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Dewdrop groans and clutches at his head. This is so stupid . Surely his dumb headache should have gone away by now, it’s been days . He’s been holed up in his room for the past few hours; lights off, blackout curtains haphazardly pulled across his windows as he stumbled towards his bed, determined to keep every skerrick of light out as much as possible
- - -
The first day had been so minor he’d barely noticed the slight twinge in his temples as he sat down for breakfast. The twinge had grown to an ache by the end of the day—no doubt encouraged by his aggressive head-banging during rehearsals—but it hadn’t been enough to impede on his functions, so he’d thought nothing of it.
The next day had been an entirely different story. He was woken up at some ungodly hour of the morning by a splitting pain right through the centre of his skull. The pain had rendered him almost immobile, which didn’t bode well for the outcome of the bile he could feel rising in his throat. He’d just managed to tumble out of his bed and crawl to the bathroom in time to flush nauseating chunks of the previous night’s dinner and stinging bile down the toilet. The movement—getting to the bathroom and heaving into the porcelain bowl below him—had only made his head worse. He couldn’t find it in himself to drag his limp body across his floor, even if he knew it would all be worth it to reach the comfort of his bed, and so instead resigned himself for a night on the bathroom floor. This proved to be a good decision, because although the pain would not allow him to fall back asleep, it seemed to have decided to allow him to throw up several more times—enough that eventually, the only thing being brought up was his burning stomach acid. Yet still, the pain persisted.
It was only when he began to hear the birdsong that alerted him of the acceptable hour of the morning that he was able to force himself to—quite literally— crawl his way back into bed and finally fall asleep. His bandmates had all come knocking on his door intermittently, asking if he was alright or needed help with anything but he shrugged them off, simply telling them that he was tired and that it was his rest day anyway. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t need it. Thankfully, they all believed him, and he supposed his excuse was actually quite plausible for once. Over the past few weeks, he’d been throwing himself into his chores and his practice with a vigour he hadn’t displayed or even felt in years, so he supposed it sounded completely acceptable that he was tired. Although now he thought about it, perhaps the reason his excuse was so easily swallowed by his packmates was because it was true. The stress of taking on more duties, the exertion of completing them, and completing them well, rather than the half-assed job he’d grown so accustomed to, both seemed to be rational and perfectly acceptable reasons to explain why his body was betraying him like this.
It wasn’t like he’d been happy to come to this discovery—his body should be stronger than this, he should be able to handle more, complete his duties properly— but despite his anger at himself and his own mortal vessel, it had been reassuring to know that whatever this was, was likely to be a stress headache from overexertion. He wasn’t dying— as he’d so genuinely believed that morning.
The rest of that day had been spent curled up under his sheets, a blanket and pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the small sliver of light his curtains let through. He’d thought about getting up for food at one point, but the moment he tried to stand up, he felt himself flopping back down onto the bed again, his headache spiking and the pain increasing tenfold. He let it happen. The idea of food turned his stomach anyway, despite it having been hours since the entire thing had been emptied into the toilet.
The rest of the day passed slowly; mind-agonisingly slowly. He spent it in the fuzzy haze between wake and sleep, drifting in and out of consciousness, hoping the next time he woke up, it would stop feeling as if someone was driving an axe into his skull. But, alas, the remainder of his day was spent in agony, and with no such mercy of a painless rest of the day granted.
- - -
Today, when he’d woken up, though, he’d been elated. Slight twinges of his headache remained if he moved his head too fast, but besides that, he felt good as new. He joined his packmates for breakfast, rejoicing when his meal didn’t turn his stomach or reignite the ache in his head. He threw himself back into his duties, delighting as the twinges seemed to lessen throughout the day, but he knew the real test would be today’s pre-tour rehearsal. The crashing of Mountain’s drum kit, the low thrumming of Rain’s bass, the harmonies of Cumulus, Swiss and Sunshine, combined with Copia’s vocals.
He’d be fine, he told himself. His headache had been receding all day; there was no reason for it to get worse during practice.
So, of course, it did.
The excited chatter of his bandmates was louder than he was anticipating when he entered the practice room, their voices overlapping and combining in a cacophony of noise that hadn’t been present in the same way at breakfast. Dewdrop usually gravitated to and took part in the conversations—most days, he enjoys conferring with Aether and comparing their respective guitar parts more than he’d like to admit. But today, every single noise seemed to echo in the small space, voices overlapping and bouncing off the walls and ricocheting straight into his skull.
A hand on his shoulder made him jump. “Hey, are you alright?” Cumulus’ voice was soft and quiet next to his ear, a stark difference from the loud noises surrounding them both. “I know you said you were only tired yesterday but you look… off.”
Dewdrop forced a chuckle, but with the whirlwind of set-up and chatter going on around him he could barely think straight. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything…” She smiled, but it looked almost sad. “I just want to check if you’re holding up alright. We missed our sweet little flame yesterday.”
His throat bobbed. Sathanas , what was it with him and being sick or injured that made him so fucking emotional ? He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. I missed you guys too, I was just, uh… tired, is all. I needed a break from everything, I think my heat must be due soon, too… That must be why I was so drowsy.” He hoped the mention of an upcoming heat cycle would be enough to distract her, and she wouldn’t realise how stilted— and untruthful; of course he wasn’t tired— his answers had been.
“I thought you said fire ghouls don’t get drowsy before their heats… Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Dew?”
“Oh.” He tried to sound surprised; he probably failed. “I– I mustn’t be thinking straight is all. Still tired, I dunno why.” He laughed weakly and pulled her into a somewhat awkward one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Alright then…” Cumulus looked sceptical, but allowed his response. “Make sure you rest up after practice then. None of us want you feeling off, little flame.” She pulled away from his embrace with a wary look on her face and a kiss on Dewdrop’s cheek. Dewdrop’s first instinct was to assume that he’d convinced her of his wellness and she wouldn’t be bothering him anymore, but he caught sight of the worried glance she threw him over her shoulder as she made her way across to the other side of the room and, oh boy, he was going to be bothered later—if not by Cumulus, then by one of his other partners—and he really didn’t need that.
(Usually—although he was loath to admit it out loud to anyone—he loved it when she bothered him, getting all up in his personal space to pepper him with kisses and allowing him to shower her with them in return, but right now he didn’t want Cumulus’ pity or affection—or anyone else’s for that matter—he just wanted to reassure her that he was fine. And he was. He’s fine.)
Everything was fine. He was fine. It was just one short practice session. He did these almost everyday. His little headache would start to fade away again soon. He could do it.
As it turned out, once practice started, he could not, in fact, do it.
He fumbled his way through almost every solo, making more mistakes than he had ever made in a single practice—at this point he was more surprised when he played a right note than a wrong one—every wrong note only seeming to increase the ache in his temples, his neck, his forehead, his everywhere . His fingers refused to work as they should, it felt like the connection between his brain and hands had been severed by the sharp pain in his skull, causing his fingers to struggle finding even the easiest of notes on the fretboard.
The weight of his bandmates’ gazes burned against the back of his head and each time he turned around to move towards his next choreographed mark, he could feel them all searching him with their eyes to try and figure out what was wrong. Their obvious concern only added to Dewdrop’s discomfort, and as the practice ran on for what felt like an eternity, the sting of tears pin pricking in the corners of his eyes only grew more unpleasant. It was a miracle the tears hadn’t started to fall. Dewdrop thanked Sathanas that headaches were not a visible ailment, otherwise he was sure Copia would have called practice off for the day, and told everyone to take care of Dewdrop until he recovered, and fuck, if that didn’t sound like Hell on Earth right now; the bad kind. As it was, Copia kept sending Dewdrop dirty looks—well-deserved ones too; Dewdrop was well aware of that—at each flubbed chord or solo, and the fire ghoul could see him growing more and more agitated as time went on.
Finally— fucking finally— that awful, goddamn nightmare of a practice was over. Before Copia had even finished speaking, congratulating them all—bar one particular fuck-up of a fire ghoul—on a relatively successful session, Dewdrop had already packed up his guitar and was out in the hallway, running as fast as his pounding headache would let him to the comfort and safety of his room.
- - -
Which brings him to now, groaning and grabbing at his head, desperately trying to will the headache away. The blackout curtains provide some relief but despite the darkness surrounding him, the heat of his room only serves to ramp his headache back up to where it was yesterday—although luckily it doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up again; not yet, at least. He writhes around in the sheets, flips his pillow over, desperate to find some cool relief but he finds nothing but more uncomfortable warmth. He can’t control the way his body responds to pain; he hasn’t been able to ever since his elemental change. It’s something he dislikes about himself at the best of times, but right now, in the unbearable heat of his room, it’s something he despises.
He longs for Rain and their naturally cool body—so similar to Dewdrop’s old one. For Aether and his hugs that might as well function as painkillers. Mountain and his large, comforting hands, perfect for providing much needed pressure against his head. For Cumulus and her comforting glow, her airy warmth that he barely allowed himself to feel at the start of practice. He longs and longs, although deep down, he knows he doesn’t deserve it; why would he, when he’s only just started to pull his own weight around the Abbey in the last few weeks? He yearns until he can feel tears pinprick in the corner of his eyes once again, until he feels one bead up and spill over his lashes and down his cheek. Once the tears start, they don’t stop. Sobs wrack his body and do nothing to help his headache—in fact, the shaking of his shoulders and the tightness in which he’s squeezing his eyes shut is actively making it worse— but now he’s started he can’t stop, even when his tears grow uncomfortably hot against his cheeks and he wishes his body would stop fucking hurting him. He cries until he has no more tears left in his body; until he physically can’t, because the pain in his head becomes splitting , like someone has taken a blunt stone to his skull over and over, cracking the bone, and shattering it into tiny shards that now pierce into his eyes and claw at his face from the inside out.
A soft knock on his door shakes him out of his head. “Dewdrop?” It’s Cumulus. He knew she’d thought something up. “Honeypot, can I come in?”
Dewdrop snorts—immediately regretting it thanks to the way it makes pain burst over his frontal lobe—because of course it’s Cumulus out of everyone who manages to make ‘honeypot’ sound like an acceptable term of endearment. He throws a thumbs up in the general direction of the door before something in his fogged up brain reminds him that the door is closed and she obviously can’t see him. “Yep!” He winces at his own loud volume and choses to try and remedy it by sticking his head under his pillow, as if the soft down will somehow manage to provide him with some kind of comfort.
From the pillow, he hears the door creak open and the soft padding of Cumulus’ socked feet as she walks in, disturbing his isolation. He hears the click of a switch and suddenly the room is bathed in bright light; bright enough that he can see it through the pillow. He hisses and presses the pillow down on his head even further, trying to block out the light as much as possible.
“Oh! I’m sorry, my flame.” The switch clicks off and the room is flooded with soothing darkness once again. Dewdrop lifts his head up slowly, the pillow flopping off his head and onto the floor. Cumulus walks over to the bed and hands his pillow back. She sits down next to him, resting a comforting hand on his face, thumb stroking across his cheek reassuringly. “What’s going on, angel?”
“Headache. I’m fine.” He practically whispers the words in an effort to stop his head from throbbing with every syllable. It almost works.
“Oh, Dewdrop, darling. You’re not fine, my love… Was this why you wouldn’t leave your room yesterday?” She sounds so sympathetic; it’s nauseating. Part of him wants to push her away and snarl at her for treating him like fucking glass— he’s not breakable; never has been—but some other, much stronger part of him wants nothing more than to give in; to melt into her calming embrace and never let her go. The latter part of him wins, so he nods, tilts his head into Cumulus’ hand, and wiggles around on the mattress in an effort to get closer to her, forgetting how uncomfortably warm he was until he made proper contact with her skin. He knows that despite her air-wielding nature, she runs at a higher body temperature—albeit, it’s a much lower one than he does—but some part of him hoped that it wouldn’t matter; that he’d be able to find comfort in her embrace. He’s usually able to. But in his current state, any additional body heat, even the skin temperature of an air ghoul, combined with the almost unbearable warmth of the room around them proves to be too much for him to handle. He groans out at the overly hot contact of their skin and rolls away.
“Sorry, Lus. ‘M sorry. Overheating.” He looks up at Cumulus, expecting to see disappointment on her face but the only thing he sees when he looks into her eyes is pure, unfiltered affection , which… doesn’t make sense.
“Don’t apologise, love, it’s okay.” She rubs comforting circles into his back, it feels so nice that he refuses to tell her that her hands are slightly too hot. “Should I go and get Aether? He can give you some pain meds, make some of the pain disappear?”
Dewdrop feels a panic settle over his entire body at the mention of pain medication. His chest tightens. His breathing picks up. Fuck, this was why he didn’t want anyone’s help. He shakes his head violently, hard and fast, not caring how much he’ll regret it in a few seconds when it feels like someone’s jackhammering at his brain. Cumulus’ gentle hands reach down and hold his head still, petting his hair softly in an attempt to calm him down. He’d like to say it works. It doesn’t.
“Hey, it’s alright, I don’t have to get Aether. But you really should get some medication into you, honeypot, you’re in so much pain.”
He tries to shake his head again but Cumulus’ hold on his head tightens and stops him from moving; it’s probably a good thing she does. “No! No, nononono, no, no–” He cuts himself off with a gasping breath. “No meds. Please . I can’t swallow them. I can’t . They– they get stuck in my throat and then– I just… I– I can’t , Lus.” His tears are all dried out from the sweltering temperature of his room, so his pathetic sobs are dry; his breaths coming in heaving gasps that he can’t control, no matter how hard he tries to.
(He’s reminded of one particular incident from a few months prior. He’d had some kind of infection in his gum and someone in the infirmary—maybe Omega?—had instructed him to take antibiotics to treat it. Dewdrop had thought nothing of the tablet at the time; of course, he’d still had his fear, but he’d been getting better at getting past the mental block; better at convincing himself to swallow his tablets down. So, with surprisingly minimal coaxing from Aether, he’d swallowed it. Or at least… He’d attempted to.
The tablet had ended up so entirely lodged in his throat that he couldn’t even swallow his own spit. Aether had needed to crouch down next to him as Dewdrop retched into a garbage bin for the next few hours, trying to cough the tablet up. It would have been fine—horrible and awful, given that he couldn’t breathe or swallow or do anything except cough hollowly into the bin beneath him, but totally and completely fine— if not for the fact that he hadn’t been in the infirmary when he’d taken the pill. He’d been on his way from Aether’s room to the rehearsal room.
It had been a Sibling of Sin that had found him clawing at his throat and coughing into the nearest bin as he retched at the base of the stairs—some kind-hearted soul amidst the hundreds that had passed him on the way to Mass (it really was hundreds; Dewdrop had counted), gawking at the choking ghoul before moving on their way, whispering amongst themselves about the pitiful little fire ghoul all curled up around a bin, and choking on his own burning spit. The Sibling had done a double take, asked if he was okay, and ran off to get help as fast as they could when the only sound he could offer them in response was a pathetic gargle, the tablet blocking off his voice box’s access to his mouth.
That’s how Aether had found him; accompanied by the kind sibling who took pity on Dewdrop—the nauseatingly helpless creature that he was in that moment. He’d knelt down next to Dewdrop, and ordered the Sibling to find some kind of cloth or paper towel to let Dewdrop wipe his face and hands—the fire ghoul had managed to get spit, water, and Sathanas knows what else all over them—while he sat with Dewdrop, encouraging him through his shudders and gags.
It had taken what felt like hours for Aether to coax him away from the garbage bin, and even longer for the tablet to finally dissolve in Dewdrop’s throat; for the fire ghoul to stop panicking and finally be able to breathe freely again. Aether had taken him back to the infirmary and sat with him; had distracted him with the Abbey’s latest gossip and the silly colouring-in games that Omega always left out for kits and human children when they had to stay in the infirmary. Aether’s games had helped, but throughout the entire affair, Dewdrop couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling of the pill in his throat, routinely bursting out into involuntary coughing and gagging fits as his body tried to purge the unwelcome intrusion in its oesophagus each time he talked too much or laughed too hard. Every time he tried to wash the tablet down with a sip of water, he’d start gagging, and the cycle would repeat again.
Needless to say, Dewdrop swore off tablets from there on out.)
Despite the incident being months ago, he still can’t shake the anxiety that builds in his chest every time someone even mentions bringing him medication. Even thinking about trying to swallow a pill makes his throat feel like it’s closing up out of fear, and he can’t stop himself from imagining certain scenarios where the tablet doesn’t dissolve, and he’s left with a pill stuck in his throat for the rest of time. Because of this, Dewdrop decided that the simplest option was to just stop taking medication altogether, in any form. He’s all too aware of the fact that non-tableted forms of medication are only available for those in the infirmary with special permissions— soluble medications for the human children and adults on the frailer side, and chewable tablets in stock for the ghoul kits— based on their low availability within the Abbey, so despite his constant need for medications, he simply doesn’t take them. Dewdrop is certain he’ll be damned all over again the day he willingly takes medicine designed for children just because he can’t swallow a stupid, tiny, fucking tablet.
Cumulus rubs his back comfortingly, clearly making sure to only touch him through his clothes so as not to raise his temperature even further. Dewdrop would cry if he hadn’t already sobbed his tear ducts dry. “It’s okay, I’m not going to get Aether. You don’t need to have any meds if you don’t want them. It’s alright, angel. You’re alright.” She pauses, considering. “Do you want me to go and get Rain? They’ll be a cooler temperature if you want to cuddle them”
“Yes, please.” Dewdrop mumbles into his pillow. He hears her retreating footsteps and feels a sudden urge to say something . “Lus? ‘M sorry ‘bout…” he gestures broadly, “everything. Love you.” Sathanas , he must be more out of it than he thought if he’s spontaneously reminding his packmates of the love he holds for them with no excuses for him to hide behind. His moment of weakness is worth it though, for the flash of sheer adoration in Cumulus’ eyes. She turns and walks back across the room, pressing a gentle kiss on Dew’s forehead.
“I love you too, honeypot.” Cumulus chuckles softly as Dew groans at the pet name, praying to whatever higher— or lower— power that’s out that ‘honeypot’ won’t become Cumulus’ newest nickname for him. It’s so… soft. “I’ll go get Rain, angel.”
The door clicks shut behind her and suddenly the room around him seems so empty, as if on her way out, Cumulus zapped all of the energy out of the room and now Dewdrop is left shivering—not from the cold, although it’s possible the heat of the room has resulted in him developing a fever, because he’s definitely sweating profusely —in the empty shell of what once was the lively, vibrant living space of the fire ghoul. In the now-stifling isolation of the room, it feels like an age before he hears Rain’s quiet knock on his door.
“Fire lily? Cumulus said I should come and see you… Can I come in, darling?”
Dewdrop groans softly in lieu of a response, which Rain—correctly—assumes to be a yes because the door creaks open, and a few moments later, a weight that the fire ghoul can only assume to be Rain is dipping the mattress and lying down next to him.
“What’s going on, fire lily, hmm? Where’s our little spitfire gone?”
Dewdrop shoves his face even further into the pillow and shakes his head
With mounting horror, Dewdrop realises he’s tearing up. “Headache. Hurts. ”
“Oh, honeydew. ” Rain begins stroking Dewdrop’s shoulder. It’s nice; comforting.
What was with all the honey-themed nicknames? Surely they don’t all think Dewdrop is that sweet?
“My darling, of course we think you’re sweet.”
Sathanas almighty. Curse his fuzzed up, headache-ridden brain and its lack of filter. “But why,” he whines. “I don’t get it…”
Rain’s hands are cool and soothing against his feverish skin. “I don’t think that’s a conversation for right now, honeydew. I’ll bring it up again when you’re feeling better, okay?”
“...Okay.” Dewdrop would like to think he doesn’t pout, but the movement of Rain’s hands against his shoulders and back is hypnotising and he can already feel himself getting a little delirious on sleep.
As if Rain can read his mind, their soft voice is suddenly drifting into his mind; he assumed telepathic communication would further amplify the pain of his aching head, but strangely, Rain’s soothing presence in his mind calms him. “How about you try to get some sleep, darling? I can cuddle you if you’d like.”
Dewdrop raises his head and catches a glimpse of their soft smile as they look down at him with plain and open adoration. “That– that would be nice... Please. Would– Is it okay if you cuddle me?”
Rain’s melodic chuckling flits around inside his head, and if Dewdrop knew how to bottle the sound and keep it playing on repeat in his head forever, he would. “Of course I can cuddle you, that’s why I offered, my darling.” Rain shushes Dewdrop before he can even start apologising. “I’m going to climb over you, honeydew, and settle myself behind you under the blanket. How does that sound?”
“Good. It– it sounds good. Thank you, Rainy.” Even through their mental connection, Dewdrop’s ‘voice’ sounds tired and slurred. “Can you, um… Can you keep talking? It helps, I think.”
Rain hums in agreement as they settle themselves behind Dewdrop, wrapping their arms around his waist and pulling him closer into their body. They place one hand on his forehead, applying gentle, pressured rubs, alleviating some of the tension as they begin to talk; well, ramble may be a better term. They chatter lowly about their day, about Mountain’s latest greenhouse experiments, about the pillow fort the girls have built in the common room—which Aether promptly got stuck in—and how Rain is almost certain it won’t have remained an innocent pillow nest by the end of the day.
Dewdrop lets himself drift off to sleep at his body’s leisure. Now that he’s got Rain’s touch and words to partially distract him from his misery, he finds he doesn’t feel so awful. Their touch is grounding, yet it allows him to float away from his body and distract himself from some of the pain. It’s nice, he decides; he likes it. He curls back against Rain’s stomach and chest, leaning further into the comfort their touch brings, and lets his eyes drift closed again.