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Castor has not often been sick, but he remembers, in the hazy, vague way that all of his memories are recalled, that it is never pleasant. This, he thinks, is one of the truths that he has carved into his bone marrow, the same as other important truths.
This, he thinks to himself, as Sylvester carefully wraps blankets around him, is strange. It is strange — to be sick (to suffer the nausea swirling in his stomach, almost like a void, almost hungry in itself), to be trembling and shaking and not quite sure what will make the horrid feeling leave, and to be cared for so gently. So tenderly. His head swims, and he feels at once too cold and too hot, but Sylvester's hands carefully tuck the blankets around him, soft and warm and comforting, and he hums halfway beneath his breath.
"Doing alright?" Sylvester pauses a moment, silver eyes glancing over Castor's entire form in a quick motion. "Do you need anything? Water? Food?"
Castor grimaces, pulls the blankets tighter against him. "Food. . . sounds bad. Right now."
"Water? Something else to drink?" Sylvester isn't quite close, but not quite far either — he's brought a bag, filled with whatever miscellaneous things Sylvester liked to carry around.
Shuffle, shift in place, until he's more comfortable and halfway laying down against the near mountain of pillows Sylvester had packed around him. Castor considers the question, lets the shape of it swirl across his tongue until he has an answer. "Water would be nice." He blinks, eyelids just slightly too heavy. "Could you. . . sing? That song you were humming?"
A slow tilt of the head, Sylvester's eyes never quite leaving Castor's. "It doesn't really have any words." Sylvester says, carefully, a hand reaching to rest upon Castor's brow as Sylvester's own wrinkles slightly. "But. . . I can sing what parts of it I remember, once I get you water." His hand pulls away. Castor tries not to mourn the loss.
Nodding decisively, Sylvester turns and heads towards the door. Humming, as he does so. (Castor wonders, with a head full of fog and a body that feels like it's shivering inside the skin and not outside of it, if Sylvester even realizes that he is humming. He wonders where that melody is from. It feels. . . hauntingly familiar.)
Castor tries to hum the tune to himself, as his eyelids fall. Everything feels hazed and vaguely shadowed, like the kinds of visions that are born from early morning fog.
"Poor thing," murmurs the shadow of Pollux, suddenly there beside the bed. His wings twitch, and though one extends to rest atop Castor, no light is blocked.
Castor merely hums softly, letting his eyes fall all the way shut. The hallucination won't leave that quickly, but looking at anything is making him feel worse, so Castor will try and do what he can to feel slightly less miserable in the time before Sylvester comes back.
A sigh. "Don't die, okay?" A hint of a laugh, and the sound of feathers rustling.
Castor drifts, from there, but eventually Sylvester does return — the actual Pollux by his side. They're talking in voices too low for Castor to truly comprehend, with his thoughts turned to thick sludge and his bones feeling vaguely like they're melting, but Pollux sounds worried and Sylvester sounds the way someone sounds when trying to reassure others. (Pollux's voice isn't quite flat, but it's getting there. Sylvester's, by contrast, has a strange calmness in it.)
Castor peels his eyes open, to find his suspicions correct — Sylvester holding a glass of water, as well as yet another pillow, and Pollux standing beside him, eyes tense at the corners and lips curled down in a frown. Upon seeing Castor's almost-bleary gaze, Pollux crosses the room in quick strides to stand beside him, nudging Castor further upright with a shoulder and re-adusting the bedding Castor had been leaning against.
"You're sure he'll be fine?"
"Yes, I'm sure." Sylvester's voice is tired, but patient, as he too crosses the room. "It's just a normal sickness, for now. If it gets worse we won't know until later, and if that happens I promise I'll bring Castor to the medical ward if he needs it, okay?" He sits by Castor's other side, carefully pulling Castor to lean against him while setting his bag on the bed.
"And you're sure that I don't need to be here?" Pollux presses further. (Ah, is he worried something will happen to Castor if he's gone?)
"I will be fine, Pollux." Castor forces through his throat, even as his voice rasps unpleasantly. (The noise is. . . uncomfortably familiar to the way his voice had sounded, when he'd first started talking again after years, dragged out of that cell that he'd spent so long within. Castor tries to pay it no mind.) "You should go to your classes. It . . . would be bad. If you missed too many."
Pollux's lips press tightly into a thin line, and he stares at Castor for several long, silent moments. Then, he nods once, a sharp, decisive action. Turning to face Sylvester, he points at Castor with a hand that is shaking only slightly. "Do not let him suffer." He's back to his sharp-yet-firm voice, again, the one that is slightly arrogant and slightly lofty and very polished in its pronunciation of syllables. The Divus voice, Castor and Pollux had both called it when they were younger, and it is this that makes Castor know that his brother is once more donning a mask to hide his fear.
"I won't." Sylvester promises, unknowing — perhaps uncaring — of the many anxieties and doubts that surely must be nestled within Pollux's ribcage (the same way Castor's own anxieties and doubts nestle within his ribcage, like small birds settling in and building a nest there). He smooths Castor's bangs down with a hand, and Castor can't help but lean in, the little trill of contentment even as the miserable feeling of being sick does not lessen. It feels nice.
". . . good." Pollux leans towards Castor and carefully presses his head against Castor's shoulder. "Rest. Take care of yourself. Don't suffer needlessly." His voice is flat and toneless, as he says these things, but Castor lets himself smile and fluffs the feathers upon his neck. (It is how Pollux shows he cares, when there is no tone in his voice. Inflection and emotion are masks upon his words — and so, flat and emotionless, that is when Pollux is entirely unmasked, genuine feeling paradoxically shown by a lack of any.)
"I will."
Finally, Pollux leaves. In the quiet left behind, Castor leans further against Sylvester, lets his eyelidss fall halfway closed again. Sylvester carefully combs a hand through Castor's hair, pulls the hair tie off and works fingers through the long waves. Softly humming, Sylvester takes some item from his bag and starts working on it. Schoolwork, Castor thinks, though he's too fatigued to bother double-checking. Instead, he lets himself drift again. Soft, almost comfortable. . . Castor drifts to sleep, that soft song following him within dreams.
"This sucks." Sylvester whines, shivering and curled up amidst a pile of blankets and other bedding. He's wrapped his arms around his midsection, but he stubbornly keeps his head slightly raised, eyes trying to follow Castor's motions.
Castor merely hums softly, carrying a tray with water and a bowl of soup broth over to the small table beside Sylvester's bed. "I know. I'm sorry." With quiet care, he sets the tray down, and sits on the edge of the bed closest to the table.
Sylvester, of course, immediately begins shuffling his way towards Castor's side. With a grunt of effort, and a huff born of breath pushed from the lungs, he flops onto Castor's lap, head resting on Castor's thighs, the rest of his body draped over Castor's legs and onto the bed. Only about half of the blankets he'd curled up in made the journey with him, but Castor leans over and carefully tugs some of the few left behind. It's not as pretty as the little blanket nest that Castor had been wrapped in, when Sylvester was the one assembling such a thing, but Castor hopes it at least is comfortable for Sylvester.
He'll need to leave soon for class, but Castor can't bring himself to move. Instead, he extends a wing, carefully resting it atop as much of Sylvester's body as can reach. "Do you need anything?" He asks, softly, carefully combing his talons through Sylvester's curls. Castor does his best not to let the curls catch, to comb through them gently enough that nothing tangles.
"Mmmh. . . no." Sylvester shuffles a bit more, face pressed against Castor's hip. "You're warm. Stay?"
Castor sighs, but can't stop the small smile born of pure affection. "Alright."
Pollux will look for him, soon, but — Castor can't bring himself to leave. With Sylvester sick, like this, all Castor wants to do is stay with him, do his best to tend his needs and ensure Sylvester is as comfortable as can be. After all, what good is a god that tends not to their followers? (For all they have left the Lantern's reach, Castor knows that he and Pollux both are still divine — in their bearing, in the way they have been taught to read the world, in the way that despite lower gnostic indices they both understand the weight of divinity and the exhaustion of it. Divine in the way that of the others at Mythag, only Tulu understands when they talk around the space where the worship of others had sat, divine in the way that there is a possessiveness to them, and the way Tulu dips his head in understanding when quiet words are had about how gods are made from mortal bones.)
". . .don't you have class?" Sylvester blinks open one eye, squinting, but Castor shushes him, carefully presses Sylvester's face back against his hip.
"It will be fine." Castor assures, humming half of a melody within his throat. "You asked me to stay. So. I'll stay."
". . .alright." Sylvester slumps against Castor, then — vulnerable, trusting, limbs curling and nestling further against Castor as if he were made to be held like this. "Thanks for being here."
"Of course." Castor shuffles, himself — settling down into a more comfortable position. "Always." Sylvester is asleep, now, but Castor repeats the word quietly. (It's important, Castor thinks. To be here. To care for Sylvester the same way that Sylvester cares for Castor. It's important.)