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Elliot laid curled in bed, the blankets pulled over his head as if they would help block out the wind rattling the shutters of his window. Every clatter sent a spike of pain through his already pounding head, accompanied by a rising wave of nausea he was losing the battle to keep down. He could feel his heartbeat in the blood rushing in his ears and his brain felt like it was pressing against the inside of his skull.
It had been a long time since Elliot last suffered a migraine, and this was one of his worst. He kept a supply of willow bark and feverfew from the medics (not to mention several contraband bottles of paracetamol hidden in the floorboards) just in case. Usually they were enough to at least take the edge off, but those remedies failed to ease even a little of the pain he felt now. Instead, all Elliot could do was lie still in the darkness and drift in and out of consciousness.
He hoped he wouldn’t throw up again. The lingering scent of sickness in the air was a testament to his previous failures on that front, and the bucket next to his bed would be annoying to clean out as it was. Elliot doubted he had much left in his stomach aside from disgusting medicinal tea but there was no feeling quite like the discomfort of throwing up stomach acid. It would also make the pain in his head worse, which really was the last thing Elliot wanted.
It was difficult to think through the haze. His headache left him floating, unaware of anything but the pain. He felt both hot and cold, flushed and frozen, and he wondered if he was actually running a fever or if his body was just pretending it did. Either wouldn’t be too surprising. Self perception, cognition, whatever. Elliot’s body had a tendency to throw a hissy fit whenever he had a migraine, as proven by the fact he’d thrown up the last time he tried to drink anything.
Which meant he was probably dehydrated too, something that wouldn’t help in the slightest, but refilling his waterskin meant getting up and braving the wind and sun, something Elliot didn’t think he was physically capable of doing. Better to just lay here and die instead. It would certainly feel better to be a corpse. Or maybe he should just gouge out his eyes with a spoon. He didn’t much care which as long as it made the pain go away.
God, this was awful. Elliot groaned against a cresting wave of pain. It pulsed behind his eyes and temples, the agony reaching all the way to the base of his skull, sickening in its intensity. His body wanted so desperately to curl away from the source of pain and Elliot didn’t know how to make it understand that it was the one causing it.
It was like this the first time he had a migraine too, a few months before coming to the Border Camp. Thirteen was on the younger end to develop them, but migraines also predominantly affected women, so with his shite luck, Elliot wasn’t surprised things ended up the way they did.
He’d been sure he was dying those first, awful days; that he’d had a brain tumour or some sort of bleed. His father had been away on a business trip, and Elliot had laid in bed, sick and suffering, and thought, he’s going to find me dead.
When Elliot’s father finally returned and did not find him dead, he took Elliot to the doctor. The appointment was less than ten minutes and ended with Elliot being told to try taking both ibuprofen and paracetamol together next time. The advice was worthless, which was par for the course for the NHS.
Sometimes, like now as he laid curled in bed unable to move, Elliot wished it was a brain tumour. At least then there’d be something he could do about it. Or, again, maybe he’d just die, which almost seemed preferable. Being in a magical land surreptitiously lacking in magic didn’t help that thought, although Elliot usually tried to tell himself that people here would at least care if he died. (He didn’t always believe himself; it was a work in progress).
Time passed achingly slowly. Elliot was glad for the snatches of sleep he managed, but he didn’t feel better upon waking. He stayed curled on his side, half suffocated under his too hot blanket, and hoped it would be over soon.
He was roused from half-sleep some indeterminate amount of time later by a sharp knock on his door. Elliot groaned, which was a mistake, because the rumble of his vocal cords only vibrated his brain. God. Fuck.
“Elliot?” Luke called, opening the door and poking his head inside. “Are you in here?”
Elliot curled closer in on himself, cursing in every language he knew because it hurt. Even the melodic sound of Luke’s usually wonderful voice was too much, too loud. Elliot wanted to tear off his own skin if only it would give him relief.
He must have made some sort of noise, or maybe he just made a pitiable enough sight as a lump on the bed, because Luke pressed forward.
“Elliot, what’s wrong? Myra said you weren’t in class.”
At least you remembered her name this time, Elliot thought but couldn’t make himself say. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, heavy and dry, and his eyes were pulsing even behind their lids.
“Luke,” he muttered because he knew Luke would panic if he didn’t say something. “I can’t-” he couldn’t finish, pressing a hand against his mouth to try and quell the nausea.
“Elliot, what’s wrong?” Luke’s voice took on a panicked edge, his hand finding Elliot’s shoulder.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Elliot rolled over, pushing Luke aside to reach for the bucket beside his bed. He dragged it against his chest as he leaned over the bed awkwardly, his head spinning and black spots dancing across his vision from the sudden motion. He heaved a few times, choking up stomach acid that stung his nose and throat since. He made a wounded sound, his head resting against the side of the bucket with his eyes closed.
Luke touched his shoulder tentatively before gathering his hair out of his face. Elliot wished he could melt into the mattress to spare himself the humiliation, but he couldn’t deny it was a relief.
“You’re feverish,” Luke muttered. “I should get a medic-”
“Won’t help,” Elliot bit out miserably. “Migraine. Just need- just need to wait it out.”
“A what?”
Elliot cracked an eye open. “A migraine. It’s like a headache on steroids.”
Luke blinked, but Elliot’s explanation didn’t seem to have landed. He sighed and closed his eyes again.
“It’s a really, really bad headache.” A god-awful one that made the room spin and colours dance and Elliot want to die.
“You’re throwing up though,” Luke pointed out. “Are you sure you aren’t sick?”
“It’s just the pain. My body freaks out,” Elliot said.
“You’re in enough pain to throw up?”
Elliot clenched his teeth. It didn’t help. “Mhmm, and sound and light makes it worse so please, please shut up.”
“I- sorry,” Luke said much quieter. He ran his fingers through Elliot’s hair. “Can I help? Please, I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
“Water, and if I keep talking I’m gonna throw up again.” Elliot was well past his max for conversing.
Luke didn’t say anything when he pulled away, but he took Elliot’s waterskin before leaving. Elliot waited a moment or two longer before slowly putting the bucket back on the floor and collapsing into his pillow.
He roused at the sound of Luke next to his bed and gave a questioning noise.
“Fresh bucket,” Luke muttered. Elliot heard the sound of something being set down and something else picked up. “I have water. Do you need help?”
“No,” Elliot said and held out a hand. He didn’t open his eyes until he felt the waterskin in his grip, and even that was just to squint. He managed to drink some of it without feeling sick but didn’t want to push his luck.
Luke hovered anxiously nearby. Elliot didn’t know how to reassure him that everything was fine. Yes it was awful and yes Elliot would willingly be hit by a train if it made the pain stop but he would be back to normal in a few hours, probably.
Eventually, Elliot felt Luke settle silently on the edge of the bed. He brushed aside Elliot’s hair and kissed his forehead. It was sort of a miracle considering Luke had just seen Elliot throw up stomach acid, of which Elliot definitely had in his hair.
Elliot slept. He stirred a few times to Luke checking on him, but never for long enough to mutter more than a few assurances that yes Luke, he was still fine.
He felt a little better when he woke a few hours later, which only meant it probably wasn’t a brain tumour. Pity. At least the wind died down sometime in the last few hours.
There was a dim light across the room. Elliot squinted it and realized it was a lamp, half of which was covered by a book to shield him from the light. Luke sat in a chair next to it, reading with his chin resting in his hand. He was dressed for sleep. If Elliot’s head hurt less, he may have wanted to admire the scene for longer. Luke in the thin linen shirt he wore to bed to help keep his wings from getting crushed amongst limbs, the look of concentration as he read; how the candle light painted the plains and shadows of his face. Unfortunately, Elliot’s head really did still hurt.
“Hey,” Elliot croaked. Luke’s head shot up and he immediately crossed to bed. Elliot held out his hand for Luke to take.
“How are you feeling?” Luke asked, his sword-calloused hands stroking Elliot’s smooth ones as he sat on the bed.
Elliot closed his eyes. “Awful. Less awful than before, but still awful.”
“I’m sorry. I brought you something to eat if you think you can?”
He considered for a moment. “Maybe in a bit,” he said. “There’s a white bottle in my drawer. Can you grab it for me?”
Luke did so, and Elliot reluctantly opened the child-safe cap to take two of his precious paracetamol despite knowing it probably wouldn’t help. Restocking would be difficult now that he didn't intend to return across the border. Maybe he could bribe one of the younger students from his side to buy more over the summer and send it to wherever he and Luke ended up. Actually, considering he’d have to do the same thing for pens, it was probably for the best to figure that out sooner rather than later.
He handed the bottle back to Luke, who didn’t even make a face at it when putting it away. Elliot let himself lie still for a while and enjoyed Luke’s closeness. It felt particularly nice when Luke tentatively ran his fingers through Elliot’s unmanageable hair.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Elliot said, moving closer to press against Luke’s thigh.
“Does it help?”
“Mhmm.”
So Luke didn’t stop, at least not until Elliot had almost fallen asleep again.
“You really should try eating something,” Luke said.
Elliot groaned and looked up at him. “Only if you feed me.”
Predictably, Luke turned scarlet.
Luke did not, in fact, feed Elliot, but he did bring over some plain pasta and let Elliot lean back against his chest while eating.
They were quiet for a while. Elliot could practically hear Luke thinking, but he didn’t have the energy to needle out what it was. Luke would probably tell him eventually anyway.
It took longer than usual for Elliot to eat. He didn’t have much of an appetite so he was doing it for Luke’s sake more than anything. Luke didn't speak until after Elliot ate all he could and the plate was put aside.
And then, predictably, “Commander Woodsinger suggested peppermint,” Luke said.
“What?”
“Peppermint oil. She said it helps. We don’t have any but maybe we could look at the market next time we visit?”
If the advice came from anybody else, Elliot would have called bullshit. It sounded too much like the weird magic rock people in the other world who swore lavender essential oil and rose quartz would cure all woes, and he frankly didn’t much trust the medics here in treating long term conditions since their medicine hadn’t progressed beyond medieval adjacent knowledge (minus the whole four humours thing and the inherent Christianity of it all) despite having a stream of people from the other world. They could at least get to early Victorian era medicine without much trouble if they bothered to try. Elliot was sure somebody could ask the students to bring back books on the topic. Maybe he could suggest it... Tangent aside, Commander Woodsinger was from his world, and she was too smart to believe in the mystical properties of pretty rocks, so he was inclined to believe her. Cautiously, of course.
He relaxed when Luke’s arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
“Yeah, maybe,” Elliot said. “Better than feverfew and willow bark tea I guess.”
“You’d probably still have to drink that.”
“Ugh.”
Whatever else Elliot was about to say died with a pulse of pain. He closed his eyes, wincing, and tilted his head back against Luke’s shoulder.
“Amputate my head please.”
Luke paused. “Isn’t that just decapitation?”
“No, decapitation kills people. Amputation doesn’t.”
“That’s not- I can’t believe you’re joking about your own death.”
“I joke about my own death all the time. It’s a type of generational humour on the other side of the wall.”
Luke only sighed and shook his head. He rested his chin on Elliot’s shoulder.
“Just rest, okay?”
“Are you telling me to shut up?”
“No,” Luke said, eternally patient and definitely lying. “I’m telling you to rest. I don’t like seeing you in pain and you’re not that good at hiding it.”
That was true, although Elliot was a lot better than Luke gave him credit for, Luke was just scarily good at seeing what Elliot didn’t want him to. He was about to tell Luke as much, but Luke shifted and pulled Elliot down until he was lying spooned in Luke’s arms.
“I’m tired,” Luke said, “so you can save whatever you’re about to say for tomorrow. And then we’re going to talk about how you never told me you get headaches. Commander Woodsinger said migraines are a condition , not a one-time thing.”
“I don’t get them often,” Elliot argued. “It just never came up.”
Luke hummed but didn’t otherwise speak. He was still thinking about something. When did he even talk to Commander Woodsinger? But Elliot really should rest. Whatever was on Luke’s mind—probably a hundred questions about migraines and Elliot’s history with them—could wait until tomorrow. Hopefully Elliot’s migraine would be by then too, otherwise all they could do was wait it out. At least he wouldn't be alone this time like he’d spent every other migraine. There was probably a mess of emotions wrapped up in that, but Elliot was disinclined to think of that right now, or ever. It was enough just to be here, sleeping wrapped up in Luke’s arms as a balm for the rest.