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There was a time, not too long ago, where sickness festering into his fragile body meant a new set of jobs to handle, a different kind of crushing pressure where cruel eyes darted to him at every little sniffle. It's instinct to suppress the rattle in his bones, shield his cold body with a jacket over a hoodie that's just a few sizes too big, while his mind screams to hide.
Phillip knows that feeling well. Better than any Little should have to. He won't dare to mutter that it was unfair, those cries won't reach anyone's ears. There was only so much his mind could take before he believed the cruel words shouted in his ears.
He deserved to be sick.
It was his fault.
How dare he want someone's help. Littles like him didn't get to need.
Hiding meant it would hurt less, whatever punishment would pelt his skin like heavy hail. After so long, being able to hide became a lifeline, something he could run to, tuck himself away wherever his shaking shoulders could fit. He knew no one could save him from the booming voice demanding from him and the cruel hands taking from him. Worse, he knew no one would even try to rinse away the evidence of his hurt. Phillip Graves didn't deserve to be saved in such a way.
The shepherd who once held his loyalty was guiding him to slaughter, while his soft eyes trusted with every part of his being. A lamb lead to death doesn't think there's a herd to hear his call.
Phillip never thought anyone would hear him cry for help when no one ever came for him. His pale, illness riddled body was only ever looked at, never seen for what it was: a silent plea for help.
Yet, here, tucked gently into a freshly made bed—a crib meant for Littles—the smallest sniffle and whimper has a Caregiver running without so much as a second thought. He doesn't have to beg for the simplest things, there's no punishment for his aches.
Sweat dampens his forehead, dirty blond hair sticking to his skin. Sometime in the middle of the night, he wiggled his way out of the pajamas that were picked out for him hours before. The heavy blanket separates his feverish body from the harsh chill of the air around him. Is it really that cold?
Quietly, the smallest grunt falls from his lips as he squirms in the bedding. Two trembling hands grab at the blankets, pushing and pulling at the fabrics. The Little doesn't toss and turn, eyebrows bunched at the center whenever he moved just a little too much. It pulls a louder, more uncomfortable sound from him.
A few days prior, Phil started feeling off ever so slightly, but it wasn't ever enough to mention. Nausea here and there, a headache every so often, chills whenever the wind shifted just a tad. Maybe he should've thought about it a little harder than he did.
The act of just moving sends a burning sensation through his stomach and up his throat. He should have known better, taken some kind of medicine—not that he knows quite where they keep pills here. It hurts to move, his muscles cramp with the effort, and yet, he can't stop the sore squirming.
Above the bed, settled on a shelf just to the side, a baby monitor blinks to life at the smallest sounds of his distress. Phillip doesn't hear the sound of the tiny beep over his own discomfort.
Two minutes is all it takes for the silhouette of a Caregiver standing in the doorway. A container in hand, one the Little hasn't seen in his few months with them. Not that he thinks to glance over, eyes screwed shut. He squeezes the fabric in his hands, grip loose despite the effort he tugs at the blankets with.
Only when he hears footsteps get close does he open his tired eyes. Sleep sticking to his eyelashes as he rapidly blinks. Was his heart beating weird before?
"Shh, shh… It's okay, love." The familiar voice speaks, a hand reaching over the crib to flick on a small lamp. Warm but dim light washes over the Caregiver. In a fluid motion, he crouches down at the side of the bed, a hand on the blue starry blanket Phil refused to sleep without.
A small breath of relief leaves him. It's just Price. The carer he's gotten so used to calling 'Mama' over the last few months. It doesn't leave a bad taste in his mouth the way 'Papa' does.
"Just Mama, see?" John whispers. His blue eyes scan Phil's body in the low light. From his sweaty, pale face, to his uncomfortable squirming.
Timidly, the Little nods, lower lip shaking with every inhale.
"Can I take your temperature, bud?" John hums. The hand on the bed reaches to gently rest over Phil's chest, feeling the hammering heartbeat beneath his palm. A frown spreads over his lips for a brief second.
The moment he attempts to talk, he immediately shuts his mouth again. Those blue eyes open wide, a wave of panic washing over him. His tummy hurts. Mama asked him a question and he couldn't answer. Instead, he feels his stomach churning harder and harder and the bile rising in his throat.
"Phil?" The Caregiver's question is quickly disregarded as he reaches out as quickly as possible to grab the bin next to the bed. Years of training and practice making this at least predictable enough to prevent as many tears as possible.
A quiet cry falls from Phil's lips, his hands on the blankets quickly move to clumsily grasp the plastic in front of him. No, no- he doesn't wanna be sick.
"Oh, love…" Price sighs, pulling himself up off the floor just enough to sit by the Little on the bed. The hand that had been on his chest moves to rub circles into the boy's back. "I know… Let it out, you'll feel better once all the icky is gone." He comforts, pulling a blanket around Phillip's shoulders.
"Mama..!" Phil clutches the trashcan. He doesn't wanna. He can taste the feeling on his tongue, burning at his throat the more he tries to stop it.
"I know, baby, I know…" John murmurs, "You have to get it out. Mama will be right here the whole time." He promises, voice quiet and gentle as he continues to rub his back.
He doesn't like being sick. Everything gets so much bigger around him and he can't stay in control of even the most basic things. The control he's tried to keep for so long starts slipping away from him and he can't protect himself anymore. There's no getting bigger when he's sick like this, the fuzziness creeps into his head, cementing itself there for god knows how long.
It makes him weak, useless. It's not fair, he won't ever say it. He won't complain like that, he hasn't earned the right to. He tries so hard to be okay, to be big and well-behaved. Being sick ruins all of his efforts. He can't fix himself if he can't think straight.
With a broken sob, the contents of his stomach fill the trashcan. It hurts. Phillip whimpers between heaves, that hand on his back never leaving even as ringing fills his ears instead of the Caregiver's voice.
Splotches of black fade in and out of his vision once he finally stops and gets to breathe. His body shudders with the effort to get air in his lungs.
Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Price reach down and turn to him with a little rag in his hand. He moves the bin just enough to reach to the Little's face and wipe away the puke on his chin and lips. Phillip sees him talk but he doesn't hear a word John said.
Instead of repeating himself, John simply smiles at him and presses a small kiss to his temple, uncaring how sick the other may be. It's his job as a Caregiver to be there for all of it, all of the times the boys need changed, bathed, cleaned up after, and all of the times their giggles and laughs filled the walls of John's home.
Painfully, Phillip whimpers at the gentle affection. His blue eyes staring up at Mama, teary and scared. He can just make out the 'It's okay' beyond the temporary ringing in his ears.
The rag is set off to the side in favor of gently pulling Phil close, the bin settled back on the floor for the time being. The Little's twisting and squirming stopped the moment he got all of the icky stuff out of his tummy, at the very least.
Exhausted as if he hadn't slept, Phillip practically falls against Price's chest. His eyes blinking shut as he pants, mouth open to pull in deeper breaths, his nose too stuffy to breathe correctly. An arm wraps around him, holding him steady. The moment Phil puts his full weight against John, tucked delicately under his arm, the Caregiver winces slightly at the heat radiating from Phil's sick body.
Why does he have to be sick? Did he go out in the cold without any protection? Was it raining? He can't remember why. It's not fair for it to just happen. He was doing so good. He was settling in perfectly.
The room remains quiet until Phil tilts his head up to Price, looking up through his wet eyelashes. Silent, waiting. He didn't do anything wrong, right? Mama isn't mad at him? For throwing up? Making a mess? Crying? He was doing so well. He didn't mean to get sick.
"How about we get you cleaned up, bub? These sheets are probably icky now, hm?" Price hums, a sad smile on his lips.
Phil hesitates. He isn't mad. Why isn't he mad? Judging by the bags under Price's eyes, he's just as tired as Phil is. Isn't he mad he got woken up? The Little's lip trembles again, blue eyes tearing up again.
"Oh, baby…" Mama breathes out. Gently, with a blanket still wrapped around Phil's shoulders, he lifts the little one into his lap. He stopped caring about catching the boys' sicknesses a while back, comforting them was all that mattered.
Solid warmth surrounds him quickly, the steady beat of Price's heart settled under his ear. As if he's something fragile, something worth caring for, John cradles him in his arms. Slowly rocking with him where they're sat, not bothering with the sturdy rocking chair a few steps away.
"Let me take care of you, yeah, pumpkin?" John asks, a hand brushing back the hair stuck to Phil's forehead. "I know it's scary, being sick isn't fun." He doesn't hesitate to press another soft kiss to the Little's forehead.
Somehow, the unfamiliarity of this kindness is more terrifying than it would be to have an order shouted at him, something demanded from him. That, he knew. He knew all of that well. This is so different. A few months away can do a lot to help, but it can't undo every scar over his skin. It can't reverse the instinct to run and hide, as much as they all wish it could.
Being taken care of is scary when the only hand that touched him before would leave bruises. Home wasn't safe, work wasn't safe. He didn't know anything but avoidance, how to stay light on his feet so no one would hear him, how to silence his cries so no one knew it hurt.
This is all new. A hand coming closer never meant it would all be okay, those hands would never soothe him. And now… Now, Price is looking at him so delicately, like everything could turn out okay, somehow. It makes his head feel much more fuzzy. Every little act of care pulled him down further, making him smaller and smaller.
He can't take care of himself like this. No matter how much he's tried before, it always ended in tears and hiding as far away as he could get. He didn't need to hide here. It won't hurt, they won't hurt him. Mama won't hurt him.
Sniffling, the little one nods again. He shudders as he inhales, the skin around his chest tightening as he forces himself to agree. He has to trust this won't hurt.
Nothing but feelings come up when he thinks about it. Maybe an echo of similar words whispered into his ears a long time ago. Something gross and sinister. 'I'll take care of you.' In a voice he can't forget. All of the terror sits right in his chest, buried in the space behind his heart.
This won't hurt like that did. Mama won't do that to him. He promised.
"Do you want a warm bath, or new cozy pajamas?" Price asks, while leaving room for Phil to not make a choice at all. Two choices, narrowed down for him.
Phillip blinks up at him for a solid few seconds, letting the tears roll down his cheeks and immediately having them wiped away by Mama's hand. Gentle. Mama won't hurt him. Nervously, he glances out to the hallway, his lip bitten between his teeth.
"Bath?" John questions, answered by a little nod.
Bath times aren't known to always go smoothly in the John Price household. Each of them have their moments. Johnny's panic attacks, Simon's wailing if the temperature is off just a bit, Kyle refusing to get out of the bath once he's already in it, and now Phil's fear of getting anywhere near the water despite wanting it—wanting all of the icky to go away.
It's scary. For each of them, bath time had become a punishment at some point in their lives. Phillip can't remember the last time it wasn't scary. Would the water scald him? Would it be freezing? Would the soap be okay for his skin? Is he icky? Can he even get clean to begin with?
Patient as ever, Price always reintroduces him to the water. He keeps his hand in the water until Phil learns it won't hurt him. The temperature is just right. Their soaps are all on the ledge of the tub, along with some bath toys, the shampoos and conditioners that Phil likes, the body wash that makes him calms him at the comforting scent. Strawberry hair products and lavender body wash, the ones he so timidly picked from the store shelf weeks ago.
It took weeks for Phil to even touch the toys. His excuses were always that those weren't for him, the other boys wouldn't want him to touch their toys, he'd make them gross just by touching them. No Little should react that way when offered something they so clearly want. Phillip's shoulders shouldn't raise and his eyes shouldn't dart around like he's one step from a punishment.
The times Phil doesn't fight bathing are few and far between, even if he asked for a bath. The task of actually doing it weighs on him.
This time, he's too tired to let out anything but a small whimper as Price tosses away the worn clothes that was still on and slowly helps him into the warm water. A new set of pajamas lays on the counter, next to the blue puppy themed towel, with a little hood on it. Unlike the others, Phil doesn't have a hook in the bathroom yet for his towel.
Not too hot, not too cold. A timid hand pats at the surface of the water, feeling the liquid move under his have. Too tired to do much of anything else.
In the bathroom lighting, sitting in the tub so quietly, Phillip looks so small. His shoulders pulled in closely, eyes staring down at the water as he clumsily plays with the water. Sweat highlights the bony spots on his pale body, the spaces not yet filled with muscle and fat the way it had been before the man he called his Caregiver lead him to a slow death.
A little rubber ducky floats into the ripples of Phil's movements. In his peripheral vision, John carefully crouched down at the side of the tub, one hand in the water with his sleeves rolled up to help the little one get all clean.
"Do you want to play for a little, bub?" The carer asks, feeling the warm water around his hand. Subtly making sure it is the correct temperature—Phil won't cry in complaint if it isn't, he'll sink into it despite the pain of the drastic temperatures he's been forced to sit in before.
The offer makes Phil raise his eyebrows slightly, those blue eyes sparkling a tad as he looks up at Price. He's sick and Mama isn't being mean. He gets to play? For just a moment before the scary part? Even still, after months, a part of him believes the bath won't last long and he'll be hosed down like a misbehaving animal. Is the scary part washing up, or the slightest chance Price will reach for the shower head instead of a rag to wash him?
"How about we do.. five minutes of play time, then we wash up?" Price suggests, checking the watch on his wrist for the time—Two in the morning, not that Phil has to know.
Slowly, the Little nods. Despite the ache in his bones and the growing throbbing in his head, he wants to play, just a little bit while he can. Now that his stomach isn't killing him and he can sit for a minute without feeling like he'll either die or throw up again.
"Play for a little bit, pumpkin, Mama will be right here." Price promises, pulling his hand out of the tub to dry it off and watch the little one play for a bit. To get any throw up and sweat off of himself for now, John tosses his shirt into the laundry bin.
Phillip lasts all of three minutes before he simply sits there and looks up at Mama with his sad blue eyes. The light over the tub and the brighter one over the sink burns his tired eyes, the water doesn't feel right, and he can feel every little bit of air coming from the vent. Goosebumps rise on his skin, slipping further under the water doesn't stop his weak shivers.
"All done?" John asks as he reaches for the shampoo and a rag to shield the Little's eyes from the water.
A broken whimper falls from his lips. He doesn't wanna be all done. He doesn't want to be tired and he doesn't want to be cold!
"I know, love, I know…" The Caregiver frowns, "We have to wash up. I'll be fast, yeah? I don't want you covered in sick and sweat…"
The promise doesn't matter much when he remembers those same words being spoken to him by a liar with a sharp tongue. It'll be over fast just meant that the pain would remain seared into his skin longer, leaving him aching for far too long because he tried a little too loud for everything to stop. The solution was to make it go by fast, Phil would learn his lesson to stop asking for mercy eventually.
He never did.
And still, he wants to believe that Mama will stay true to those words. How many times has he promised that so far? That he wouldn't lay a cruel hand on Phillip, on any of the boys? How many times has he actually believed that without an ounce of doubt?
He wants to trust Price not to hurt him too, he has to. What power does a Little possibly have here?
The fever doesn't help his train of thought. Melting the Little's thoughts into pools of emotion he can't discern enough to make sense of. They wouldn't make sense anyway in the state he's in, would they? Too small, too scared and too sick. Being sick brought it's own fears to the table. Why can't he just be small and happy for once?
Can he do anything but agree with Price so gently offering to wash him up? It's not fair that it's so scary. Does he even get to say no?
He doesn't want to be icky. Mama doesn't want him to be icky.
So, holding his breath with his rosy cheeks puffed out, he agrees.
Despite everything he's been shown, every bit of hurt that's ever racked through his body, John's version of being fast was absolutely nothing like any memory he could pull up. He is quick, all without pressing a bruise into the Little's fragile skin, washing away what remained of any sick on his shivering body.
More gentle than he deserves. A soft rag wiping down his tired body. He doesn't have to put in an ounce of effort when John leans over the tub and does just about everything for him. Cleaning any more the vomit from his chin, washing his hair without tugging at the blond strands as he keeps the water away from his eyes with a dry cloth.
Phillip didn't have to ask to be handled with care, he's just given it without begging.
John Price doesn't take his boys' trust lightly, an abuse of power is a betrayal when their eyes reflect something so small, utterly dependent on him for love and care. That's why he picks Phil up from the cooling water with such careful, precise movements and promptly swaddles him in the towel that had been set aside.
Even as the little one squirms, he doesn't fear being put down when John pulls him against his bare chest. The little hood on the puppy themed towel flips over his wet hair when John expertly holds him up with one arm for just a moment.
"All done.. All done." The carer mutters, voice soft in his ear. He steadily lays Phillip's head down on his shoulder, a slow sway to his movements. Warmth surrounds him in an instant. Cold water still clings to his skin, but John holds him closer, just as he needs without the Little saying a word.
Timidly, Graves tucks his feverish face into John's shoulder. His arms tucked into the towel in a loose swaddle, he merely snuggles in as much as he possibly can manage. Quiet, uncharacteristically so for him. All of his scared whimpers and frustrated sounds buried somewhere in his chest where he can't reach for them anymore. Is it his temperature? The weariness in his bones? The sickness bubbling in his tummy?
He doesn't want to make a sound. Price is so warm and he's so cold. If he says something, cries out at the wrong time, will he get put down? Will Mama get frustrated with him? Will he take the warmth with him? Make him shiver until he dried on his own?
"That's it… Just rest for a minute." Price hums, adding a soft bounce as he sways with Phil. One arm holds him up under his thighs, the other wrapped around his back for support. His head tilts to lean against the other's.
All he does is nod, barely enough to be noticeable. Why would he fight that? He doesn't have to say anything, does he? Mama's got him, right? His shoulders relax steadily, lips parted to breathe when his sniffles don't do anything to unclog his nose.
The light silence is only broken with John's quiet hums that aren't ever met with a response. Not wanting to upset the little one by moving him suddenly, he turns to glance in the mirror above the double sink.
Sure enough, Phillip's eyes are closed. He looks peaceful like that, so very small in John's arms the way the others aren't. Weeks of hiding from someone hurting him down would do that. The others are filled out with muscle and fat, while Phil only just started gaining his back. Being in fight or flight mode for so damn long didn't help him. He's small, but not always in the way that brings joy to the Caregiver's heart.
This time, though, John smiles fondly at the reflection of his boy sleeping on him.