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He didn’t feel bad in the morning.
He had a sensation in the back of his nose, but it was so miniscule that he didn’t think much of it. Sometimes when he woke up after a late night he’d wake up with dry eyes, a scratchy throat, and some sniffles. The sensitive feeling that proded at his nasal cavity wasn’t nearly as concerning as getting to school on time, and Damian figured it would fade later the longer he stayed awake.
He went through the usual routine in the morning. He showed up for breakfast, indulged in his cereal addiction (his father’s fault, surely), and he grunted when his dad smacked a kiss against the side of his head in farewell. His father had to leave earlier than him for work, and Damian was often entrusted to lock everything up himself.
After eating, Damian took about ten minutes putting on his school uniform, and after that he spent some time combing through his hair in the mirror. He packed up his things in his backpack once he was finished, and when he was done with that he grabbed his home key from the wall to lock the apartment up after his exit. He adjusted the straps of his backpack on his shoulders, mainly because it had about ten pounds of textbooks weighing down on his body, and then he made his way to the bus stop.
Damian ends up joining a gaggle of teenagers at the bus stop just in time for the yellow vehicle to drive up. He climbs up the steps with the rest of his peers, sits himself in the back, pulls out his phone, and sticks in his ear buds.
Sometime during the ride to school Damian leans his cheek against the window, and it is then he realizes that the window is pleasantly cool against his skin. He was feeling hotter than usual, and the window was a nice relief from the building heat.
Damian exits the bus when they finally make it to the school. The backpack hanging from his shoulders is suddenly a burden, and Damian feels his limbs weigh him down in the depletion of energy. He’s not so confident anymore in his walk when he adopts a dragging pace. The few that were behind him push past him, or avoid him all together. Damian takes his sweet time walking up the stairs to the second floor to class (the elevator was only used for school personnel and physically disabled students), and when he finally makes it to homeroom he slumps in his desk with an exhausted sigh.
I’m getting sick.
He could probably make it through the day. Probably.
Damian has a hard time paying attention to his classes. The teachers don’t bother to point out his behavior because Damian was good at pretending. They had no idea he was struggling, and they wouldn’t if Damian had his way.
Damian feels sicker and sicker as the day passes. He skips lunch in favor of taking a nap in the school library because eating was the last thing on his mind. The only thing he really wanted to do was press a cold pack against his burning face and keep it there for all eternity. When he attends his last class, his eyes droop dangerously low in exhaustion, and for the first time in the six months he’d been attending school he’s afraid he just might pass out.
“Damian. You don’t look too good. Make sure you get some rest when you get home,” is Mrs. Fairfield’s parting words to him when the bell rings.
Damian grunts in acknowledgment. He manages to pick himself off of his desk, pull himself back outside to wait for his bus where it felt sweltering compared to the air-conditioned interior of his school, and then he manages to squeeze his way back into the bus again with the built up heat that came from having so many bodies concentrated in one area.
Damian’s tripping on his feet when he returns to the apartment. He fumbles for his house key, sniffs miserably, and manages to finally unlock the door. He’s forced to breathe through his mouth as his nose clogs up with disgusting snot, and the first thing Damian does after closing up behind him is run for toilet paper. He presses himself against the sink as he tries to relieve some of the pressure in his head, blowing his nose clear as best he can on the toilet paper he'd crumbled up in his hands, but his actions would prove fruitless as the blockage makes no hint of retreating.
He tosses it in the toilet, and flushes it down the drain when he's done.
Damian allows his backpack to slip from his shoulders onto the bathroom tile. He doesn’t care to get a change of clothing. What he wants is a cold shower. Damian strips himself quickly, hops in the shower with a clatter of shivering teeth, and then sighs as the cold soothes his aching body. His body felt like it was steaming. He could imagine himself as a pot on a stove, boiling.
The cold shower gives him some relief, but when he hops out of the shower he feels just as miserable as before.
Damian doesn’t bother dressing himself again. He puts on his black boxers, emerges from the bathroom with no care for modesty in his state, and sticks his entire head in the freezer.
He can’t keep his head in the freezer forever, so with a whimper he aims for a bag of frozen peas instead. Cheap, inexpensive, and easy to cook.
Damian brings the peas with him to bed. Not, of course, before he makes sure to lower the temperature in the apartment.
Damian pulls out a thin blanket from his closet. He may be hot, he might not want to keep himself that way, but he wasn’t about to expose himself to the air. Having a blanket made him feel safer, and that’s exactly what he wanted to feel. Safe.
Damian collapses on his mattress. He pulls the thin blanket up to his chest, but he doesn’t pull it any higher. He wanted his arms to stick out. He wanted to feel the cool air rushing out of the vent in the ceiling straight onto his limbs.
Damian does what he’d been scared of doing the entire school day. He passes out.
Sleeping brings him some comfort only when he’s asleep. Drifting in and out of consciousness makes him sickeningly groggy. It was a terrible feeling that Damian wished would just go away.
Damian rouses drowsily at multiple points in his rest. He’d gotten up only once to steal the toilet paper from the bathroom to put on his bed-side stand, and he woke up having some trouble keeping the frozen bag of peas on his forehead. This time, however, was different. This time someone was removing the bag of peas from his forehead to press the back of their hand against it.
Damian’s not sure how this makes sense, he’s not sure why, but suddenly he is very cold.
Damian is all too thankful for the removal of the frozen peas, and he grips the insides of his blanket to pull it closer to his body.
Someone was talking to him in sympathy, Damian couldn’t really pay attention to them, but they eventually leave him. He is alone for quite some time before the visitor returns, and suddenly there are hands propping him up against the backboard of his bed frame.
Damian groans.
“I know, I know,” someone mumbles quite sorrowfully as they guide a spoon up to his lips.
Soup.
Damian allows the individual to feed him. He dozes off several times while they do it, and each time he wakes up he is surprised to find the spoon in his mouth. The person taking care of him sure sounded worried about the whole thing, Damian could hear them making a deal out of it, but he just didn’t have the energy to agree with them. He just couldn’t think.
“How are you feeling?”
Damian’s laying back down again in dizzying shock. He didn’t even remember teleporting back to the bed. When could he teleport?
“Cold,” Damian whimpers.
Damian hears his caretaker say, “Oh, my poor kiddo,” as if Damian were some kind of toddler, but that didn’t make any sense because he was fourteen now. He hadn’t been a toddler in some time.
Damian whimpers again when hands are lifting him up out of bed. The man responsible for moving him hushes him soothingly as he climbs up onto the mattress. He leans against the wall that the bed was tucked against, tugs Damian in his arms, and then embraces him with warmth.
Damian sighs in relief, his head droops backward against the man’s bicep.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” the man, who Damian finally realizes is his dad, whispers, “should’ve noticed that you weren’t feeling well today.”
“Couldn’t have known,” Damian returns in a strangled breath.
His throat was so scratchy.
Dick hums softly as he pulls Damian’s blanket over them.
“I asked Jason if he’d drop by with some medicine,” Dick tells him. “I didn’t want to leave you. Are you okay with that?”
Damian’s response is a tired sigh.
Dick presses a kiss into Damain’s hair. Damian couldn’t protest. He was far too sick to swat him away.
“How about you take the day off from school tomorrow, hm?” Dick mumbles. “We can spend the day helping you recover.”
We, his father said, as if to imply he would be staying home, too.
Still, Damian releases a shaky exhale, lungs heavy with exhaustion, “That sounds nice.”
Dick starts running a hand over Damian’s forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles that came from his furrowed brows, and prompting Damian to melt into his hold. Damian didn’t even know he’d been tense until his father started working it out of him.
“I’ll be right here,” Dick says.
Damian mumbles, eyes still closed, “Promise?”
Dick returns, quietly, “Promise.”
Damian drifts away in his father’s arms with his reassurance. He feels better with his father humming in his hair, and he feels safe enclosed in his arms.
He can't wait to start feeling better.