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Cold woke up to a stabbing sensation in his abdomen, curling up under the covers on his bed as his body is wracked with shivers. He forces his eyes open, his vision blurry and spinning, before turning his attention on the pains spreading to his limbs, almost as fascinated with them as he was when they first started ages ago. Head pounding, limbs buzzing, vision flickering… It’s interesting, and a part of Cold hopes he doesn’t get sick of it. He probably will, of course, eventually, but for now he lets the dizziness in his skull hold his attention.
Admittedly, Cold isn’t entirely sure why this started, but he usually wakes up like this. Body nearly overwhelmed with such intriguing sensations. He thinks it may be similar to what Cheated has, something chronic, or however Paranoid had explained it. Painful, and thus interesting, but otherwise harmless.
He sighs when the pains begin to recede, retreating to the back of his mind as he becomes used to them. Thankfully, the dizziness remains, and his head swims as he slowly sits upright. He blinks the dark patterns out of his eyes, shifting to stand up. Cold doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s sure that he’ll find someone interesting to follow around. Stubborn had said something about… What, trying to punch trees for firewood instead of using an axe? Something like that. That might be exciting.
Leaning heavily on his nightstand, Cold stands up, ignoring the shaking in his legs. Maybe he should see what Paranoid is up to; the jittery bird is usually doing or using something interesting.
Cold swallows as he moves away from his nightstand, his dizziness intensifying without the support. The darkness sitting in the corners of his vision overtakes him, and his legs seem to lose their strength—
“…ld! Cold, can you hear me?! Cold!”
Cold inhales sharply, opening his eyes before shutting them again just as quickly, the brightness of his surroundings blinding. His head is pounding and he shudders violently.
“Cold! Are you alright? Can you understand what I am saying?”
Cold makes some kind of sound, but he can’t quite hear it. Who is talking to him? He slowly opens his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the face above him. It takes several moments to make out the other person’s features, his vision blurring again.
“… Smitten,” Cold forces out, throat burning. It’s a new sensation, and Cold suddenly wants to keep talking just to savor it, but Smitten sighs in relief before he can.
“Oh, thank goodness. I’d feared the worst!”
“What… What are you doing in my room?” It feels like something is stabbing into Cold’s head and digging around, looking to do as much damage as possible. The pain only adds to his dizziness, and he barely notices when Smitten starts talking again.
“I heard something fall, so I came in to see if you needed help, and you were laying unconscious on the floor!” Cold winces at Smitten’s volume, and is a little disappointed when the other lowers his voice, “You must’ve fainted. Are you feeling alright?”
Cold blinks slowly, almost confused. His thoughts are moving sluggishly. How does he feel? He’s fine. He’s dizzy, and aching, and nauseous, and it’s fascinating. Besides, he’s more or less felt like this for a while now. About since they got their own bodies, actually. He shudders again — another interesting sensation — and Smitten’s face pinches in… concern? Is that what that is? Why is Smitten here, again? Cold already asked, right? He belatedly realizes that he’s laying on something soft. He glances at the rest of Smitten’s body and realizes that he’s being cradled in his lap. It’s soft. He should ask Smitten why he’s here. It’s not like the other bird likes him very much. Why is that, anyway? Cold can’t quite remember. He should ask Smitten about that, too. Wait, what was his other question? Did he have another question?
Is Smitten saying something?
Cold looks back up at Smitten, fascinated by the latter’s expressions. He’s always so loud. Maybe Cold can get him to yell. It would probably make the pounding in his head worse, which would make the dizziness more intense. That sounds like fun.
“Cold!”
“… Yes?”
“Can you please focus on me?”
“Okay.”
Smitten sighs, and Cold quickly gets distracted by the rise and fall of his chest. He wonders if he could feel his heartbeat if he were to lean in.
“Cold.”
“Yes?”
“What was my last question?”
Smitten asked him something? When? Cold blinks slowly as he wracks his pounding brain, trying to remember.
“You… Asked me to focus.”
Smitten looks over Cold for a moment, seeming to be searching for something. Cold stares back, dizzy as he watches Smitten split into two, then four, his vision betraying him. Cold shuts his eyes, suddenly tired, but Smitten shakes him awake again.
“Cold! Don’t sleep, we don’t know what’s wrong with you!”
“…I’m… I’m fine.” Cold blinks hard, trying to focus his eyesight. After a few moments, he stops seeing multiple Smitten’s.
Cold feels Smitten move to lay his hand on his forehead. Checking his temperature, maybe? Why? Cold is always… well, cold.
“You’re not running a fever…” Smitten mumbles.
Cold shudders again, making another sound that he can’t quite hear. Smitten moves his hand to gently cup Cold’s cheek. It’s warm. Cold sighs, his eyes fluttering shut. Smitten shakes him awake again and Cold forces his eyes open to look at Smitten.
“When was the last time you ate something?”
It takes Cold a moment to process the question, but when he does, he’s confused. Why would that matter? Why is Smitten even here? Cold is dizzy, and his brain is fogged over, and he wants to sleep but for some reason Smitten isn’t letting him. Is he… mad at Cold? Is this some weird punishment or something? Smitten wouldn’t do something like this to punish someone, right? What did Cold even do to him?
“Cold, I know it’s hard for you to focus right now, but I need you to tell me when you last ate.”
Cold swallows, trying to focus. He forces his attention on the sharp pains in his abdomen and limbs, dragging himself out of his lethargy.
“The… The picnic. I last ate during the picnic.”
“The picnic we had as a flock?” Smitten sounds disbelieving, and Cold nods. “Cold, that was last week. Have you not eaten anything since then?”
Cold wracks his brain as well as he can, “I… No. I last ate during the picnic.”
Cold watches in fascination as Smitten seems to go through the five stages of grief in a matter of seconds. It takes Smitten a few moments to form a response.
“Cold,” Smitten speaks slowly, as if about to tell a child that they can’t eat sawdust.
… Can Cold eat sawdust? It doesn’t seem very dangerous—
“Cold! Focus, please.” He sighs, before, “Cold, we need food to live. You’re feeling like this because you haven’t eaten anything.” Smitten looks over Cold again before he seems to come to a decision, “Let’s get you something to eat, okay?”
“… Why?”
Cold is treated to the sight of Smitten going through the five stages of grief again.
"Because you are starving and you need to eat.”
“Why?” Cold asks again, wondering if he can get Smitten to make more expressions.
He is rewarded for his efforts by the sight of Smitten staring at him with a mix of incredulity and frustration. “Cold. Our bodies need energy to function. We get that energy by eating food, and we are supposed to eat at least three times a day. Not once every few weeks.”
“Why?”
Yet another expression, this one with increased frustration and mild confusion. And maybe some stress? Is Cold close to making him snap? That was rather quick, wasn’t it?
“What do you mean, ‘why’?”
Cold actually doesn’t know, and blinks up at Smitten, searching for answers in the latter’s vibrant eyes.
“… Why are you in my room?”
Smitten stares at him, expression shifting from one emotion to the next too quickly for Cold to understand them. He can’t tell if he’s about to yell or cry, and a dull ache in his chest joins the other pains. Smitten moves the hand not clutching Cold and buries his face in it, suddenly looking exhausted. The ache in Cold’s chest deepens at the sight.
“Cold,” Smitten near whispers, “I already answered that question. I came in because you fainted. You fainted because you haven’t eaten anything. We are going to get you something to eat, okay?”
“… Okay.”
“Can you stand?”
Cold stares up at Smitten, head still spinning. He has no idea if he can so much as sit up without toppling over again, and just the thought of it makes the stabbing in his skull reach deeper.
“… Yes. I can stand.”
Smitten looks doubtful, but still moves to help Cold stand up. Cold clutches Smitten’s hands tightly, shutting his eyes against the thick waves of dizziness rolling around his head. It’s fascinating, the aches and spinning of the room. Cold opens his eyes, but he only catches a glimpse of Smitten’s concerned expression before the darkness in his eyes spreads to the rest of his vision—
Smitten nearly panics at the sight of Cold fainting again, collapsing into his arms as soon as he stood up. Smitten can only imagine how much pain he must be in.
Although, knowing Cold, he’s probably enjoying this. Still, that’s no reason to just let him starve. As gently as he can, Smitten shifts Cold to carry him bridal style out of the room. As he walks to the kitchen, Smitten’s mind wanders. Did Cold know that he would’ve fainted if he stood up? Did he want to faint? He seemed exhausted before, nearly falling asleep multiple times during their conversation. Cold… He clearly didn’t know that they needed food. Now that he thinks about it, Cold had always eaten… a lot when he had food placed in front of him. As if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Smitten sighs, annoyed at himself and at the rest of flock. How had they not noticed this? Why had they just assumed that Cold ate on his own? He shakes his head, focusing on the unconscious bird in his arms. He knows now, and he’ll make sure that Cold actually eats more often.
Once they’re in the kitchen, Smitten carefully places Cold in a chair by the counter and pushes it in so that Cold won’t just fall off. He also would likely struggle to get out if he’s as weak as Smitten thinks he is in this state. He shifts Cold into a slightly more comfortable position before moving to the fridge, looking for anything he could give to him.
Paranoid had once mentioned something about… what was it, refeeding syndrome? Yes, that’s it. He can’t just give Cold a lot of food all at once. He’ll need to be careful, or Cold will get sick and they’ll be back at square one.
After a moment, Smitten spots a carton of milk. That’s healthy, right? A good start, at least. He grabs it and a glass, and decides to also add a straw. Just about the last thing he wants is Cold dropping the glass and getting hurt.
He sets it in front of Cold before gently shaking him awake, whispering, “Cold, wake up. We need you to eat.”
Cold mumbles incoherently for a few seconds, blinking slowly.
“Where…?”
“We’re in the kitchen. Please,” Smitten moves the glass of milk closer to Cold, “drink this. You’ll feel better.”
Cold stares blankly at the drink before leaning forward, starting to sip slowly. Cold seems to wake up fully at the taste, drinking faster.
“Cold!” Smitten interrupts, “Cold, slow down! You’ll get sick if you drink too quickly.”
Cold makes an almost annoyed sound in the back of his throat, but relents, sipping carefully.
Smitten sighs, walking back to the fridge. Milk is fine, but certainly not enough. He sees a container of soup, leftover from the night before. A dinner that Cold had skipped. Taking it, he sets it on the counter and begins reaching for a bowl, but glances at Cold and pauses. The glass in empty, and Cold looks… more upset than Smitten has ever seen him before. Paranoid had once said that hunger damages one’s train of thought, right? Cold must not be in his right mind to look so wounded at the sight of an empty cup. Smitten sets the bowl beside the container of soup, taking the milk and refilling Cold’s glass.
“Go slowly,” Smitten reminds him, putting the milk back in the fridge.
Smitten looks over the soup again. He should heat it up, shouldn’t he? He turns and takes out a small pot and a ladle, pouring some soup into the pot, adding more broth than solids. He sets the pot on the stove and turns it on medium heat, placing a lid on top.
“This will take a few moments to warm up,” Smitten explains, turning back to Cold. The latter has seemingly learned his lesson on drinking too quickly and not savoring the taste, as the glass was still half-full.
Cold glances at the pot, movements sluggish and disoriented. “What are you making?”
“Soup. It’ll be good, I promise.”
“… Why?”
Smitten stares at him, wondering if Cold is messing with him, “‘Why’… What?”
“Why… Why are you doing this?”
Smitten carefully looks over Cold’s expression, feeling confused. “Why wouldn’t I do this? You’re starving, and in pain, and I can help you.”
“… Why?”
Smitten watches Cold, sitting there, too weak from hunger to do much other than sip his glass of milk. He’s not sure if Cold can understand half of what Smitten is telling him, and Smitten can’t understand his repeated questions. They likely won’t be able to hold a clear conversation until Cold has something in his system.
“Just… Keep drinking your milk, okay?”
Cold stares at him, expression unreadable. Eventually, he moves to continue sipping his drink, mumbling, “Okay.”
Smitten turns back to the pot, taking the lid off to feel the temperature. It’s warm, not boiling, just warm. Comforting, even. Hopefully Cold will enjoy this.
Smitten carefully ladles the soup into the bowl, adding a small spoon before setting it in front of Cold. A small part of Smitten worries that Cold will drop the spoon, but he grabs it well enough. He swirls the mostly-broth soup around with the spoon, watching it as Smitten watches him. After a moment, Cold tastes the soup, closing his eyes for a few seconds. He’s so still that Smitten thinks that he fell asleep, but he opens his eyes and continues eating. For the first time in days. Smitten still feels… guilty about that.
He turns away, glancing over the rest of the soup. There’s still enough leftover that it could make another meal or two for one. Smitten opens the fridge again, wondering if he should give Cold something else once he’s done with his soup. Probably not, at least not until his stomach settles completely. He closes the fridge and looks back at Cold, noticing that his glass of milk is empty again. He seems preoccupied with the soup, though, so Smitten doesn’t move to refill it just yet.
Already, Cold is mostly finished with his soup, eating the solid meats and vegetables now that the broth is nearly gone. When Smitten sees that he’s done, he moves to take his bowl to clean it, but Cold grabs his hand.
“… More?” He near whispers.
Smitten hesitates, “We need to wait, now. You can have more once your stomach has settled, but if you eat too much, you’ll get sick.”
Cold looks up at him, and Smitten’s resolve quickly crumbles at the shear woundedness of his expression, as if Smitten personally betrayed him. Smitten makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, cupping Cold’s cheek. His chest aches a little at the sight of Cold closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.
He sighs, relenting, “Alright, but this is it, at least for now.” He looks over Cold’s feathers, messy and damaged and in dire need of preening, “And when you’re done, I’ll preen you, okay?”
Cold nods, and Smitten has no idea if he understood what he said. He moves away to heat up some more soup, making a smaller portion of only broth.
Cold, meanwhile, sits there in confusion and exhaustion and dizziness. The food is satisfying the pains in his abdomen, leaving him with an intensity nearly as overwhelming as when they began. For a moment, Cold vaguely wonders if he has some kind of mind-control abilities. He simply lookedat Smitten, and the other bird decided to give him more food. It’s ridiculous, of course, and Cold is clear-headed enough to understand that now, but he can’t imagine another explanation.
Still… Cold can’t imagine an explanation for any of this. Why is Smitten doing all this? Cold is fine, he’s always fine. Why would Smitten think otherwise? Why would Smitten do anything about it, even if Cold wasn’t fine? Why would Smitten hold him and make him food and offer to preen him, if he’s eventually going to let go of him and let him get hungry again and let him make another mess of his feathers? Why bother with any of this? Why bother with Cold at all?
Smitten has always been emotional, though. Maybe he just refuses to see the futility of this.
Cold is pulled out of his thoughts by the scent of more soup placed in front of him. It’s all broth, Cold can already tell, but he eats it all the same. The warmth settles in his stomach and spreads to his limbs. He watches as Smitten puts the rest of the soup back in the fridge, cleaning the pot and ladle and Cold’s now-empty glass of milk.
Cold rubs his eyes, feeling his brain start to function again, his thoughts clearing. The fog and the aching and the dizziness were interesting, and Cold is a little disappointed when those sensations leave him, but at least he can think clearly now. His bowl is now empty, and he stretches as he watches Smitten move around the kitchen. He notices that Cold is done with his soup and takes the bowl to wash it, and Cold doesn’t stop staring at him. He still doesn’t know why Smitten is doing any of this.
Once Smitten is done cleaning up, he walks back over to Cold, smiling softly.
“Feel better?”
Cold stands up on legs that still shake a little. Smitten offers his hand, but Cold waves it away.
“I’m fine,” Cold tells him, already wondering what he should do with the rest of his day. Maybe Stubborn isn’t done punching trees, or whatever he was planning to do.
Smitten hums, before, “Don’t think that you’re getting out of preening. You clearly haven’t been taking care of yourself, and we’re going to fix that today.”
“I’m fine,” Cold repeats, looking back at Smitten.
“You’ve been saying that you’re ‘fine’ for weeks now, all the while you were starving. I’m sure you can understand why I don’t believe you right now.”
They stare at one another for a few seconds, before Smitten continues, “From the state of your feathers, I think it’s safe to assume that you haven’t preened since we got our bodies. If nothing else, you’ll feel something new.”
Cold… can’t argue with that. Still, sitting around for so long sounds boring. He’s not sure why Smitten is still here.
“Fine,” Cold finally relents.
Smitten looks relieved, taking Cold’s hand to lead him back to his own room. That makes sense, Cold supposes, considering the state of the room that Smitten first found him in.
Smitten’s room is… nice. His bed has a massive nest on it, covered in blankets and pillows and a few clothes and plushies. It looks like Smitten put a lot of thought into it. The rest of the room is messy, but it’s almost charming, a bright energy in the chaos. There are letters and feathers scattered around, a few lamps here and there, all turned off. The only source of light in the room is the large window on the far wall. Smitten closes the door behind them and turns on a couple of lamps before pulling Cold into his nest.
Cold sits down, facing towards the window and turning his back to Smitten. He can feel the other’s gaze on him, scrutinizing the damage left to fester after weeks of going unpreened.
“May I start?”
Cold is vaguely confused at the question. “You don’t have to ask.”
“They’re your feathers. I don’t want to startle you or make you feel uncomfortable.”
Cold’s confusion intensifies at that. Why would Smitten care about that? Why is Smitten doing any of this?
Cold hesitates for a while, before, “… You can start.”
Smitten hums behind him, and Cold jumps when his carefully-dulled talons touch his feathers.
“Are you alright?” Smitten pulls away, and Cold internally curses himself for the reaction. He’s fine. He’s always fine.
“I’m fine,” Cold forces out, trying to relax.
Smitten is quiet for several moments, before slowly pressing his entire hand on Cold’s back. It’s warm, and Smitten remains still for a few minutes. Cold eventually relaxes, getting used to the contact, and Smitten finally starts actually preening him.
Cold is tense for several minutes, trying not to flinch whenever Smitten twists a feather back into place. Warm hands ease clumps of dirt off of him, and gently remove feathers too damaged to be saved. They don’t say anything, and Cold isn’t sure if their mutual silence is tense or comfortable.
Eventually, Smitten hums softly behind him and asks, “What was it that you were trying to ask me earlier?”
“What?”
“While I was heating up the soup, you kept asking me ‘why?’ What were you trying to ask?”
Cold doesn’t answer him for a few moments, struggling to recall what was going through his head at the time. His thoughts are clearer now, but there’s still a fuzziness to the edges that makes it hard to remember things.
After a while, Cold says, “I don’t know.”
Smitten hums again, and gently pulls a broken feather off of Cold’s wing. They’re quiet again, but Cold keeps trying to remember what he was asking about earlier. He looks up at the window, glancing outside. It must be mid-afternoon, at the earliest. Cold’s limbs feel heavy.
Cold suddenly opens his mouth, finally recalling what he wanted to ask, but he hesitates when Smitten removes a few itching feathers, making his wing slump in relaxation. Smitten makes a sound just a bit too soft to be called a chuckle, continuing to preen him.
Cold swallows, opens his mouth again, closes it, still hesitating.
“What is it, Cold?” Smitten’s tone is gentle, almost playful. He twists a feather back into place.
“I…” Cold pauses again, looking back out the window, “I… remembered what I was trying to ask.”
“Yes?”
“… Why. Why are you… doing all this?”
Smitten huffs, a sound somewhere between amused and annoyed. Maybe concerned, too?
“I already told you why I’m helping you. You were sick and in pain, and I had the power to help you, so I did.”
That’s… Not the answer Cold is looking for, though.
Smitten seems to sense Cold’s dissatisfaction with his answer, saying, “Perhaps… you could clarify a little more?”
Cold stares at the trees outside Smitten’s window, shades of green slowly rippling in the wind. They’re silent again for a while, and Smitten fixes a few more feathers before Cold finds his voice. “Why didn’t… Why not get Paranoid or Hero or Hunted to do this?”
Smitten pauses behind him for a moment, still gently clutching a damaged feather in his talons. Eventually, he continues preening Cold, but he seems more distracted.
“Why would I ask someone else to help you?”
“Because… Why wouldn’t you?” Cold thinks for a second, but can’t come up with any idea as to why Smitten is still bothering with this, “Surely you have something better to be doing right now.”
Smitten hesitates again, and this time the confusion is clear in his voice, “Cold, what are you talking about? What could possibly be more important than ensuring that a fellow flockmate is safe and healthy?”
Cold is getting a little annoyed now, not understanding what Smitten isn’t understanding. “Fine, but why you, specifically? Why insist on doing this?”
Smitten is also starting to sound annoyed, stopping his preening to focus on the conversation, “Because you need help!”
“I’m fine, Smitten. Why are you not answering my questions?”
“You are not fine. You fainted. I am helping you because you need help. What is so confusing about this?”
“But why didn’t you just make someone else do this?”
“Why would I make someone else help you when I can do so myself?”
“Because if it were Paranoid or Hero or Hunted, then they would do this for their own peace of mind. What could you possibly want from this?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to help you?”
“Why would you want to help me?”
They’re both silent for a moment, and Cold’s head is starting to ache again. He swallows, trying to organize his thoughts, even as a familiar dizziness creeps up on him. A heaviness that started in his limbs now reaches his chest, seeming to cradle his heart. It’s… almost comforting.
He suddenly hears Smitten sigh behind him. He doesn’t say anything, instead deciding to continue preening Cold. A damaged feather is carefully removed, and a small part of Cold misses the itch that it brought.
Eventually, Smitten breaks the silence, voice soft, “Would you… have preferred if I called someone else?”
Cold hesitates at that. Would he rather have someone else try to help him? He would better understand why, maybe, but… does he wish Smitten hadn’t insisted on feeding and preening him?
Smitten seems to misread Cold’s pause, and begins to move away, “Sorry, I’ll—”
“Don’t leave.”
They both freeze at Cold’s tone, the edges tinted with something desperate. Cold hadn’t known that he could sound like that.
A tense moment passes, Cold’s chest and limbs and head aching. It feels like he’s spinning, or the room is spinning, but then Smitten carefully presses his hand on Cold’s back, mimicking his earlier attempt to calm him. The warmth seems to lighten the weight in his chest, seems to slow the spiraling. Smitten gently rubs his thumb along Cold’s feathers, keeping the rest of his hand pressed against him. Cold subconsciously leans into the touch.
“I won’t leave you, my dear."