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Getting sick was one of Pure Vanilla’s greatest fears.
It wasn’t because of the mandatory seclusion, or the stuffy nose, or the aching throat, but the fact that he was expected to eat.
He was a healer, he obviously knew it was the best choice, because it would aid recovery and make you feel better faster.
But the problem was, he never felt better when he ate. It didn’t matter how light or heavy the meal was, no food ever made him feel any less nauseous.
From a single freshly plucked fruit, to a thick-cut steak, both would push him to bend over his sink and puke up every last chunk that had entered his stomach.
But, of course, knowing this about himself, what fate did the universe end up bestowing upon him?
Getting sick.
And, to make it worse, he was stuck with a Cookie who was so weirdly stubborn about his health. He’d always slide him tea, would always gently place small plates on his bedside drawer, would always check on him.
He appreciated the gesture, truly, but it didn’t stop him from always resorting to methods he’d done since his youth.
Unfortunately, all he could focus on when trying to throw up a bowl of strawberries in their bathroom sink was when Shadow Milk would be back. He always came back, eventually.
He had less than an hour, he knew that. His last visit was about thirty minutes ago. He might as well get the job finished quickly, then.
For the second time, his fingers trembled as he reached into his mouth to press against the back of his tongue, and luckily, that was enough to trigger at least some of it to come up.
It burned his throat, burned his mouth, it made him keep coughing and coughing. But he couldn’t stop, he needed it all gone.
He needed everything gone, not a single trace of it needed to stay in his stomach, it had no place there. No food had any place near him. Others needed it more, others would find more use in it, he’d be fine.
He coughed up the rest, violently heaving as his arms trembled while barely keeping him upright over the sink.
It was disgusting, he knew it was.
But he couldn’t stop. He would never stop. As long as that sickening feeling plagued his mind and his body whenever he ate, he’d keep this up until he was dead.
He turned the tap, watching as a mix of churned strawberries, spit, and what might’ve been blood mixed with the water and washed down the drain.
He turned off the sink with the same amount of guilt, practically slamming his hand back on the counter.
And now, was the second-most challenging task: getting back to his room.
He practically had to pry himself from the sink, desperately fighting against wobbly legs that threatened to give out at any moment. He didn’t even bother closing the door to his bathroom, he hadn’t left any evidence anyway.
He finally made it to his bed, tumbling onto it face-down, not caring enough to tuck himself in. He was too tired to, plus, Shadow Milk would say something about it when he came in, so he could allow himself to lie like this, just for a while.
He could hear shuffling outside the room door, probably Shadow Milk making tea or whipping up another meal he’d eventually get rid of. It didn’t matter, though, his system had been working.
Every time he’d come in with a plate, he had a process. He’d take forever to eat it, Shadow Milk would take it away, and then he’d go to the bathroom to push it right back up.
The tea had to be the only thing he didn’t immediately want to throw back up, but it all eventually left anyway, since he consumed it alongside meals.
His feelings never failed to bother him in moments of silence like this. They’d ring and echo in his head, asking, pleading for him to stop. It raised suspicion, it would hurt those around him if they knew, and he couldn’t bear the special treatment of several if on one fateful day they’d happen to find out.
But, feelings of genuine self-loathing always beat his concern of others finding out.
And he hated himself for it.
It was selfish, awfully so, but he enjoyed the feeling of getting rid of something that plunged his mind with such great dread.
It was liberating, in a way. It made him feel free, made him feel like he had finally ripped off chains that painfully dug into his body. Though imperceptible, it was so freeing to get rid of the weight on his shoulders.
But, some of them had found their way back once he heard the door creak, familiar footsteps coming closer.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, one that quickly escalated into gentle shaking. Pure Vanilla barely rose his head from the mattress, complimented with a hum that was only somewhat reminiscent of something inquisitive. “Hmm...?”
“Tea.” Shadow Milk barely stated, the thud on the bedside table just as distant as his voice was. “Lemon ginger. It makes your throat hurt less. Get up, I want to see you drink it.”
Pure Vanilla’s head spun as he attempted to push his body up, only able to pathetically flip over and lazily rest his head on his pillow.
“Up, ‘Nills. If you need me to guide you up, just tell me instead of staying quiet.”
He groaned, a sound that could’ve been out of annoyance, but it sounded too unthreatening to assume such things.
His arms quivered as he fought against gravity, eventually ending up in the requested position.
“Nice job, ‘Nilly~ Now, drink.” Shadow Milk acquired the mug from the table, offering it to the other Cookie. “It’s not too hot, I had it cool down just enough before I brought it back here.”
Hesitantly, Pure Vanilla retrieved it from his hands. The porcelain was warm, he could bet the temperature of it would be much more of a remedy to his bruised hands rather than his throat, though.
But Shadow Milk’s stare practically seared his skin, the burn making him hiss silently. He raised the mug to his lips, each gulp feeling just a bit too big and just enough to barely make it down his throat.
“There ya go.” He patted his shoulder, cooing gently. “I did think of bringing you another plate, but...” Shadow Milk’s gaze shifted to his knuckles, just for a moment. “...But I think you’re fine.”
Inside, Pure Vanilla let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t think he could handle shoving his fingers down his throat for the fourth time today.
However, on the outside, he weakly smiled, gently assuring. “I am, my dear. Thank you for the tea.”
Shadow Milk’s eyes glided over to the bathroom as he spoke, raising an eyebrow to the sight. Barely a second after he was finished, he pointed to it. “What’s with the door? Suddenly too lazy to close it just because you’re sick? Yeesh.”
Pure Vanilla’s body tensed as he began to walk away, dread beginning to crash into him like waves with every footstep closer. His gut told him to yell, to make him stop going near the door.
Alarm bells rang louder and louder, their deafening sounds only being paused when the question seemed to echo throughout the room.
“What is that smell?”
His blood had to have run cold at that moment.
He watched in silent horror as he stood by the sink longer and longer, inspecting the basin like he was investigating a crime scene.
His heart began to race, the tea he ingested now felt like poison. Every joint locked, an indescribable, painful rush of heat filling every limb.
Tears welled in his eyes, and he could feel himself begin to retch. Every hurried breath brought him closer and closer to vomiting, already feeling the newly ingested liquid churn and spin within his stomach and making its way back up his esophagus.
But when Shadow Milk finally looked back at him, with an expression so awfully and genuinely concerned, it couldn’t stay down.
His torso tightened one last time, and the tea, still as warm as it was on the way down, expelled from his body like a projectile.
He didn’t quite remember what happened after that. It was such a blur—what might’ve been Shadow Milk running towards him could’ve just been his imagination.
But, he definitely knew he was in a different position than earlier now. Through blurred vision, he could only make out what was similar enough to a blank canvas, the ceiling, perhaps.
He could feel something warm on his forehead, something soft. Breathing felt easier—and the pressure in his sinuses seemed alleviated.
His clothes seemed clean, perhaps a new pair. That distinct stickiness of wet clothing was nowhere to be found.
And, to top it all off, his head was slightly elevated. But not by a pillow, this was too warm and comfortable to be a pillow.
His gaze shifted to the side, familiar clothing now replacing the view. Still slightly dazed, he began to whisper. “Shadow Milk...?”
“Shh,” his voice was impossibly soft, like he had unlocked a new tone of voice, “stay right there. You threw up and passed out.”
Well, that explained some things.
Shadow Milk continued, still with the delicacy of a lullaby. “I know, Vanilla. I’m aware... now, at least.”
Pure Vanilla’s stomach twisted at those words. Obviously, he knew. It would’ve been more surprising if he hadn’t figured it out by now. But, they still stung. With every syllable that left his mouth, more daggers pierced his stomach.
“I knew you had been acting weird, but I didn’t know that was the reason why. How embarrassing, the holder of all knowledge not picking up on something so...” A pause, painful and long. “...Obvious.”
Pure Vanilla’s voice was low, probably muffled to Shadow Milk’s ears, but they came out slowly, purposefully. “Don’t say those things, my dear. I never meant for you to find out. Don’t blame yourself for not noticing something I wanted to hide.”
“I don’t like that you wanted to hide it. Not at all.”
Shadow Milk’s voice wavered, his voice breaking in a way so unfamiliar, Pure Vanilla almost didn’t want to believe it. “I thought I was around to help you now. That’s what you said, right? For us to help each other? How am I supposed to help if I don’t know?”
His hand traveled to find his, interlocking their fingers with suffocating strength. “You’ve technically been lying to me this entire time. Lying that you were okay. You came at me with my own game, and you won. Do you feel proud of yourself?”
A single tear rolled down Pure Vanilla’s cheek. “...No. I never wanted to win. I... don’t know what I wanted.”
Shadow Milk sniffled, wiping away a tear that never went down. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to me ever again. Understand that, Pure Vanilla?”
Pure Vanilla couldn’t see his face, but the weight from knowing he had brought him to tears crushed him all the same. He wouldn’t do that again. He could never do that again.
“...Yes, my dear. I’ll try, just for you.”
Shadow Milk’s clutch softened into something less stifling, something more nurturing. His thumb began to caress his beloved’s hand, adjusting the warm towel on his face. “Try... right. What does that entail?”
“What do you want it to entail…? I wouldn’t want to hurt you more than I already have. Your wish is my command…to an extent.”
The towel stilled, now resting on his cheek. Shadow Milk’s lips pursed, carefully considering his options. His words were tainted with slight uncertainty, barely an extra twinge away from sounding like a question. “I want you to eat with me. Not any big portions, of course, but I want to eat together.”
“Is that all?”
“...I might slip some vitamins next to your meals. I don’t know just how affected you are, due to me not knowing how long this was going on.” The last part of his sentence had a mild bite of guilt and anger—not towards him, but himself.
Pure Vanilla blinked, his eyelids growing heavier as he relaxed into the warmth of the towel. “...Alright. I probably need them anyway.” The chuckle that followed was a weak sound, one that barely alleviated the tension.
Shadow Milk sighed, removing the towel from his face before cupping his body with both hands, cradling his head and his shoulder as he shifted them both parallel to the bed.
Pure Vanilla drew in a sudden breath, almost violently being yanked out of his reverie. “W... What are you doing?”
“It’s your bedtime. You didn’t pass out for that long. You deserve more sleep.” Shadow Milk rested the other Cookie’s head against his chest as he nuzzled his own head into a pillow, beginning to pat his back in an attempt to lull him to sleep.
“Goodnight, ‘Nilla.”
He had to admit, Shadow Milk’s warmth felt amazing, it soothed the nagging full-body ache he could never seem to get rid of. Such a position was so vulnerable, but so ideal. He couldn’t have wished for anything more.
He sighed, out of contentment this time. His voice came out as a hushed, sugar-sweet whisper. “Goodnight, my love.”
What a perfect Cookie he had been fated with.