No experience more viscerally humiliating than walking through a heavily populated building with squeaky shoes. Look at me doing my little clown walk across the entire length of the building. Dumbass squeaking noises ringing out with every step. Sounds like I'm walking on two guinea pigs. I wish I was dead
I was twenty… twenty-five, I think?… when I was sentenced. Four hundred years was a length of time I couldn’t even imagine. It was a length of time I don’t think anyone could imagine, even the judge. It was just a big showy number that let everyone know I’d never see the light of day again. The mages who cast the spells were dramatic about it, practically shouting the part about ‘until death claims you, or four hundred years hath passed, forsooth, thou shalt be imprisoned here’. They don’t waste that kind of magic on most prisoners, but I was special.
The Slayer, they called me then. The Monster of Sentan. I’d killed nineteen people… I remember that number because I was so furious that they stopped me so close to my goal of twenty-one. And I didn’t just kill ordinary people, no, but the Chosen of the Gods. The Great and Good. They were terrified of me. So they locked me away, to die forgotten.
It had been a little less than a hundred years when the king died without heir, and a civil war tore the country apart. When the fighting was all over, the losers were dragged down to the deepest cells under the castle, and the new king and his soldiers stopped and stared at me. “Who… who is this?” he asked, frowning. “Some victim of the usurper?”
People like cooks and jailers and scrubbers don’t change as easily as kings. The same man who’d been bringing me my meals since there was still brown in his hair and beard shuffled forward, hunched and grey now. “No, yer majesty,” he said humbly. “That be a special prisoner, from before the old king died.”
“Special? Special how?” He frowned, moving closer to my cell. “The old king died more than ten years ago. This woman must have been a child then. What could she have done to - “
“Don’t get too close, yer majesty,” the old man said sharply. “That’s the Monster of Sentan… an’ she bites.”
Because disastrously sick men wearing suits is one of my favorite things, and stranger caretakers is another one of my favorite things, have this scenario:
Character A is attending a meeting for a department on a different floor of the building he works in. It’s a sizable company, so it’s not possible to know everyone. Once the meeting is over/breaks for lunch, A stops in one of the bathrooms to take a piss, wash his hands, freshen up a bit. The bathroom is silent and A is positive he’s the only one there as he relieves himself and then washes his hands and messes with his hair in the mirror.
Then there’s an absolutely ear-splitting retch, the kind that sounds like it’s been pulled right out of the pit of your guts and grates your throat in a way that’s sure to make it sore later. A freezes, staring at himself in the mirror for a minute as he tries to decide what to do.
Then there’s a second equally-rough retch, a heavy splattering of liquid against liquid, and a very sick-sounding belch. A turns around to find that the farthest stall door is shut, and when he steps closer he can see the soles of dress shoes and the ankles of gray slacks of whoever’s kneeling on the floor.
“Are you…alright?” A asks hesitantly. He has no idea who it is that’s hurling–it could be anyone from the meeting he was just in, or it could be someone from elsewhere on the floor or the building.
There’s a burp and a short splash in response, and then Character B clears his throat. “Fine. Got it handled.”
The terse tone of his voice is ruined by how hoarse and thready it is, underscored by panting breaths and a grating gag. A doesn’t recognize the voice. He’s hovering near the stall, not quite sure if he should say anything else, when there’s the sound of B blowing his nose and the toilet flushing, and then the door swings open and they come face to face with one another.
A and B both recognize each other just from seeing one another around the building during work, but they don’t know each other’s names. A can’t help wincing, because B looks terrible. There’s a ring of sweat around the collar of his dress shirt, and his tie and jacket are both askew. His face is ashen pale, covered in a clammy sheen, and his eyes are the glossy bright of a fever. He’s glaring at A like his life depends on it, but it’s undermined by his visible trembling.
“Can I help you?” B asks with a voice that sounds totally wrecked by stomach acid.
A feels his ears go red, but his voice gets caught for a minute, taken aback by B’s surly attitude. “You sound rough. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to keel over.”
“I don’t know you,” B says shortly, heading for the sinks and washing his hands as if nothing’s happened. “The concern is appreciated, but not necessary.”
A can’t help but scoff at that. B somehow has gotten even paler, holding onto the sides of the sink with both hands and bowing his head.
“You must be fun to work with if you have this much of a stick up your ass even when sick,” A comments. “I was just trying-”
A cuts himself off with a yelp, because B’s knees seem to buckle. A grabs him under the shoulders, but B’s head lolls and to A’s utter horror and dismay, he passes out completely and his dead weight nearly topples them both to the floor.
B’s out for less than a minute, coming around with a groan, head rolling against A’s shoulder. He bats A’s hands away, and they scowl at each other.
Does A drive B home himself, after finding out from his boss where he lives? Does he take B back to his own office, or to A’s to rest a little? Does B give up the attitude for long enough to let A be helpful?
I do also like thinking about this scenario in a scat or both ends scenario, but I’m not sure what the climate is on that so decided to just do the emeto for now XDD
(PS. If you write something using this, tag me not even for credit but just because I’d be dying to read it XD.)
Hi everyone!! I’m back with another sickfic about my OCs, Rui and Naoya. They’re 2 brothers with a strained relationship.
Work under the read more:
As per his usual routine, Rui gets into bed and lays down.
Majoring in pharmacy, his nights are long. Unending assignments, reviewing past content and prepping for the next. He’d like six hours of sleep at the very least, just enough to make it to immunology in second period.
He closes his eyes, chasing out the mass of deadlines and tomorrow’s schedule out of his mind. It’s been a while since he’s stopped daydreaming before bed, in lieu of blacking out as if he were dead.
Ever since entering his college course, the disparity between mediocre students and geniuses had become more and more apparent. He’s watched many of his classmates drop out from the mounting workload.
Rui himself is on the mediocre side. He’s long past the point of caring, having experienced his very own divided world since childhood. Though he’s grown out of his reputation as a failure, the arbitrary lines remain carved underneath him.
Not long after falling asleep, Rui wakes up to someone shaking him.
He groans, the weak motions gradually increasing. Eyelids hanging shut from exhaustion slowly lift, whipped into a state of languid consciousness.
“...Aniki.”
A shadow looms over the bed. Even after he’d woken up, his younger brother Naoya continued to shake him.
At this point, annoyance won. Unlike high school students who could screw around and enjoy their youth, Rui had no such luxuries. Worked half to death every week, he recalls the neverending assignments and scowls.
“What? I’m tired.”
Without glasses, it’s difficult to see Naoya’s expression. His hearing picks up instead, and he notices a quiet sniffle coming from him.
“...Was sick.”
He mumbles, as if pleading with him to somehow understand. Having just woken up, there was no way Rui could make that effort. He squints at him instead. He’d shaken him awake in the middle of the night, and now he wasn’t even telling him what for.
“Can’t figure it out if you won’t tell me.”
Naoya’s shoulders jolt. “I said I was sick!”
The sudden outburst snaps Rui’s eyes open. He’d planned on raising his voice if this continued, but Naoya had beaten him to the punch. It takes a moment for him to process what happened.
“What does that even mean? You puked or something?”
Naoya immediately pales. With a lack of fervent denial, Rui realizes that had been the case. He fumbles for his glasses on the bedside table, putting them on haphazardly. Having regained his vision and adjusting to the darkness, he finally sees the extent of what had happened.
The dress-shirt he’d gotten on some trip is drenched with vomit, wetness clinging to its fabric. It should have been the first thing he’d noticed, had he been wearing his glasses.
“Oh… Sorry. You know my eyesight’s shit.”
Rui attempts to diffuse the awkward atmosphere. Being forced to admit it had taken a toll on Naoya’s mental state, and his cheeks burn with embarrassment. Never to rely on family for anything, Naoya must be feeling dreadful to seek help like this.
Faced with the facts, Rui has no choice but to get up and lend him a hand. Just as he thinks of telling him to change, he hears a sick-sounding gurgle.
“Hey, don’t puke on the floor!”
As Naoya begins to vomit once more, Rui hurriedly grabs the towel-blanket on his bed. He spreads it under his mouth, catching the overflowing liquid. He feels the watery vomit weigh down the fabric, soaking into the cotton.
“You okay?” Rui says, rubbing his back in clumsy motions. The touches force another guttural retch out of him, clear liquid spurting from his mouth.
Judging from how little solids there are, his room must be in a horrific state.
“Just how much is in you?”
As soon as the words are out his mouth, Naoya fixes him with a sharp glare. He stays silent, unable to argue with the person he’d forced to deal with his vomit.
“...Sorry.”
“Go get changed. I’ll deal with this.”
Watching Naoya stumble back into his room, Rui carries the towel-blanket into the bathroom. Once it’s soaked in the disinfectant, he leaves to check on his brother once more.
“I’m coming in.”
Rui pushes open the door, the smell of disinfectant soaked in his hands. A knock hadn’t yielded any response. Peeking into the room, he sees Naoya laying down with his face flushed and breathing heavily.
Glazed eyes turn to Rui. Despite his shivering, he’s only got a light top on, and nothing to cover his legs. He must have been too exhausted to get changed. He taps his shoulder, and he’s finally returned a groan.
“You have a fever. Could be a vomiting bug.”
There’s no need for a thermometer. Rui wants to leave him be and let him sleep, but there’s a few things he needs to take care of first.
“If you don’t feel better tomorrow, you’re going to the doctor’s.”
“Aren’t you able to take care of me?”
“I’m majoring in pharmacy, not nursing.”
Based on his personality and grades, there’s not a hope Rui could get into that kind of profession. Judging from Naoya’s snark, he should be feeling better by tomorrow.
Rolling up the blankets, Rui finds traces of vomit on the sheets. Though he’d expected as much, the sight and smell are far from pleasant. Unfortunately for Naoya, he’ll have to get up from his comfortable position.
“Can you get off for a minute? I’m gonna take care of that mess.”
When Rui tugs on the sheets lightly, Naoya gives him a confused look.
“...I already tidied up.”
Rui lets out a noise of disbelief. Though difficult to tell, he notices that Naoya had made an effort to clean up. His efforts are commendable, but he really should have just come to him the moment he threw up. Instead he’d managed to waste the little energy he had.
“Dumbass.”
“What the hell’s your problem?”
They both briefly forget their ages, returning back to their younger combative selves.
“That’s not gonna kill the germs. You’re just spreading it.” Rui sighs. There’s no response from Naoya. “And you don’t want to lay there surrounded by the smell of vomit, do you?”
The cleaning attempt was incomplete, but Naoya had still given it his all. And with end results far from ideal, he could not argue further.
“...It’s more trouble.”
That’s what it all comes down to. He’d tried his best to prevent extra work for Rui, and for what? His voice trembles as he speaks, and even Rui finds himself sympathizing.
“I’m gonna clean up, so move over.”
Naoya reluctantly gets off the bed, wrapping himself in a blanket in the corner of his room. Seeing him balled up and attempting to warm himself was a sorry sight.
The best thing Rui can do is get it over with. He strips the sheets and crumples it into a ball, dumping it in the washing machine. Anticipating the off chance that Naoya doesn’t feel better, he grabs some tissues and bottled water.
As he returns to Naoya’s room, he realizes how badly he’d miscalculated.
His breathing is uneven, punctuated by watery retches. It’s enough to let him know exactly what’s going on.
“Shit. He’s throwing up.” Rui mutters, just quiet enough for Naoya to not hear him.
He thinks of entering the room, but going in without a receptacle would be pointless. The problem was forgetting to bring a basin to begin with.
Rui grabs the plastic basin in the bathroom, rushing back into Naoya’s room. Sure enough, vomit covered a good portion of the floor. The blanket also looks ruined. He’s not sure if it’s possible to save it.
“Here, use this if you need to puke.”
Rui offers Naoya the basin, choosing not to comment on the sizable mess around them both. The vomiting starts again immediately, as if he’d still been making an effort to contain it. Naoya pitches forward with a gag, the stream lasting for a few seconds.
“God’s sake, if you’re gonna be sick you need to tell me.”
His attempt at a light-hearted joke falls flat. The colour left in Naoya’s face drains out, and his vomit-stained fingertips tremble.
“I—I’m sorry…”
He can barely speak in between the waves of nausea. Rui rubs his back, noticing the uncomfortable heat and sweat radiating off it. In Naoya’s mind, he must have chosen the correct course of action. But his body betrayed him, and failed him in the worst way.
“You’re fine. Stop apologizing when you’re puking, okay?”
It’s all right, it’s fine. Rui knows it’s nothing to fuss about, but the words stick like a thorn in his throat. As if he’s unconsciously punishing him for all the times he’d snarked at him.
“...I’ll clean up.”
“If you wanna help, you’re on the wrong track. How have you not learned?”
It’s fine. Stop pushing yourself so hard. Rui grips Naoya’s hand, half-pleading. There’s no need for help or toughing-out. All he should do is rest and let himself be selfish, but it’s unlikely Naoya will allow himself that.
He’s white as a sheet, on the verge of tears. He needs to say something before that happens.
“Look, I’m not mad. I know feeling sick in your stomach sucks.”
Naoya gives him a weak nod. When Rui runs his free hand across his hair, the tension in his shoulders releases a little.
“I’ll pay you back later.”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
Though there’s no need for that, Rui knows better than to stop him from getting the burden off his shoulders.
He decides to watch his brother doze off for a little while longer.
also, there's been an idea in my brain for way too long-
basically since cyan doesn't wear a shirt doesn't that mean that its really easy to see if his stomach is upset cuz you can tell if its even a little bit bloated or crampy-
have a nice day
Hello!! I have some Cyno headcanons here for you!
Also yess Cyno with an upset stomach would need a blanket or cape to cover it up, he wouldn't want it on full display for other people hehe.
motion sick dottie!! Mild spoilers for the new desert area, but we find a note that heavily alludes that he got intense motion sickness after he attempted to pilot the big ruin machine.
I definitely think his hubris has gotten him sick many times. Splitting himself into clones? Violent illness. Testing weird chemicals on himself.
Vomiting doesn't bother him all that much. He just sees it as another unpleasant process that needs doing.
I like to think he gags comically loud. the other harbingers complain because he will do it within earshot of someone eating.
I think that most clones are pretty similar to him, but small dottore would be a lot more averse to vomiting. Maybe one of the clones find him upset and whimpering after getting sick, and either throw him a rag or get him into a bath.
probably studies his own vomit under a microscope bc he's a freak
It’s not often Tighnari comes out into Sumeru city. Preferring the tranquil air of Avidya forest to the bustling atmosphere, his visits to the city are few and far in between.
But there are exceptions to be made, when he folds his ears and walks through the streets slightly overstimulated. It’s not bad once in a while, he muses. Though by the end of the day, his opinion will certainly have changed.
“Hey, Tighnari! Over here!”
Aether and Paimon approach him swiftly once their gazes meet, beckoning him over to Puspa Cafe’s entrance. Tighnari raises a hand as a greeting, following them with a look of relief.
They secure a table for three, choosing a quiet corner away from any loud groups. The traveller had always been considerate of Tighnari’s sensitivity to noise, which he’s often grateful for. It’s not often he gets to truly enjoy being in the city.
“We could share a shrimp curry between us,” Aether suggests, pointing to the large portions shown on the menu. “It shouldn’t be too heavy on the spices.”
Tighnari gives him a thankful smile. “I appreciate the consideration, but I’ve had seafood for the past week. I’m in the mood for some meat.” His ears twitch at the mere thought.
Aether flips through the menu a little more, deciding on his own main course before choosing some side dishes. “I can get some deep-fried sweet potatoes and chicken rice to share.”
“Sounds good. I’ll pay for the drinks then.”
They don’t wait long before the food arrives, piping hot and appetising. Tighnari had ordered some sfiha for himself, while Aether had ended up sharing his curry with Paimon. It’s not long before Paimon begins eyeing up the other portions, long finished her own.
“What’s that, Tighnari? Is it good?” Paimon asks, flying over to take a peek at his food.
Aether gives her a look, and Paimon huffs. Tighnari’s meal had piqued both her appetite and curiosity.
“It’s minced lamb on flatbread.” Tighnari explains, taking a large bite out of one. “It’s very good. Why don’t you try it next time?”
He shivers slightly, noticing the drop in temperature since their arrival. Despite wearing lighter clothing than him, Aether seems unaffected. It must be a byproduct of exploring, he muses.
“Come on, just one bite!” Paimon begins to bargain with Tighnari, pleading for a mouthful of his food. Aether bites back a sigh as he pulls her back, shoving a sweet potato wedge in her mouth.
Tighnari lets out a chuckle, feeling another shiver coming on. He almost jolts, the unnerving chill sweeping against his skin.
Perhaps he’s coming down with something. He slips his jacket back onto himself, taking in the heat between the fabric.
“Sorry,” Aether chuckles, sipping on the date juice Tighnari had ordered for them. “You might want to eat a little faster, though.”
Tighnari agrees, bringing up another piece of sfiha to his mouth.
Before he can take a bite, a violent shudder seizes him. And at the same time, a piercing ache in his gut.
He freezes, the flatbread slipping from his grasp. The pain is enough to bring intense nausea with it, and he immediately knows he’s not going to make it anywhere.
Tighnari barely manages to turn to the side before he vomits, the sickness too sudden for him to even gag. Uneven splatters ring in his ears, only just drowned out by the stabbing pain in his lower stomach.
He can hear Aether calling out his name, and Paimon yelping beside them. He can only grip his stomach through the agonizing pain, bringing up another surge of vomit on top of the spreading puddle.
“What’s wrong?” Aether is quick by his side, moving their bags away from the mess and laying a hand on his back. “Here, get it up. Don’t worry.”
There’s something wrong, no doubt. Tighnari knows it’s nothing like a stomach bug or food not sitting well. He barely has time to process the next wave before he’s puking, splattering the front of his clothes. He looks down at his hands, and finds them trembling.
He’s shuddering against Aether’s hand. He seems to notice it too, pressing a hand onto his forehead. “No fever,” he hears him say, concern-filled.
The remnants of Tighnari’s lunch are completely out of his system, and his breakfast follows in quick succession. But the nausea doesn’t abate after emptying his stomach. He drools uncontrollably with each dry-heave, bringing up the occasional stream of stomach acid.
“Tighnari, can you hear me?” Aether is tapping his shoulder with more force, bringing him back from the haze of illness. He can only give him a garbled whimper, throat thick with various liquids.
Each time he opens his mouth to talk, the pain streaking through his abdomen only worsens. Tighnari cries out with each spike, the pressure of his own hand against his gut too much to bear.
“We’re taking you to Bimarstan.”
“Please,” Tighnari murmurs, tears trailing down his face.
Aether is stern, hoisting him up with surprising strength. He throws a handful of mora onto the table and mutters an apology before exiting the cafe, slinging Tighnari over his shoulder.
Though the pain is blinding, Tighnari’s mind is clear enough to filter out the causes. The sudden onset of symptoms rule out many viral sicknesses, leaving him with a terrifying possibility.
Poisoning.
It’s the only explanation he can come up with. The intense urge to throw up is nothing like he’s ever experienced, not even after he’d been too generous on the mushroom sampling portions. Whatever it is, it had to be done with purpose.
“Someone—someone’s poisoned me,” Tighnari chokes out, ears flattening against his head. The light against his eyes suddenly hurts, burning into his eye sockets. He clenches his eyes shut, bringing up a hand to block out all light.
“You think they’ve poisoned you,” Aether repeats, holding him steady as they approach the entrance of Bimarstan. “We’re almost there. Just keep the strength in your legs, okay?”
A nurse immediately recognizes the two of them, ushering them both to an indoor room. While Tighnari appreciates the privacy, he barely makes it to the mattress before all strength leaves him. Aether quickly turns him to his side as he gags.
“What are the symptoms?” The staff asks, grabbing a wooden basin and some medium-sized towels. She carefully wipes down Tighnari’s skin, examining his eyes and nails.
Aether moves beside Tighnari, helping him lean over the basin as he hacks up bile. “He’s been vomiting non-stop and shivering,” he explains, brushing away the hair and tears around his face.
“It’s— ngh— poison,” Tighnari grips the sheets with one hand, the uncontrollable shaking turning closer to convulsions. “It may be something of the bloodgrass variant.” He presses the back of his hand to his eyes, the pain in his head growing worse with each second.
“We’ll run some tests just in case.” The nurse hastily notes down something in her memo, wincing as a painful retch comes out of Tighnari’s throat. “There should be a toxicologist on duty right now.”
If Tighnari’s suspicions are correct, vomiting the poison would not be enough. The absorption into the bloodstream would occur quickly, leaving various organs in the body vulnerable. He’s never encountered a case himself, but the treatment had been antidote infusions and pain reduction. He doesn’t recall the survival rate.
A completely different chill runs down his spine. He could die from this. He could die, not even knowing who did this to him.
“Aether,” Tighnari reaches out, feeling the traveller’s hand around his own. “Get Cyno. Just—just in case.”
In case he doesn’t make it through the night.
“We’ll find him as quick as we can,” Aether assures him, the worry apparent in his voice.
They leave without saying further, dashing out of the facility and heading back towards the inner city.
Tighnari is left alone again. He curls further into the blankets, feeling his body shudder against itself. Every wave of pain brings a cold grip of fear with it.
“We found high concentrations of sterinine in your blood.”
The toxicologist brings him his test results, confirming the potent poison inside his bloodstream. They’re quick to attach an intravenous infusion into his arm, the needle grazing him a few times as his muscles spasm.
Tighnari attempts to lay on his side, taking care not to disturb the needle inside him. He feels vulnerable, laid out on the bed to be treated. He vomits onto the towels near his pillow, no longer able to pull the basin towards him.
“For someone of your age and health, poisonings like this have a high survival rate.” They explain to him, setting down another empty basin and changing the soiled towels. “But due to the large dosage, the recovery process may be painful and long-lasting.”
“How are the pain levels?” The nurse asks him, prompting him to talk. He groans instead of answering, arms tightly wrapped around his middle.
Tighnari bites the inside of his cheek, preventing the scream that threatens to escape. “It’s bad,” he almost sobs. “Especially near the navel. I—I really can’t talk—”
“We’ve administered painkillers and they’ll take effect soon.” They reassure him, rubbing his back in comforting circles. It only makes another tear trickle down his cheek, reminding him that he’s truly alone. “The symptoms will become manageable once you make it through tonight.”
Tighnari isn’t sure if he’ll make it through the night.
He tastes blood as he pukes the water he’d been given. He knows it’s not coming from his scraped-up throat, from the way it’s beginning to turn brown. When he does see crimson in the basin, it’s from the burst capillaries in his nose. He’s a mess of excess fluids, sweat and tears sticking to his skin.
He closes his eyes, attempting to let his exhaustion win. He wakes up with bile gurgling up his throat.
And every single thing his body does to fight against it hurts. There’s a constant cramp stuck in his chest, exacerbated from his stomach wringing itself out. His head hurts, even after shutting out every trace of light. His joints and muscles ache from the constant signals frying his nerves.
The sky darkens around him, and he notices the near-empty bag of fluids attached to his arm. He shakily reaches for the bell within reach, alerting the staff of his finished infusion.
“I know it must hurt.” The nurse holds him down as he thrashes, administering the second dose of antidotes. “You’ll feel a little better once it kicks back in, all right?”
Tighnari becomes increasingly frustrated with the vague promises. He doesn’t want to feel a little better. He wants it all to stop right now.
He knows that if he were to sob and cry about his pain, one of the nurses would hold his hand and comfort him. He knows they’re taking care of him to the best of their capabilities. But the thorough knowledge of medical care makes nothing better for him, instead isolating him further.
The hospital is cold, despite the blankets layered onto him. The air is different from the forest, and the silence carries a different weight. He wants nothing more than a shred of familiarity.
Just as Tighnari closes his eyes, he hears multiple footsteps heading towards him from outside. Though he can’t hear the ensuing conversations, he knows the voices well enough. His eyes widen, amidst the fatigue that chokes him.
“Tighnari.”
Cyno marches ahead of Aether, not sparing a moment before throwing the door open. He’s disheveled, without his signature headpiece and a jacket draped over his shoulders. One look at him fills Tighnari’s eyes with tears.
The traveller and Paimon follow close by, eyes widening at the extent of Tighnari’s pallor. If he had been pale earlier, he’s now nothing short of blanched.
Tighnari stiffens, coughing up blood-tinted drool into his palm. He hastily wipes it on the towel before either of them can see.
Sensing Tighnari’s overattentiveness, Cyno steps in front of Tighnari with an extended arm. “Thank you for bringing me here. I can take it from here—rest assured he’s in good hands.”
Aether nods, knowing the closeness the two share. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help with.”
Cyno lets out an affirmative hum, giving minimal attention to the pleasantries before turning back to Tighnari. He places a hand in his hair, and Tighnari immediately knows its warmth. It’s miles different from the methodical touches he’d been subject to.
“No one’s here except us. You can breathe easy.”
Cyno dips a cloth in cold water, wiping at the sweat on Tighnari’s forehead. It’s far from pleasant or clean, but Tighnari doesn’t mumble an apology for once. He instead leans into him, the lump in his throat rendering him unable to speak.
It’s not long before another episode of pain hits him full force. He’s surprised at how loud he yelps, gripping Cyno’s hand through the excruciating sensations. His body betrays him all at once, forcing up another wave of dark blood up his throat.
Tighnari sees Cyno’s eyes, brimming with barely-concealed anger. But the pained grimace he displays immediately softens them, and Cyno brings the basin closer to him. He spits the dark liquid gathering in his mouth.
“Cyno,” he manages out, no longer able to hold back the sobs. “It—it really hurts. I’ve been throwing up for hours.”
He’s immediately pulled into Cyno’s arms, hair brushed aside and tail curling around them both. Though Cyno’s worry shows, he doesn’t show any more fear than Tighnari does. For the first time, Tighnari feels comforted.
“It hurts everywhere when I seize up.” Tighnari talks through tears, drenching his own face and Cyno’s jacket. “I—I’m not going to die. But it feels too close to it.”
Cyno hums, his hands focused on making him comfortable. He gently rubs circles into Tighnari’s chest, moving to his stomach when it gurgles painfully. “You’ve endured well,” he presses his lips to Tighnari’s head, drawing the curtains to leave the room untouched by moonlight.
Tighnari closes his eyes, leaning against Cyno’s chest. It’s not easy to get the sleep he desperately needs—he throws up on Cyno on more than one occasion, waking up mid-choking to sharp slaps on his back. Though he mumbles an apology, Cyno only wipes his mouth and suggests he get the rest he needs.
It’s almost dawn when Tighnari sleeps for an hour, eyes pried open by yet another stab of pain in his gut. He’s paying the price of surviving a poisoning attempt, something completely unwarranted.
Tighnari lets out a frustrated scream, curling away from everything that touches his skin. “It won’t stop,” he sobs, digging his nails into his palm. “It just keeps happening over and over. I want it to stop hurting so fucking much.”
His words are shaky as he cries, angry tears trailing down his reddened cheeks. Cyno doesn’t touch him until he falls back into his arms, muffling his cries into his chest.
“I know. And I’m not going to leave until it stops.” Cyno continues to pat his back, slowing down until he matches his heartbeat. “You’re going to be all right.”
It comes out with such conviction that Tighnari genuinely believes it. He clings onto Cyno, choked sobs becoming sniffles. He realizes how badly he’d wanted the reassurance, however blind.
“I just don’t know why they did this,” Tighnari cries, this time not from the pain. “Why did they hurt me like this?”
It’s a question neither know the answer to. Cyno doesn’t intend to figure it out, nor does he need the answer. What matters is that he’ll soon have blood on his hands, under the name of justice and his own blinding anger.
Albedo is very pretty and I think he'd look great when puking
He would isolate himself if he thinks he's going to be sick. He doesn't want anyone to get infected.
He probably doesn't get sick the same way humans do, but his digestive system knows when something is Bad and will expunge bad food or bacteria.
Occasionally though, it'll fail to pick up a threat and Albedo will have to force himself to vomit.
Insists it's nothing serious if someone sees him throwing up. He'll tell them it'll pass, but his stomach is gurgling and he's retching every few seconds. Not very convincing.
he will accept back rubs because he doesn't think protesting is worth the effort. thinks it feels pretty nice actually.
alcohol does not affect him much, but motion can make him a bit sick.
makes the cutest groaning noises when he's throwing up. somehow does not get many of the icky puking effects, just tears and drool.
He is pretty good with motion, never got seasick in Beidou's presence.
But he has cried or grieved to the point of throwing up because he feels his emotions so strongly. It's the most painful form of being sick for him.
Gets embarrassed about being sick but tries to reassure people around him that he's fine on his own.
Huge lightweight in canon, probably gets super hungover too. Pukey and miserable in the bathroom the next day while he apologizes profusely.
Tries really hard not to make a mess, will cup his hands under his mouth if he can't find a receptacle. But then realizes he can't use his hands anymore, and then throws up so much it overflows anyway.
He likes to have a good rest after he's thrown up. He's used to pushing past the sickness, but he prefers to lay down and take care of himself when he's feeling poorly.
Likes having his back or stomach rubbed when he's vomiting. It helps him get it over with more quickly, and he also appreciates the comfort it brings.
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