Work Text:
"Professor Fern,
I am writing this to inform you that I will be absent from the lecture again due to enduring illness. I understand that without SAC accommodations, there is not much purpose of sending this, but"
No.
A brisk double click on the wall of text sent it back into the dark void it had blossomed from. In its absence, there was only the pitiful expression of the bearer of the screen.
A tired gaze squinting behind fogged glasses that slowly contorted into a scowl.
Fuck this.
The first email he'd sent hadn't been responded to, and at this point, Ida couldn’t blame his professor for passing it by.
To his professor, he was probably just another one of many who'd never come to class. Sending bullshit pity emails to party or fuck off and be lazy. Senioritis or just typical Weasel behavior seen within his years of teaching. Nothing new. Nothing surprising. Another email to try to get things off easy.
Grinding his teeth, Ida shut the email app and sat back against the train seat. The train car was warm, a nice, welcome contrast to his wet and cold hobbling through the drizzle. As much as he liked trains, sitting on the seat today was agonizing. He wished he could simply teleport to the comfort of his bed. As much as he wriggled to try to find a comfortable way of sitting, it was still a bad stinging pull near his tailbone, causing him to suck in air and groan.
Perhaps he should have stuck it out to class. The weasel had a defined limp now that could at least give him a bit more credit for the amount of classes he'd miss; the physical evidence for his professor to extend some kindness…but what kind of insult would it be to hobble to a dog in a wheelchair and tell him you can’t come class because your butt hurts?
Because your butt hurts? Good grief!
Ida imagined his Professor rolling his eyes before wheeling away.
Ida scratched behind his head, feeling nauseous as the stubborn pain in his abdomen came back with a vengeance. Propping up his backpack, he flopped his messy head upon it and shut his eyes.
He should have toughed it out. He should have toughed it out. Because what will he do when there’s days, he feels worse? When things were really bad? He will have wasted all his chances on not toughing out. He would have wasted them and have run out. He was already running out, because there was no evidence for his illness except what occurs in a bathroom stall.
Who the hell wants to hear about that, anyways? Who could he talk to about how he was shitting mucus and blood and couldn't sit because it felt like his anus was falling out? About feeling like he was gonna puke fire? That he keeps leaking piss when in pain? What could they even do to help except become uncomfortable and say things that he'd heard a thousand times?
Change your diet.
Lose weight.
stop stressing.
He was at least doing two of these things without much choice now. The foods he enjoyed making that were affordable were leaving him drained and his weight was now all over the place. He would have always done things "right" if he had been served better cards that made it accessible.
But he didn’t have enough signs to show he was putting in the work now that he had the ability to.
It wasn’t enough proof.
Proof, proof, proof.
He spent so many days missing classes prior due to being too sad and afraid to be around people because the sickness in his head had no proof. He would have to be told to smile and cheer up or people would look away because it was uncomfortable. They would not have any reason to think anything more of his grumpy expression except that he was being such a brat. He needed to get his shit together. Be grateful for life. And now that he was finally strong enough to face it all and fight his head sickness and found a reason to love life past his trauma, his body decides it can't do it anymore. In the most stupid way!
A way of breaking down where there’s no proof unless someone sticks a fucking microscope up his ass!
Another thing that has no fucking proof!
More to have to suck up and hide because there is no proof!
Ida felt the horrible bubble rise in his already burning throat. The shitty choking sensation that reminded him of how he puked bile the other day. The heating of his pelt and the building of tears in his eyes. It was worse than puking in a bathroom stall and having to go to class and try to look normal. Having to go try to put on a performance that made everyone uncomfortable.
Ida began to whimper and cry into his backpack. Clutching the damp fabric like his life depended on it, he sniffled and sobbed in the quietest way he could.
He would have to get his shit together before the conductor came to collect his ticket.
What would the conductor think? His hair was messy, he was damp from the drizzle, and he was keeled over a stupid kid backpack.
An embarrassing sight that would prompt nothing kind.
No matter the interaction, it would be uncomfortable and humiliating, so Ida swallowed his tears and wiped his eyes before raising his head with squinted, crooked glasses.
The train would be leaving in ten. More passengers were boarding.
He had to just get it together and get home. Tough it through until there was proof. Until there was proof.