lifts his head slowly, eyes half-lidded as he looks for the tissues on his desk. With a great effort he drags himself to his feet and stumbles over to get them, wiping the sick from his hand and face. He throws a few on the floor to mop up the mess and grabs the wastebasket, drags it over to the bed as he crawls back under the covers.
He doesn’t need anyone looking after him. He can look after himself.
—
( Now:)
He hears it every time the door opens and closes, tries to keep from crying out at the sound so no one hears him. Doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, curled up on the tile floor, hiding his face in his hands.
It opens again and he grits his teeth, eyes burning, suppressing a whimper at the sound as it falls closed. Braces himself for more noise, but it doesn’t come.
“Isa?” Lea’s voice, even hushed, still echoes against the walls and makes his ears ring, but -
“Here,” he tries to say; it comes out a weak croak, barely a word.
Footsteps seem to come from everywhere at once, disorienting, making his head pound, and nausea wells up in his stomach again. He leans forward, breath hitching, shudders as he dry-heaves over the toilet.
The hinges on the stall door protest as it swings open, the squeak of metal on metal flashing bright as lightning in his head. Bits of his breakfast spill over his lip into the bowl in a stream of acid and saliva. Lea is next to him, hands reaching to pull back his hair, and through the haze of pain, shame makes his chest tighten and his face burn.
“Sorry,” he manages. “You don’t… have to…”
“You’re sick,” Lea says. “Somethin’ you eat disagree with you?”
He shakes his head and regrets it. “Just… a headache. Thought I - could -“ He can’t explain, can’t keep his thoughts straight, all a jumbled mess he doesn’t know how to sort through.
“Shh,” Lea tells him. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“How did - found - in…” he mumbles.
“Someone said they saw you come in here an’ not leave,” Lea replies. “Thought I oughta check on you.”
He lifts his head to look up at Lea blearily, wincing as the light flares white all around him. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
Lea smiles a little, tucking the loose strands of his hair behind his ear. “Come on, let’s get you back home.”
The yellow sky outside hurts almost as much as the white lights in the bathroom, hitting him hard enough as they step out into the constant dusk that he has to double over to vomit again into the gutter. Lea holds him up by the shoulders, keeping his hair back with one loose hand, and he covers his eyes to protect them as he heaves pitifully on the ground.
“It’s okay,” Lea says softly as he slurs half-coherent apologies. “Just keep your eyes closed, I’ll lead the way so you don’t have to worry about it, alright? I know how bad those headaches get sometimes.”
—
( Before:)
It’s all an incomprehensible blur, after that, waves of pain like the tide swelling, crashing, slipping away; flashes like lightning fade slowly to black. Hands over his face, bites his tongue to keep from crying, so hard it bleeds. Sick taste of metal and acid chokes him - throat closes up, unable to swallow it - pain, a blow to the temple. He turns over, leans off the side of his bed to throw up in the wastebasket.
Sleep comes eventually. He doesn’t know when. Doesn’t care. Too long.
When he wakes it’s afternoon and the pain is a dull throbbing ache. He pushes himself up in bed only for the sound of his pulse in his ears to become deafening, screws his eyes shut as it threatens to close in on him again. When he opens them his vision is through fogged and fractured glass, dizzying and meaningless.
For a second, just a second, he wants -
Get ahold of yourself, he thinks, burying his face in the pillow again. He’s not a child anymore, after all.
—
( Now: )
Lea sits beside him in the dark on the bathroom floor while he lays his head on the cold porcelain, hands pressed against his eyes to shield them - doesn’t touch, except to pull up his hair when it gets bad, keep it back as he chokes up remnants of last meals, train passing by a distant roar that claws inside his head - doesn’t even talk, just sits quietly.
Not like him, he thinks, except -
“Thank you,” he croaks, lifting his head. “I’m… sorry.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Lea replies, softly, kindly, voice hushed. Fingers brush his shoulder, hover there uncertain, settle - palm against his back - pressing down to fight tension coiled tight against the pain.
His pulse echoes in his ears. Heartbeat. Heart. He whimpers, breath catching, rubs his eyes. Damp across his cheekbones, down the sides of his nose, tears he didn’t know were there.
“I…” he manages, struggling to find words in the fog, but his head is a maze, every thought a dead end, the effort too much, hurts and makes it worse. “Lay down,” he finishes, slowly, the words clumsy in his mouth.
“Let me help you up,” Lea says, wraps an arm around him, pulls him to his feet. Walks with him stumbling to his room and stands waiting.
He collapses onto the bed, slumps back onto the cushions. Sheets tangle, catch on corners of him as he tries to pull the covers up, and the pain crests and crashes over him again. A choked-off sob makes him gag.
Hard plastic pressed into his hands, between his legs. “Here,” Lea says, “it’s okay.” He ducks his head as acid burns up his throat, floods his mouth to spill into the wastebasket. Heartbeat surges, a roar in his ears. Noise - pain - sick again, head spinning, chest heaving to get his breath back.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with one hand, tears all down his cheeks.
“Shh,” is Lea’s only reply as he takes the wastebasket, sets it on the floor beside the bed. Covers straightened out now, untwisted, room enough to curl up on his side, face pressed into the pillow.
“Thank you,” he says without opening his eyes.
Lea laughs softly, brushes his hair back. “Get some sleep.”
—
( Before :)
In the morning he dresses carefully, combs his hair and washes his face, examining his reflection closely in the mirror above the dresser to be sure he looks presentable before he goes to join the others for their studies
“I apologize for my absence yesterday,” he tells the master politely when they meet, bowing his head.
“Where were you?” the master demands, shaking his head sternly.
“I...wasn’t well,” he says, lowering his eyes under that piercing gaze.
“You should have said something,” the master replies. “Lea even told me he hadn’t seen you.”
He goes cold, a sharp feeling in his chest like a knife through his breastbone. “I’m sorry,” he says, very quietly. “I’ll inform you, next time.”
—
( Now :)
When he wakes, there’s a glass of water and another remedy waiting on the bedside table, with two slices of toast on a plate beside them. He sits up slowly, blinking in the dim light, and can’t be sure if he’s startled more by the tears in his eyes or the realization that he’s smiling. He takes a sip of water, the cold soothing his throat and clearing his head.
His shoulders and neck are stiff, and there’s still a dull ache between his eyes, but the fog has lifted and the unbearable piercing in his temples is gone. He shifts and stretches out his arms, trying to ease some of the tension, but already he feels more like himself again, in that way he’d forgotten was possible, the way that still creeps up on him and takes him by surprise some days.
He takes another sip of water, still wary of drinking too quickly after emptying his stomach earlier. When a few moments pass and the water stays down, he takes a few bites of his toast and slowly gets to his feet, emerging from his darkened room into the hall.
Lea is still there, in the living room, when he looks around the corner - all untidy hair and long limbs, sprawled across the sofa, his feet propped up on the table. Isa almost scolds him. Almost.
“You stayed,” he says instead, softly, and the sound of his voice makes Lea jump and look around.
“Of course I did,” he replies, shaking his head with a faint smile tugging on one corner of his mouth.
“How long was I asleep?” Isa asks, glancing out the windows at the dusky rose sky as if expecting it to give him a clue.
“Few hours,” Lea says, unfolding himself from the couch and coming closer. “How are you feeling?”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just takes a few steps closer so he can wrap his arms around Lea’s shoulders, a silent answer that he hopes says enough.