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Phantom hated their scars.
It was nothing they hated about them physically, not really. They had gotten in a massive fight while in the Pit, and with no other quintessential ghoul around, their face had healed them the best it could. They never caused them issues in the Pit. Once they were summoned, that quickly changed.
They were lucky to go a week without a headache, let alone a migraine trying to split their head open. Papa, when they talk about it in front of him, always has a look of guilt that outlines his face. He thinks that he was the cause of them, that something in the summoning went awry. Phantom tries not to think about that too closely.
The first time they got a migraine they thought they were dying. Mountain had found them in their shower with the lights off and the water as hot as they could take, sobbing on the tile, begging for relief. The pain had been there since the morning and by the time they got in the shower at night, they couldn’t even stand, could only rot away on the shower floor. Mountain rushed them to the infirmary and, with some poking and prodding over the next few weeks, they were diagnosed with chronic migraines caused by their scarring.
They never found their scars to be ugly, but looking in the mirror, all they ever saw now was how broken they were. How reliant they were now to the pack. There were days where they sobbed in their bed, wishing, praying to be sent back to the Pit if it meant the pain would finally cease.
The migraines, in retrospect, were never that bad. They could go about their days with one and be as fine as one could be. The only way someone would be able to tell would be their subdued personality, how they would try and avoid the lights or music. Those days always ended with them curled up and their head tucked underneath a couch pillow, usually accompanied by Rain massaging their shoulders, or Swiss kissing their temples.
There were days where the migraines were so sudden, so out of nowhere, that the surprise hurt worse than their head. They were in the greenhouse with Mountain when the sudden onslaught of sensitivity and jagged pain made them lose their balance and fall into a planter box. They always felt guilt when reliving that memory, the worry in Mountain’s eyes when he called out to them and nearly tripped over himself to get to them. The stems of the flowers were cracked and petals bruised, the bunch almost unrepairable. But Mountain was always a savior.
Then there was the one that reared its ugly head nearly once a week. Sometimes it woke them up in the middle of the night, already sobbing in pain before they even were conscious. Sometimes it showed itself around dinner time, giving them a restless night. Sometimes it stayed for days, unrelenting. Vaguely, they remember being taken to the infirmary when their migraine was on day five. They didn’t eat or drink anything for five days; it would all come back up, anyway, with the nausea. They stayed in the infirmary under Omega’s care for two days, spending the time scared to death. Wishing for death instead, until the sun finally shone through on the other side.
And Aether. If Papa felt guilt, Aether was guilt incarnate. It was the third time they got a migraine so bad they couldn’t function. He snuck his way into their room and proposed an idea, to see if his magick could help. When they agreed, eagerly wishing the pain would finally subside, he put his hand on their head and began.
They sat in their bed while the magick flowed through them, urging its way through their mind, but that was it. Aether’s frown deepened as time carried on, the two of them in a stand still. For three minutes, Phantom’s hope slowly diminished.
“Are… are you doing it?” Their voice was so small, they could see the way Aether crumbled around it. He profusely apologized and hugged them tight. They openly sobbed into his shoulder, their fingers latching on to the back of his shirt like a lifeline. Not even Omega knew why the magick wouldn’t work on their migraines, as it worked for Dew’s. They had their own theory that it was purely from the scars. They hated their scars.
Tour was fun. It was always fun. But the loud crowds and flashing lights and the stress , it was destined for chaos. They spent every second that they weren’t on stage in their bunk. They customized their curtain so absolutely no light would seep through. They chose a bottom bunk and were so glad they did. No window meant no unneeded light, they could get out easily if the nausea became too much, and the vibrations from the bus somehow helped ease their pain.
It was during tour when a breakthrough was made. They were rotting in their bunk, curtain closed and blanket hung tightly over their head. Dew crouched next to their bunk and, with a whisper soft conversation between the two, was let in. He positioned himself with one hand on their neck and one over their scarred eye, their head pressed against his collarbone. The relief was near immediate. It wasn’t all gone, not by a long shot, but they openly sobbed into him when they could finally breathe. They profusely thanked him. He just hummed and kissed their hair.
The rest of tour was spent cuddling with Dew at the end of the night every night and then some when they got back. They purred into his chest while he purred back, content to help them. He kissed along their scars one night with heated lips, whispering mantras of how beautiful they were. They cried into his shirt that night.
It had been months since tour ended and they slowly figured out a routine that kept the worst of the pain at bay. Alternating between heat and cold packs (and sometimes sandwiched between a water and fire ghoul), having a set sleep schedule, avoiding alcohol and trigger foods. Their bad migraines were now far and between, only coming out maybe once a month.
Sometimes, though, even without a trigger in sight, it came knocking at the door.
It was nearing lunch time, they think. They don’t know. They woke up hours ago before the sun had even risen with their eye flaring in pain and their stomach fluttering. The only way they could describe the pain was a mixture of fire, chemicals, bolts of lightning traveling from right behind their eye and to the bass of their skull. Like someone took a hammer and bashed their skull until it fractured, and all that was left was nerves open to the fresh air. How all five of their senses were out to get them simultaneously with no remorse. That was how they could describe the pain.
They stayed stone still in their bed. They only got up once on unsteady feet to close their blackout curtains before diving back into their bed. Even with the curtains closed and the cracks in their door covered, it was still too bright in their room. Even underneath the covers, with closed eyes, it was too bright .
They whined and urged themselves not to cry; crying always made it worse. Their stomach fluttered again and they curled into themselves even more, going fetal. They could’ve called Dew, asked for his help, but just the idea of turning on their phone or using their voice was overwhelming. Considering how much the pain was worsening by the hour, though, they fear that they made a bad decision in not calling for him.
They could spend their time overthinking. How they use Dew, how reliant they are on Dew or Rain. Usually when they’re isolated for this long, that’s where their head leads them. But unfortunately (or fortunately) they don’t have the willpower for anything other than focusing on their misery.
They don’t know if or when they dozed off, but they came back to when their bed dipped. The smokey spice of cinnamon and fire told them who was there for them. Slowly, so slowly, they opened the covers up to let Dew in, their good eye cracked open to see. Dew slotted his body against theirs and immediately got into position, one hand over their neck and one on their scars. It took a couple minutes before they both settled and for the heat to finally seep through their skin, but once it did they let out a heavy sigh. Their nausea settled slightly, and they felt their bones sag into Dew. The light at the end of the tunnel.
“Dew…” they whimpered quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.
“I got you, starlight.” He whispered back, kissing their hairline.
“But your chores,” they always argued with him. Needed him to know to never put them on top priority, that the ministry was more important than their silly pain.
“It’s Sunday,” Dew said, “besides, I love cuddling with my favorite little bug. I’d happily take dish punishment if it meant I could do this all day.”
They felt a smile tug at their lips, just a faint little twitch. They moved an arm and wrapped it around his waist, urging him closer.
“When did you eat last?” He whispered.
Phantom shrugged, noncommittal. “Dunno. I think dinner last night.”
“Wanna try soon?”
“Mm-mm.” they quietly whined. “Hurts.”
“That’s okay.” Dew leaned down and moved his hand away for a brief moment to kiss their scarred cheek. “We’ll try later, okay?”
Phantom let the purr that bubbled in their chest out and their body slump all the way in Dew’s embrace. They could feel the sleep that was taken away from them earlier start to set back in.
“‘Kay.” They mumbled in his chest. He kissed their hair again.
Phantom hated their scars. They loved Dew.