Chapter Text
Moonlight streamed in through the half-open window of Parsa's room, but the ancient hero wasn't sleeping.
He was laying on his back, the covers tucked underneath the pillows instead of wrapping around him. His stomach hurt.
Everything hurt.
Parsa walked slowly to the kitchen, feeling groggy and tired. It had been morning for a while, but he didn't want to get up. Everything felt too loud, too hard, too much today. He clutched his midsection, feeling a sharp pang ring through his abdomen and settle in the pit of his belly. He grit his teeth and powered through, lifting his head and shaking his blonde hair from his eyes. You're a king, act like it, he thought to himself, ignoring the fridge as he stumbled past it.
Walking into the living room, he blinked, seeing a blurry shape on his couch. He rubbed his eyes, putting on his thin pair of spectacles and realizing that the shape was, in fact, another person--Pacorra. Pacorra Delcarda, the soldier of the Dragon clan. With a flash, he remembered that Helene had asked him if he could let Pacorra stay at his house for a day or two while she was away.
Parsa had questioned this at first, asking why the half-dragon hybrid couldn't just stay in the Dragon's Valley, but she had told him that they had had to stay on the down low after a rampage they had went on a week ago.
And, of course, Helene couldn't monitor them at her palace, since she had royal duties to take care of in the Dark Cacao Kingdom--something about a diplomatic meeting. Parsa couldn't remember it now. His head felt foggy and sluggish, like his neurons were firing more slowly than usual. He sighed, taking a seat beside Pacorra and nudging them awake. "Pacorra," he murmured. "It's past morning, you know."
The warrior groaned, turning onto their side to face the fluffy white cushions. "You hadn't woken sssince a few minutesss ago," they rasped, exposing their shiny white teeth as they yawned. Parsa was fascinated by them, and he had to wrench his gaze away, feeling rude for staring so long. He stood up, giving their shoulder another gentle nudge. "Well, now we're both up." He smiled down at them as they shifted, beginning to stretch and quiver as they woke. "I can make you some breakfast, if you'd like."
"Breakfasst?" They blinked as they sat up, renewed interest flicking in their serpentine eyes. "Hmmm...what kind? Sssomething fresshly killed?"
Parsa laughed awkwardly. "Um, no. How about some fruit and honey?" He walked into the kitchen, his voice carrying easily through the open doorway. "Helene gave us some beautiful-looking berries before she left on her trip, you know," he said, knowing that food from the pink-haired woman was bound to intrigue the dragon. Pacorra yawned once more then immediately lay back down and snatched up a book by the side of the couch. "That sssoundss ssatissfactory," they declared, the stub of their draconic tail thumping against the cushions.
"Perfect," Parsa hummed, not bothered by their guest's laziness. He was glad they were calm, at least. He tended to have that effect on people. Always calming others down, helping them, guiding them...
As the king of the Vanilla Kingdom worked, washing the apple-sized berries that looked temptingly delicious and chopping them up, his hands trembled, suddenly feeling weak. He ignored it, moving on, he had to fix up a meal for his guest, after all. Of course, this led to him accidentally cutting the knife into his hand.
"Ah—" he gasped, breathing in sharply through his gritted teeth. Blood slowly began to seep out of the cut in his palm. Instead of moving to treat it, disinfect it, bandage it, or anything else sensible, he just stood still.
And watched it.
Minutes after attempting to occupy themself with the book, (which turned out to be "Zen Kitchen: How to Cook and Eat Well"), Pacorra grumbled and pulled themself to their feet, scratching their scarred chest. "Parssa?" They called out as they walked into the kitchen. "Isss the meal almosst prepared?" They then paused, one scaly eyebrow raised, as they saw Parsa standing there in front of the small cutting board, staring transfixed at his own hand.
Pacorra stepped closer, sniffing the metallic air close to them. They looked down at the leaner man's hand to up at their eyes, as dazzlingly blue as always behind the thin glass of his spectacles, then back to their slowly bleeding palm.
"You're bleeding," they said, matter-of-factly.
"I suppose I am," Parsa responded, curling their pinky finger back to crush it against the gash in their skin. A stinging sensation struck them for a painful second before their shoulders twitched, and heat filled his eyes. He straightened his posture, the pain having seemed to snap him back into the moment. "Silly me...I'll go fix this up," he chuckled, turning away from the kitchen counter over to the sink, turning the water on and placing his hand underneath the stream that gushed to life. Pacorra watched the man like how they would watch a knight that stumbled into their volcano, eager to see what he'd do next...and yet, strangely, worried.
Worried? The Red Dragon of Legends never got worried. Only...
The hybrid lifted their head, walking over and leaning over Parsa's shoulder. "Here," they rumbled, slipping their own hand around the healer's wrist. "Let me help."
Parsa blinked, raising his faint blonde eyebrows. "Oh, no, you don't have to—"
Before he could finish his sentence, the dragon-man had breathed a small puff of hot air onto Parsa Vihan's wet hand, focusing on his wound. The blood trickling from it and mixing with the water slowly began to stop its gentle flow, the heat beginning to seal the gash shut, cauterizing it. The blonde man stared at his clotted cut, then looked up at Pacorra. "I...thank you!" He said quickly, feeling a tingle of confusing emotions flood through him. He was being held—tended to, even—by a monster. A dragon. And, normally, wouldn't he be the one doing the tending...? It was conflicting, accepting help from someone who wasn't one of his closest friends. And even then, it was hard to accept help from them.
Pacorra snorted, letting go of his wrist and turning away. "Tssk," they muttered, a smug smirk on their face. "I only helped becausse I want my breakfasst. And ssspeaking of which..." They eyed the partly-cut berries on the counter and scooped a handful up in their hand, tossing it into their mouth and chewing them noisily.
Parsa smiled, a little grateful that he didn't have to work with that knife any longer. "Ah...you know, I was going to finish preparing those," he said, walking into the living room. Pacorra followed him, their tail wagging slightly behind them, barely perceptible. "You mortalss, alwayss obssesssed with making thingsss pressentable." They snickered. The dragon wiped their mouth with the back of their arm, burping rudely, before cocking their head at the Vanilla King. "Did you already eat?" They inquired, leaning back against the beige-colored wall and managing not to bump into any of the framed photos of Parsa's friends and family there.
Parsa nodded, not quite making eye contact with the other. "Oh, yes," he said, sitting down on his maroon-colored armchair and leaning back with a relaxed hum. "Before you woke up, I had myself a small snack..."
At least, that part was true. In the middle of the night after he had been woken up by his stomach that felt as if it was on fire, he had forced some dry bread down his throat. He still felt it now, weighing him down and clinging unpleasantly to his body.
You know you don't deserve that. Other Cookies have it so much worse, and what are you doing? Staying at home, gorging yourself on carbohydrates?...
He sighed, shaking his head as if to rid the thoughts from his mind, and tucked some of his sunny hair behind his ear. "Besides, Pacorra, you mustn't worry about me. You're going back to the Hollyberry Kingdom tomorrow, after all. You'd better focus on packing yourself up...hm?"
Parsa blinked. Instead of leaning casually against the living room's wall and attempting to still seem imposing, Pacorra had come up to his chair...and they were holding the cutting board he had been using moments before. The wood was still lightly stained with circular droplets of blood, and two halves of one of the large berries from Helene were sitting there. They sniffed, drumming one of their claws on the board. "...it isss a Dragon tradition to sshare food with whoever slayed it," they explained, staring down at Parsa. "What are you waiting for? Eat," they commanded, nudging the fruit forward.
The blonde pursed his lips, a faint blush creeping onto his warm brown cheeks. He laughed, not awkwardly this time, but solely out of sheer surprise that someone else would offer him food like this. Especially someone like the draconic warrior in front of him.
"No, no. I'm fine, I assure you," Parsa said, raising one hand in front of him. "You can have it."
Pacorra narrowed their white eyes, leaning in closer. "You sssaid yoursself; you had a ssmall ssnack." They scoffed, smirking and shaking their head. "HARDLY enough for the king of the Vanilla Kingdom!...And essspecially for a mortal who claimss to be an Ancient Hero. Heroesss desserve banquetsss." They placed the platter on Parsa's lap, kneeling down in front of him and watching him intently. "Now: eat. If you are truly worthy of the titlesss you possesss."
Parsa stared at Pacorra, his heartbeat slowing. A sinking feeling sat on top of his chest, and he could feel himself already sucking in his stomach. The cool ceramic of the plate was touching his belly through his robes. He didn't like it. He was too round already. He didn't deserve this food. His friends did. Everyone did.
Everyone but him.
So, he didn't keep it down.
As soon as Pacorra stood up, their chest puffed out in pride and satisfied, Parsa had excused himself to the bathroom and stuck his fingers down his throat. Hot tears prickled at his eyes as he gagged, puking up the remains of the sweet, rich berries. He couldn't bring himself to look at it circling itself in the water, groping for the handle and flushing it. He tried to stand up, but his legs felt like jelly, and he only stumbled back down onto the cold tile floor. His head swam, the morning fog returning to his mind. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut behind his glasses. He hurt. Pain throbbed underneath his stomach, right at the center of where his hips connected. God, he didn't want to do this today. If Pacorra hadn't been so persuasive, he could have maintained his diet.
The blonde felt faint. Weak. He knew how unhygienic this was, and how soiled his robes were probably getting--and yet, he almost wanted to let his consciousness drift from his grasp right there on the bathroom floor. Parsa exhaled shakily, feeling his eyelids droop over his glassy eyes.
And would that be so bad?