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Kal’s hands gripped the glass vial, virtually upset with the results of the mix. A vicious black tar-like substance slowly gathered on the sides of it as he twiddled away at it. A fourth failure for him, he could only imagine the look he’d be getting from his friends. The placate expressions, the way they would suggest such outlandish things that would somehow work. Gods, it’d been far too long to want to think about any of them, his nose crinkled up at the thought. It was too much of a waste of time, even more so when Itzal had been breathing down his neck for days for more potent elixirs to be produced.
He couldn’t bring himself to blame Itzal for his demands, knowing the grief that puppeteered his actions. Though truly, he could only handle the tension of these requests for so long. There really had only been a singular motivator to continue at this point: to be the pseudo-son that the king didn’t look at with disgrace. That goal felt almost unachievable the longer he worked, his shoulders slumped down, only a long huff of a sound leaving him as he stared at the pathetic failure.
He had been working on the same attempt–for what? Several days straight, minimal breaks. His muscles wound up so tightly, it’s a miracle that he hadn’t snapped the same way an overly taut string would. He had been teetering the edge of consciousness and passing out for maybe the last eighteen hours.
Every single one of those hours had to have counted for something. Yet, they hadn’t, instead he was left with muddled and barely legible notes, glorified chicken-scratch. The thought of it alone had been more than enough for him to want to tear apart the entire journal.
Every little vial that contained any amount of fluid seemingly started to blend together into a cacophony of dark goop, no differences were seen in any of the tests other than maybe the texture. But he wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to dare touch them, not when the vials containing them barely were surviving. The glass containers just counting down the time until they succumbed to the malicious liquid; until it made a further mess of the counters they rested on. Not that there would be much of a difference to the already present mess upon the table.
His body grew fatigued as he slumped down into the worn down chair, a victim of his previous frustrations as it stood on weary legs. Somehow he still managed to find solace within the chair, as if it was a mirror of himself–decrepit and miserable. His eyes seem to have attempted to find something to look at other than the mess before him as he slipped into the nook of the chair. These attempts became futile as even when he stared up into the rafters of the ceiling, he somehow managed to find the remnants from one of his earliest prototypes he never fully cleaned up.
His hand reaching up to rub his temples, the nuisance of all these minuscule-tedious tasks that had piled up were quickly turning into a headache he wasn’t willing to deal with.
He had better things to do rather than mope around like some fabled, melancholic bastard. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to make the moves necessary to even get up. Leaving a bitter frustration on his lips as he bit down upon them. A more welcoming taste of blood greeting him as he felt the skin break underneath the pressure of his enamel. A tingling numbness settling upon his lip, dull enough to soothe the pain that seemed to linger in his head. The Gates above he wished for a damned break.
Fate would always seem to have it her way with him instead. His posture stiffened up as heard the sound that could only be described as reminiscent of a kettle heating up. The color on his face drained as he processed what exactly had been brewing up behind the scenes. He’d heedlessly left a burner on, allowing his recent concoction to rest over the flame in a position similar to that of a spit-roasted swine. With a jolt he made his way up, a light-head wooziness hitting him with the sharpened movement. A stark reminder of the lack of rations he had consumed in the previous days. That didn’t matter much in the moment as he fumbled to get his mitts onto the spirit lamp’s snuff cover.
By a large gap he missed it, his depth perception shot as he covered the flame with his bare hand. Though that was by far the least of his worries as the vial shattered with a loud, cracking pop.
A tasteless yawp left his mouth as he felt the shattered glass slit his palm up to his forearm. The experimental liquid contained now finding a new home in his fresh cuts and clothing. His eyes widened with terror, watching as the substance intertwined itself in his skin. The fog within his person fluttered up as it worked like a cruel stitching of his skin, taking the sludge as a hostage deep within him.
He should’ve known better.
He should’ve realized that the flame still burned.
Anything to have avoided the feeling of his muscle turning molten as he lost the grasp of control he had on his body’s matter. His mind hurrying to reassure himself he was fine–this whole situation was fine.
It was inevitable that he wouldn’t turn out fine as he hoped he would. Upon the liquid settling deep inside himself, a violent wave of nausea hit him as he death-gripped the counter, his knuckles as white as his face was. Sweat dripped down face, becoming acutely aware of its wet trail down his skin. The taste as it slipped down his lips was by far worse, gagging the instant it hit his tongue.
Dry heaving became the primary sound that echoed throughout the emptied lab. Hands now clutching the bin that held a small amount of miscellaneous pieces of trash he had produced throughout the week. The bin’s emptiness was soon replaced by a foul liquid that might as well be pure bile at this point. His sense of taste became far more overwhelmed than it was mere moments ago from his own sweat.
His body was placed in a purgatory of being too empty, all while being too full from the brick the nausea placed in him. Curses slipped from his lips as he finally found himself freed from clutching the bin like a long lost lover. Sliding down to his knees, his body having been exerted so much so that it gave up on any attempt on wanting to keep himself upright. Not that he was even in the right mindset to complain about something so trivial.
Even if every fiber of his existence wanted to scream at him to get up before he had been caught slacking.
A notion that made him feel traitorous.
Then again, there was a serenity that came from being curled up on the floor near a pile of broken glass that made up for such an act of treason. The sight being rather ridiculous in its nature, a man who presented himself all high and mighty no better than the glass vial that shattered under the pressure that the environment provided.
Perhaps it was fitting that the only man that would even dare step foot within his lab found him as this pitiful disaster was Itzal himself. If he had half the energy to do so he would have pushed his way out of any conversation. Even better, he would have found a way to avoid explaining himself to the man entirely. After all, avoidance always came much easier when fatigued, both mentally and physically. Yet avoidance somehow demanded more explanations than confrontations ever did.
Not that it could ever matter in such a situation as the one presented before him. There wasn’t anything to explain about the sight of him being far too disheveled to even function, much less to keep up his appearance he had for the king.
Itzal had struggled to exactly wrap himself around what he was witnessing. The virologist gave him a far more grisly sight than he had expected upon hearing the sounds of retching echoing throughout the halls. Such sounds that had been reserved to the few, noble scientific sacrifices that were to be made if they were to make any progress with the research. An assumption made a bit too soon to have been chalked up to yet another volunteer’s weakness.
A weakness that was unbecoming of his right hand man.
He only wished he could turn a blind eye to the complications, allowing the distasteful view to make itself presentable. His distaste couldn’t last long, not when a programmed part yearned to rush to Kal’s side like he would have done for his own kids when they were younger. He chided himself for such a thought, it was almost humorous to compare Kal to his own kids. Though, it didn’t feel as humorous as it sounded, knowing perfectly well he had practically replaced one of them for Kal.
Instincts had won out after all, his steps heavy as they carried him over to the pliant body of Kal. Crouching down to the man’s level, his knees popping from wear and tear over the years. His hand reached out to gently shake the curled up form of Kal. Grimacing as he felt the sweat that had soaked through the layers of cloth. Nearly retracting his hand entirely out of disgust, but he kept himself steadfast, far more worried at Kal’s state.
“Kalfu,” Itzal’s voice croaked, the effects of the last elixir he had drunk not entirely gone.
“Kal.” He continued to shake Kal until there was a motion that was similar to one swatting away a fly. He withdrew himself in mere moments upon the confirmation that Kal was at least somewhat conscious.
“Bug off, ‘m fine,” Kal’s voice carried no respect that it usually pertained, rather it was a much more primal, unsophisticated version.
Clearly he had better things to deal with instead of Itzal. Like getting himself up and away from the shards of glass. Despite that he made little to no effort towards it. Weighed down by what felt like lead inside his veins. A groan just as heavy slipping past his lips.
“Watch it,” Itzal warned, yet the bite his typical threats held had vanished. Instead he busied himself with propping up Kal against the cabinet. Ignoring how Kal fought him tooth and nail the entire way.
“What in The Gates have you managed to land yourself in, boy?” Itzal’s question was pointless, already knowing the answer to his own question. His hand came to rest upon Kal’s forehead, taking his temperature before he moved down to the pulse point. Noting the abnormally high heart rate and the heat that would singe if something came too close. Immediately he gathered up Kal, carrying him off to the nearest shower available. His focus solely on lowering Kal’s fever despite the initial bafflement at how fast his health had plummeted.
Kal had stopped fighting Itzal physically at this point–not that his pathetic attempts to move away and swat at Itzal were much of a challenge–allowing himself to be manhandled in a way he hadn’t let anyone other than Dakkar do. Though, it didn’t mean he was going to be taking it lying down entirely.
“Drop me. You’re disgustingly hot and making me nauseous,” Kal complained with a slight slur, as he felt cold enough to be shivering albeit his physical form was damn near burning hot.
Biting his tongue the entire time as every single jostle made his stomach lurch. Disgusted at the thought of accidentally throwing up on Itzal, let alone the consequences that would follow up that action. He could only be thankful when he was plopped down into the tub, his stomach settling almost immediately from the lack of motion.
He became startled at Itzal not giving him a warning before cranking the shower on full blast, perhaps a bit of payback for his earlier comment. Spraying him with some of the coldest water he's ever had the pleasure of being in before it was changed to a more lukewarm one. His shivers wracked through his entire body, he felt like he was submerged into the arctic ocean.
It was only made worse when Itzal reached down to remove his cloak, his only layer of protection from the coldness that lingered in his bones. He snarled lightly as scrunched further into himself, trying to avoid being pelted with the water.
Itzal tossed the tattered and stained cloak aside, frustration evident as he watched Kal avoid being in the water as much as possible. Truly he had forgotten how stubborn–how petulant Kal could become for such trivial matters. It reminded him of himself when he was younger and dead set on a goal; only if it was cranked to the extreme in this case. Either way it is a noble but nuanced trait for someone to have.
“Kalfu, hold still for a damn minute. You’re running an extreme temperature and are mere moments away from scrambling your brain,” Itzal said, trying to discourage Kal from leaving the tub entirely at this point so he could manage to get a wash cloth.
Kal's frown deepened as he forcefully submerged himself back into the water. It felt bitterly cold despite it being lukewarm, but he couldn’t find it in him to push the limits of Itzal much longer. A subconscious fear of Itzal’s disapproval, knowing he would be merely nothing without Itzal’s approval, much less still breathing without it.
His body slumped into the curve of the tub, his eyes trained on the ceiling trying his hardest to ignore the terrible squealing the showered produced. It was an irritant that made him want to scream just to block out the noise. Hands coming up to forcibly block out the high-pitched sound that reminded him of the same reason he was even in this state. Fingers wrapping around his ears, using it to press his palms harder down to muffled down the sound further.
There had been one welcomed distraction as he remained seated and it was Itzal pressing a damp cloth to the back of his neck. His head had tilted back into Itzal’s palm for who knows how long, having a sneaking suspicion that Itzal had been using healing on him the entire time. Shivers subsided the longer he stayed, the squealing becoming a duller ambience after a while until it ceased entirely.
His hands fell loosely to his sides, in all honesty he could’ve found himself falling asleep then and there. The only thing that truly stopped him was the fact that Itzal was the one who had been holding him up. Then again, the boundaries between them became a blurred line the instant that Itzal decided to come to his aid. Something he had still been trying to wrap his head around the entire time.
“What’s your aim in all this Itzal?” Kal finally mustered up, tiredness settled deeply in the question. The motivations behind Itzal’s care escaping him from the moment he wasn’t told to just suck it up and figure it out on his own, or maybe even just being left alone. All the alternative options seemed more reasonable than the one presented before him.
A scoff is all that Itzal could manage at the absurd question. “Believe it or not, Kalfu, I was, and still am a parent.” The answer couldn’t have been more vague, yet the intended meaning behind it was all the same of recognizing Kal as one of his own.
Kal didn’t bother with another pointless question. Ignoring the clear emphasis on the word choice, he had already overstepped more than enough lines then he ever should have with the king. Ears twitching as he finally pushed himself away from the damp towel that had become quite cold as time had passed.
His clothes had grown heavy from the pure amount of water that had soaked into them. Sadly it was probably the cleanest they’ve been in awhile as some of the stains on the lighter bits had lifted. Too bad he wasn’t planning on remaining in them much longer as he shoved himself out of the tub.
Sick of the way his skin felt when it pruned up under the water.
Sick of how he felt like a specimen in a jar the entire time.
Most importantly sick of Itzal looking at him with something akin to genuine care, it was unbefitting of him to have done so, almost uncanny to see Itzal in such a state.
The air hit him immediately as he was fully out, a chill settling alongside the soggy clothes. Itzal held him steady on his feet much to the king’s own dismay. Watching as his own clothing soaked through Itzal’s as he continued to hold him. A cackle escaped him for the first time in decades at the sight of Itzal’s uncomfortable expression.
It almost made him feel human, a reminder of life before the chaos. Truly he yearned for the past, wishing in some ways that it was Dakkar here with him rather than Itzal... Gates above, he must have been out of it to have started to recall his less reclusive days. It was just so much simpler to exist without care–or at least with less care than whatever he had now.
It took him a bit too long to have realized that somewhere in the midst of laughing at Itzal holding him like one would a wet cat that he had used his movement. Bringing only himself to his room, a place once held dear, now abandoned, left for the spiders and dust that wished to gather. It was almost peaceful how abandoned it became, knowing that no one would dare bother him there, even Itzal avoided it now-a-days.
A place to lick his wound in complete silence.
Stumbling as he struggled to regain his own balance without someone holding him up. In any case it meant a change of clothes so he would be freed from his sopping wet ones. A release from the shivers that kept haunting him every chance they got since getting out of the filled tub. He was just lucky that his stomach wasn’t threatening to up-chuck more bile at this point in time.
Stripped down to his barest minimum, he lazily rummaged through his drawers in search of anything to cover himself up. Though the longer he searched the clearer it became that it was fruitless. Until he brushed his hand against his old traveler uniform, one he had long thought was gone, tossed in the bin to never be seen again. However he wasn’t in any state to be picky with his clothes. Not wasting his time to pile the cloth onto himself, a relief from the coldness that surrounded him.
Yet, it did nothing to escape the stale feeling his once lively room held. Staring at how the wallpaper had dulled and sunken in on itself. His prized collections coated in a grey film of dust, honestly it was a wonder he didn’t make himself sick sooner from the amount of dust that had gathered. One of the only things worth half a damn in the room being his own bed as he sunk down onto it. Laying down as he leaned further into where the headboard was, wrapping himself in his comforter. Allowing himself a moment to think in peace without worrying about the next hypothesis he was going to try next.
Turns out he didn’t have much to actively think about, but certainly too much to reflect on.
Upon him actually paying attention to the room for more than just his bed his eyes caught on an older oil painting. It had been a portrait of himself, something he wouldn’t have batted an eye on longer than a second in any other case. The history of the portrait is what made him hesitate. It was the one that Dakkar painted of him around the time they first got together. The one that he hung because he thought it’d be hilarious to have a painting of himself in his room, let alone to show much he appreciated it.
Leave it to him to have a reminder of what was gone.
He had come to accept the fact that he and Dakkar were split the moment Dakkar left. Accepted being a loose term of what he liked to try and tell himself. Though it became increasingly obvious he was far from over it.
Not when he desperately clung to every letter Dakkar had sent since leaving to become a searcher. Watching as the dates on the letters became more and more distant from each other until the final one came.
The same one that contained the ring he had proposed with was enclosed in the envelope.
A foolish part of him still waited for the next letter like a dog waiting for its owner to come home. But it never did come, his mailbox collecting as much dust as everything else in his life had. His grip on any pen he held was far too shaky to have ever written back to Dakkar. Leaving him to wallow in the loss that had long been coming.
He hated how blurry his vision had become at just the thought of it. Of how frustrated he was with everyone and everything involved. How he wished that Dakkar was here to hold back his hair while he lost his stomach’s contents, instead of the attempt that Itzal had made to help, not that he was entirely ungrateful for it.
The frustration only brought one good thing with it, a seething envy that made his bones weary to the point of exhaustion. A welcoming tiredness after the way the day had chewed him up. He could only pray that tomorrow didn’t feel as ill so he could figure out why his body reacted that badly to the liquid. Eyelids closing as he turned a cold shoulder to the painting, trying to forget about it, the same way he tried to forget Dakkar entirely.