The idea of Elliott stubbornly forcing down spicy food to "train" his system even though he knows it'll end in a killer stomach ache is just... *frantically fans self before swan diving out a glass window* Beautiful. If the mood ever strikes to write a lil drabble about that, that's something I would love to read. Please fuck up our poor grumpy little honey badger
GRUMPY LITTLE HONEY BADGER omg
There’s no way I could refuse you after that display, anon. One fucked up honey badger, coming up.
“Are you crying, Vale?”
“No.” Elliott turned away from Tim’s broad grin to wipe his watering eyes on his sleeve. He silently cursed whatever unfathomable reflex it was that drove the human body to produce tears in response to a fucking flavor.
Tim laughed in his obnoxiously over-familiar way. “No, he says! You really can’t handle your spice! Even I don’t think it’s all that hot!” He slurped down another spoonful of the chili-laced stew, as if to illustrate his point.
Elliott ignored him and glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until he could leave this stupid practical session. He took a shallow breath, trying not to wince as the burning feeling in his mouth flared and the heavy ache in his stomach quivered.
“Heating spells aren’t going to be your thing, huh?” said Allison. She was smiling, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was a friendly smile. “I guess we all have our weaknesses. Even you.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” he answered as coldly as he could with his tongue on fire.
“Well, don’t push yourself. It’s not often that everyone manages a new spell on the first day.”
That dig wasn’t even subtle. The other second-years had already seen the effects of their magic on the thermometers they were supposed to be heating. Elliott was the only one who hadn’t, and now Allison was taking her revenge for all the times he’d strolled into practical and flung out a brand-new spell it was nothing.
“The food was spicy,” said Sara mildly. She was sipping from a glass of milk, which she offered to Elliott. “Want some? It really helps.”
Elliott’s pride told him to refuse, but it was solidly overruled by the rest of him. He took the glass silently and gulped down its contents. The milk quenched the fire in his mouth a little, but only added to the curdled feeling in his stomach.
That was the worst part, he thought ten minutes later as he made his way down the back stairs. He could ignore a burning mouth, but it was hard to find his magic through that heavy unease in his guts. It was a nasty sensation, like his stomach was full of sludge, and it made him angry. Why should he feel so awful? He hadn’t even eaten very much!
Allison was obnoxious, but she was also right. Food intolerance was a weakness—a big weakness.
If there was one thing Elliott knew about weak things, it was that they could always be strengthened.
He took a detour towards the kitchens before heading back to his room.
The bowl of stew on his desk was a little more than the amount actually needed for a heating spell. There was no use in starting small, Elliott figured.
He could smell the spice rising from the bowl. It made his eyes tear up and prickled in his nose. His stomach, still half-full from earlier and less than happy about it, gurgled mournfully.
“Oh shut up,” Elliott muttered. He picked up the spoon and got to work.
It was easier here, without his obnoxious classmates staring at him. He could groan and swear as the burning sensation spread from his mouth and into his throat. He didn’t have to care when his eyes started watering and his nose began to run.
It was easier—but it was still pretty fucking difficult. He felt… nasty. There was no other word for the queasy, viscous pain that was growing inside him, incubating in the heat of his spice-filled belly like some kind of fucked-up parasite. The more he ate, the worse he felt. Still, he kept at it, forcing food into his increasingly upset stomach as though that were a completely sane thing to do.
He managed to get half the bowl down in one big push before he had to take a moment. His tongue burned—he took deep breaths through his mouth, trying to let the air cool it. He’d brought a pitcher of milk with him, but with the way his stomach was churning, he didn’t dare drink any.
A burp took him by surprise. It stuck strangely in his throat—like it wanted to tug his stomach contents up with it—and he pressed a hand against his mouth. His belly gurgled as it settled back into uneasy equilibrium.
“Ughhh, fuck,” he mumbled. Things were not going well in there, clearly. Maybe this was a bad idea….
No. This was what he needed to do. Either his body would would get used to the food or his mind would get used to the pain.
He pressed a hand against his belly and kept going.
Now he was really starting to get full. He could feel his stomach growing firm and grumbly under his fingers, and the nasty unease was maturing into a sick, swollen ache. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he kept forcing stew down—bite after horrible bite until the bowl was finally empty.
He felt a brief flash of triumph before it was swept away by a tide of awful stomach pain.
He groaned and hunched over, one arm pressed tight into his churning, bloated belly. It hurt so much he could barely draw breath. A burp forced its way up his throat, and it was all he could do to choke back everything that wanted to come after it.
Fuck, this had been a mistake—a stupid fucking mistake—all he’d done was make himself sick! He was going to feel horrible for hours, and for what? He couldn’t cast. His thermometer was in his bag, and leaning down to get it out would cause his seething stomach to erupt, he was sure of it—
Then his gaze found the pitcher of milk and an idea germinated in his brain. In a fit of furious determination, he punched through the painful maelstrom in his belly to find the kernel of power inside him.
A tendril of steam rose from pitcher. Then the milk began to froth. The bubbles came faster and thicker until the the foam swelled up and spilled over the rim, coating his desk in steaming, frothy scum.
As the magic flowed out of Elliott, so did the fury. He sighed and slumped back in his chair, holding his cramping stomach and hiccuping as the dregs of the spell slipped away.
Never mind that he couldn’t stand up straight. Never mind that he nearly threw up twice just walking to his bed. He could cast heating spells—and damn good ones—and that was all the comfort he needed to curl up around his aching belly and sleep the sickness away.
