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There are very few things that Kiwi doesn’t like. Even after their journey and seeing some of the best and worst the world has to offer, they’re extremely happy to say that their list of dislikes is incredibly short. Mindboggling short, to use Miriam’s words for it. But one thing that has not and will not budge from the tip-top of the list is being sick.
Stomach bug? The acid burns their throat. Sore muscles and joints? They can’t hold proper form if their muscles give out. Headaches? They can’t even shut doors too forcefully without the noise stabbing their brain through their ears. But the worst? The absolute worst? Sore throats. Oh, Kiwi how hates HEAVILY DISLIKES sore throats.
Of course, no one loves sore throats, but there’s a special offense whenever this happens to Kiwi. They know that not everybody understands the meaning singing has in their life. Yes, the people that they consider the most important in their life know that music is important to them, but very few fully comprehend how deeply ingrained it is to their very being. The closest was a conversation they had with Miriam where they said that music is as woven into their blood and bones as Miriam’s magic is to hers. And that’s the long and short of the issue, a sore throat feels like a net has been cast over Kiwi’s very personhood. Every ounce of joy is trapped deep inside of their soul, and the key doesn’t get in reach until this pain is soothed. There’s a reason why this was the symptom that their mom gave special attention to treat when they were growing up in Chismest.
Kiwi doesn’t regret moving away from Chismest. Living in Langtree is a lot more comfortable than the city ever was. But on a morning like this, they can’t help but feel nostalgic for the days of having family nearby to lend a hand when they feel absolutely miserable.
From their blanket cocoon, Kiwi squints at the small crack in their curtains that is letting a bright slice of sunlight into the room. Maybe if they stare hard enough, the fabric will move slightly closer to block out the light. Usually, they’re happy to rise with the sun, but today, the daylight feels sharper than any knife. They would turn over and face the wall, but after waking up in the middle of the night completely congested and not getting back to a fitful sleep until they chose which sinus to take the burden, they weren’t going to change sides again. The best they can do is tug the quilt over their eyes, taking care to not cover up their nose in the process.
Despite the layer of perspiration covering their skin, Kiwi can’t stop shivering. The one time they steeled their nerves enough to force themself out of bed just to use the bathroom, they did everything they could to avoid looking in the mirror. They didn’t want to linger on how genuinely terrible they look. Hair matted to their head, enough blood drained from their face that their lips and skin are the same color, shadows creeping under their eyes. All that’s left is a sweaty shell of their former self, so there was no real point in looking.
Their stomach feels like it’s eating itself, but even thinking about taking the stairs makes Kiwi’s joints hurt. They’re exhausted but unable to sleep, famished yet sick to their stomach, burning up and shivering, and a hair’s breadth away from bursting into tears in frustration. So, no one can blame Kiwi from doing the one thing that can consistently self-soothe them.
It's not as though they started belting an aria. They didn’t even sing a full scale. What they did could barely be considered singing, just beyond humming. But this was enough to make Kiwi’s vocal cords feel like they’re going through a grater. A series of sharp hacks force their way through their throat, violently tossing their body forward in the bed. When they finally settle back down, they tighten their lips, as if to seal the songs within them. A brief whine starts to escape past their lips as they bury themselves deeper in their quilt.
As the sun moves across the window, Kiwi finds themselves in a loop of light half-sleep, violent hacking, and feeling sorry for themself. This cycle seemed completely endless until a series of knocks makes it past their brain fog. For a few moments, they consider letting visitor get tired and walk away, but they can’t bring themself that rude. With a groan, they roll out of bed, plop their nightcap on their head, and wrap the blanket around their shoulders like a cloak.
It's slow goings as Kiwi walks downstairs, using one hand to hold the blanket closed and the other to support themselves on the railing. They aren’t trying to be deliberately rude, but at the speed they’re walking, Kiwi is surprised that the visitor hasn’t gotten bored and left. The knocking isn’t incessant, but the spaced-out noise is persistent. Whoever is visiting is certainly determined.
When they reach the door, Kiwi double checks the chain lock at the top of the door and unlocks the deadbolt. With the chain in place, the door doesn’t open fully, so Kiwi is able to poke their eyes around the door while keeping the rest of their face blocked. Their eyes water at the onslaught of natural light, but when their vision clears, a patch of bright teal hair breaks through the brain fog and brings a smile to their face.
They wiggle their fingers in a friendly wave, and Kiwi decides that Miriam is worth the pain of a small, hoarse, “Hello!”
Even on her best days, Miriam has a sour look on her face; however, the added judgement in her eyes as she looks them up and down is enough to make Kiwi wilt. “You look terrible.”
Kiwi nods. “Yeah.” Their voice can’t rise much louder than a whisper.
Miriam’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead, like they’re trying to reach her hairline. “Wow, so there is something that can make you be quiet.”
Kiwi bursts into breathy laughs, not taking Miriam’s insult to heart. This laughter quickly transitions into hacking, as Kiwi doubles over and white-knuckle grips the door to keep them upright. From the corner of their eye, Kiwi sees Miriam drop her broom in the grass and rush toward the door. She throws her arm through the small opening and grips Kiwi to provide more support.
“Okay, no.” Miriam says, firmly. “Potion ingredient hunting can wait. You’re going back to bed.” After a brief pause, her voice softens. “Do you need some help?”
Kiwi moves their nightcap’s puffball away from their face, opening their mouth to protest. They feel awful enough without the threat of making their best friend sick as well. Before they can get a word out, Miriam holds up a hand and cuts them off.
“Do you really think Sapphy has ever let me get sick? I couldn’t even sneeze without her starting a healing potion. I’ll be fine.”
And who is Kiwi to doubt the world’s best witches? They shut the door to release the chain and welcomes Miriam inside when they open it again. Miriam takes the blanket and drapes it over a chair in their living room before returning and taking Kiwi’s arm. Kiwi leans against her shoulder, sinking into the comfort of another person. Miriam’s low laugh at her cuddle bug of a friend cuts through the fog plaguing Kiwi’s mind. The trek upstairs is slow and shaky. If Kiwi was alone, they’re pretty sure that they would’ve settled on the couch just to avoid the stairs, even though the couch isn’t nearly as comfortable as their bed.
“Alright,” Miriam says as soon as Kiwi settles down on the bed, “what seems to be the problem?”
“Well—,” Kiwi starts, the word sounding like it passed through a sander.
“Stop.” Miriam pinches the bridge of her nose. “It hurts to listen to you. One second.” Miriam looks around the room before settling on a desk. She picks up a small notepad and a pen and passes them to Kiwi. “Here.”
Kiwi nods in thanks, the puffball of their hat bumping against their cheek. They write down the symptoms, doodling in the margins as they think. When they return the notepad to Miriam, they know the exact moment she sees the little squiggles, musical notations, and one familiar grumpy face. The corners of her mouth twitch, betraying the emotion behind her strict mask. Once she reaches the actual list, she nods and absorbs the words in front of her. She tucks the notepad under her arm and jogs downstairs.
The sound of cabinets being aggressively opened and closed makes Kiwi raise their eyebrow, but they trust Miriam won’t completely destroy their kitchen. They settle down in bed, turning away from the window this time. They aren’t quite sure how long Miriam is downstairs. Kiwi must’ve dozed off at some point, because their eyes lazily open at the sound of their bedroom door creaking on its hinges. They feel nowhere near well-rested enough to have gotten some actual sleep, so now they’re sick and discombobulated. Unfortunately, the comfortable head fog clears up almost immediately at the sound of Miriam dragging their side table closer to their bed. When Kiwi is brave enough to remove their head from their pillow, a desperate attempt to protect their ears, they find Miriam carefully clearing the table of everything except the lamp.
“What’s going on?” Kiwi cringes at the cracks in their voice.
Instead of responding immediately, Miriam leaves the room and returns over and over again, each time bringing in something new. The blanket from downstairs is tossed at the foot of Kiwi’s bed, while the side table is filled with a packet of crackers, tissues, and a pitcher and glass of water. Once there’s no room left on the table, Kiwi expects her to be done, only for Miriam to leave one more time and return with two mugs. She passes the one covered in little flowers to Kiwi while she keeps starry one they had designated “Miriam’s Mug” when they saw it at the Langtree craft fair. (Miriam had made fun of it when she first saw it in their cupboard, but a “Kiwi Mug” showed up at her house not to long afterward, so she was definitely flattered in her shy way.)
The liquid in the mug sends warmth straight up their arms, and Kiwi melts from the comfort of it all. The steam cuts through the stuffiness in their sinuses, so they can smell the faint spiciness that lingers in the vapor.
“Is this some type of healing potion?” Kiwi chokes out, the most excited they’ve felt all day. Miriam raises an eyebrow and takes a sip from her own mug. “It’s tea. Turmeric, ginger, cinnamon, and a bit of honey and lemon. Trust me, this tastes a LOT better than any healing potion I can give you.” With a grimace, Miriam gets a far off look in her eye and shudders. “Not even Sapphy can make those palatable.”
Kiwi smiles and settles into their blankets. Taking a sip of the tea is like applying a soothing balm. It melts the phlegm dripping down the back of their throat, calming down the irritation over their trachea. Not even halfway through the mug, they’re able to turn to Miriam and thank her without even an itch on their throat.
“Just don’t start belting,” she mumbles into her mug. “You won’t get any more if you mess up all of my hard work.”
“I’ll try to resist,” Kiwi yawns. Now that one discomfort has faded, Kiwi finally realizes how exhausted they truly are.
Miriam takes their mug once the tea is completely drained. “I’ll stick around for a bit. Is that alright with you?”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
Miriam shrugs. “You have books. I’ll be fine, Kiwi.”
“If you don’t mind, thank you. That sounds great.” “I’ll be downstairs. Let me know if you need anything.”
After Miriam heads downstairs, Kiwi lies back down, returning to their blanket cocoon. With a little smile, they hum to themself until the tune trails off into snores.