Good Mornin’, Handsome
Phineas Tripp x Edward Heartly
Summary: Mornings are never easy for Edward. The constant pain and sickness that comes along with his condition turns simply waking up into a grueling task. Despite it all, the dawn is much easier when Phineas is around. Just his presence makes everything else feel less difficult.
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Edward was awake before he even opened his eyes. The ache had pulled him up from sleep — a deep, dragging soreness low in his belly, the kind that did not ask permission.
He lay on his side, facing the wall. Behind him, Phineas’s arms were looped carefully across his middle, hands splayed over the round, taut swell beneath the surface of Edward’s skin.
Phineas slept warm and steady, breath slow against the back of his neck.
Edward tried to shift. The attempt sent a sharp pull through his abdomen, muscles protesting the smallest movement. His stomach felt impossibly heavy, as if someone had set a 50lb sack of flour inside him during the night.
The twin — his twin — rested low and solid, a presence that could not be ignored. Too heavy. Too full.
A wave of nausea rolled through him without warning. Not violent — not urgent — just relentless. It climbed his throat and lingered there, sour and cruel.
He clenched his jaw, bracing for the dry heave he knew would not come. He would not be sick — he knew that. That was the torture of it.
His body prepared for something it would not allow, tightening and hardening as though to expel the discomfort. The bracing made the muscle pain worse. His abdomen felt bruised from the inside out.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Behind him, Phineas stirred.
“Mornin’, Handsome” Phineas’s voice was thick with sleep, soft and unguarded. His first words were sweet. “How’re you feeling?”
Edward swallowed before answering. “Awful.” He said, trying not to gag. “Same as always.”
Phineas shifted closer at once, his hand moving instinctively, palm smoothing over the curve of Edward’s belly. “Well, you look beautiful. Same as always.” He smiled, tucking his cheek into his armpit. “Can I do anything to help?”
There they were… the words Edward hated hearing. Can I help? The question came every time. Every morning, just like that. He considered lying, but there was no point.
Phineas’s arms tightened around his body — not enough to squeeze, just enough to reassure him that he was there for him, to comfort him.
Edward closed his eyes again.
What could Phineas do? Reach underneath his stomach and lift the weight? Massage his muscles from the inside out, and relieve the ache? Command the nausea to pass with a magical wish?
The absurdity almost made him laugh, if laughing wouldn’t hurt.
“Thanks,” Edward said quietly, “But, no. It’s just… pains. Muscle spasms. I just… need to lay here for a while.”
He felt the disappointment in Phineas’s breath. The sound was inaudible, but the sensation was undeniable — a silent gust of emotion.
The air hit his skin, and the nausea crested again. His body tensed reflexively, shoulders drawing in, abdomen hardening. The twin clenched and shifted — a slow, dragging roll that made his insides feel like they were being rearranged.
Too much. Too aware. Every inch of his belly stretched tight, every nerve firing at its highest intensity.
He pressed his lips together and focused on breathing evenly.
Phineas’s hand began to move in slow circles over his stomach. Careful. Tentative. As though petting a sickly animal.
Both he and Edward waited for the irritation to flare — the involuntary reaction that always drew a wedge between them.
Sometimes it did. Sometimes even the gentlest touch felt like intrusion, like fingers pressing on a bruise. There had been many instances when Edward swatted Phineas’s hands away without meaning to — sharp, humiliated, angry at the helplessness of it all.
This time, the touch did not hurt. It did not cure either… but the warmth and softness of Phineas’s palm felt good in his skin — grounding him. The circles were steady, patient. No expectation attached.
Edward let his body sag back into the mattress. The heaviness remained — a constant downward pull — but the panic around it softened slightly. The nausea hovered, less sharp now that he was no longer bracing for it to worsen.
He hated this part.
Hated the betrayal of his own muscles, the way they trembled with effort before he had even left the bed. Hated that something not even truly alive inside him could command so much of him. The twin felt like a stone he carried beneath his ribs — beloved, yes — but still a burden his body struggled to balance.
Phineas pressed his face gently into the side of Edward’s chest.
“Whatever you need.” He murmured. “We can lay here as long as you want.”
Edward’s throat tightened.
“I wish… I wish I could take this from you. I wish I could… make it better.”
Phineas always said it as if it were a simple exchange — as if pain could be passed hand to hand like a teacup.
Edward knew better. This was his body’s work. His body’s strain. No one could share the weight of it.
Another small shift inside him — a stretch, a roll. A muscle spasm. Not violent. Just insistent. He inhaled sharply despite himself.
Phineas’s hand stilled. “That was a strong one.”
“Yes.”
“It’s active this morning.”
It. Edward considered the word carefully. His feelings toward the parasite in his stomach were always complicated on mornings like this. Sometimes, he enjoyed it… the constant company it gave. He hated it sometimes too… but he never wished it were gone.
It wasn’t really a person… It was hardly an extension of himself… but it was a powerful thing. It put him through so much more pain than anything else — anyone else — ever could… but it also gave him something to love. It made him feel less alone in the world.
It brought on a strange mix of emotions.
“It’s… not active.” Edward said at last, choosing — this morning — not to give It any agency of its own. “It’s not alive.”
Phineas resumed the slow circling of his palm. His thumb brushed the underside of Edward’s belly, where the skin felt tightest. He was careful not to press too hard.
Edward found himself listening to Phineas’s breathing, matching it. In for four. Out for four.
The nausea receded another fraction. The ache did not vanish, but it dulled from sharp to manageable — a background hum instead of a shout.
He realized, distantly, that Phineas had not once complained about the early hour, or the stillness, or the way their mornings were dictated by Edward’s discomfort. There was no impatience in him. No resentment.
Only hands. Only warmth.
Edward’s thoughts quieted.
He would have to rise soon. The day would not pause because his muscles ached. There were meetings to attend to. A communal breakfast to be eaten. Costumes to be worn. Faces to be composed for the public.
But not yet.
For now, there was the narrow bed, the thin gray light shining through the window, and Phineas’s arms curved protectively around him.
Phineas’s hand slowed, then rested flat over the swell of Edward’s stomach, as if holding it in place. He did not push it away.
He let himself lean back into the solid line of Phineas’s body. Let the warmth steady him. Let the ache exist without fighting it.
There was nothing either of them could do… but there was this. For the moment, it was enough.
