holy shit this thing got away from me warning for Long when you open the keep reading link hgalskfdj. regardless here is thomas angst i promised pls read the tags for content warnings 👍
anyway i'm thinking about francis abusing thomas's trust in him even before orchestrating his death. thomas is pretty naive in a lot of ways, after all, as well as overly sensitive and emotional, and he's not very good with people even though he clearly wants their attention and respect and tbh i think there's a really compelling argument for some of the rejection and bullying he receives from his peers being due to him being neurodivergent in a time where that was unacceptable, but that's a thought for another post. in addition to all that, i genuinely think thomas didn't have much interaction with kids his age growing up (he gives me big "my mama was my best friend when i was little to the detriment of my emotional and social growth" vibes, but that's also a thought for another time lol), and so i don't think he has a very good idea of what friendship—or any other relationship, really—is supposed to look like.
enter francis, a member of his family close in age to him, who does know what friendship is—or at least, thomas assumes that he does. he certainly has an awful lot of trust in francis in general, and he seems to think highly of him in his retelling. he's genuinely taken aback by the reveal of his betrayal, and it took him an awful long time to realize what he'd done to him, and he only realized it with the help of outside perspectives. it makes you wonder if their relationship used to be different, if francis used to be trustworthy and kind to thomas, thus leading to how shocking it is for him.
......as you can see from the first line of this post, i don't think that's the case, lmao. there's something about the callousness, the cruelty, the manipulation of the plot that feels downright sadistic. not only did he get thomas killed, but he got him killed in a way that would cause him the most emotional pain before his death. he manipulated the love of thomas's life into marrying him afterwards. this is a man willing to cross some really fucked up lines to get what he wants, and who genuinely, genuinely does not care about other people, which is a stark contrast to thomas—in spite of thomas's selfish tendencies and self centered approach to most situations, we do see him frequently show care and compassion for other people, especially people he loves. he's a sweet guy, for the most part, with a bit of an ego problem he mostly uses as a means of self protection from the humiliation he's constantly subjected to and this should also probably be explored more in its own post i just wanted to mention it because i love my baby 🥺💕. he wants to feel connected to other people. he wants to be loved and appreciated.
it makes him very vulnerable, and thomas is already vulnerable in a lot of ways. he's emotionally fragile, extremely isolated from his contemporaries, and thus very lonely, desperate for love and attention. meanwhile, francis is manipulative and willing to hurt thomas in some of the worst ways you can hurt another human being in spite of their presumed friendship and family bond for the sake of a nice house and a pretty bride. thomas is very, very trusting of him, and francis is well aware of that. maybe thomas didn't suspect him for so long not because their relationship used to be good, but because he's been accustomed to blindly trusting him and ignoring red flags for the sake of keeping their relationship. lest we forget one of francis's first lines being try not to embarrass me too much, cousin—perhaps something that should've been a red flag from the start.
maybe after the revelation, thomas starts to reexamine his relationship with francis, desperately searching for a reason or any warning signs in his memories. he thought francis had always been kind to him. he thought francis had always cared about him, in his own way.
but the cracks quickly start to show in his memories the more and more he thinks about them. a compliment that thomas assumed was genuine is obviously a disguised jab at his expense in hindsight. all the times francis "affectionately" teased him are clearly aimed to hurt. all the times he thought he heard francis laughing at him probably weren't just a fluke or him hearing things, were they? he feels stupid for it, because it's all so clear to him now. francis didn't care about him. francis had been hurting him for a while now.
it's putting his stomach into knots thinking about it, but once he's started he can't stop. francis had stolen his things, not a house fairy or his mother or a poltergeist. francis did lie to him about what to say to the girl he loved back when they were in school to get him in trouble. francis wasn't just pinching him for luck, or slapping him because he saw a fly, or roughhousing with him because he wanted to play and didn't realize he was being too rough, he knew, he knew, and thinking about the physical contact between them is where he starts spiraling the worst, because francis always assured him that it was normal and fine to play like that, for him to hit him, for him to touch him like.....like.......
thomas can't keep it in for too long, now that the floodgates have been opened. he needs answers, he needs reassurance. it's really scary to approach alison about this shameful, scary vulnerable part of his past, especially since he can tell she's already annoyed when he approaches, but he needs to know. maybe he's still just overreacting. maybe everything was fine, actually.
the annoyance quickly leaves alison's face when he starts asking about the ways francis treated him, instead replaced with a look of concern and sympathy that tells him all he needs to know before she even speaks. no thomas, you're right, that's not normal or okay. that isn't either. i'm sorry he did that to you. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.
he chokes on his voice when he comes to the big confusing scary thing, that always left him feeling weirdly frightened and embarrassed and sick afterwards. francis had always kissed his face and told him he did a good job when it was all over, so gentle with him in a way he wasn't any other time, and thomas craved affection from someone other than just mumsy so badly he didn't protest, even when he cried for days afterwards. it was worth the pit in his stomach and the jumpiness if francis loved him—something he's told himself again and again. but now he can't........he's not sure..........
he stutters, tears up, whines a little. alison watches him with a furrowed brow as he manages to get out the first part of his question—he uh, when i was...we were little, and we used to, we'd touch, um—and when he can't speak any further, he just points between his legs, feeling like a stupid child for it. the look of horror on alison's face is like ice cold water spilling over him, and he stops breathing with the shock of it (or at least, whatever the ghost equivalent of breathing is). he can't look at her anymore, and his eyes are stuck to the ground, trembling slightly as he realizes that what he just confessed is in fact just as bad as he feared. that he was right to cry and shy away from francis afterwards because he did something that hurt him.
alison's voice sounds choked with tears as she responds, her voice gentle—real gentleness, not just the facade francis had given him. thomas, she breathes, you're telling me you were......well, i guess......i guess you wouldn't know, would you.....? uh, okay. so, we, um, we call that sexual abuse now, thomas, and it's a horrible thing to do to another person, especially to a child. i-it's a traumatic experience, and you didn't deserve it.
all of that is a lot for him to take in, and most of it makes him feel worse. he takes a beat, and then a certain word strikes him, making his eyes fill with fresh tears. s-sexual...? his heart skips a beat, stomach rolling with nausea. it doesn't count, he manages, chest tightening with the idea of something as special as his first time being stolen from him. it doesn't count, right?
when he meets alison's eyes, there are tears in them, her face softening into heartbroken understanding as she realizes what he's asking. no thomas, she says softly. it doesn't count. it's not the same thing.
her words are what finally break him, and he collapses into his palms, loud sobs wracking through him. he's broken, tainted, more than he realized. his life has been sabotaged by someone he loved, someone he trusted, and he hadn't even realized, hadn't even questioned it. for so long, he assumed he was overreacting, being silly overly sensitive thomas who couldn't take a joke or a game or a special secret between cousins without tearing up. this wasn't one of his fits or bouts of melancholy, though, not this time. this time, his tears and outbursts in response to his cousin had been justified.
alison stands up, making her way over to his chair. she can't touch him, can't hug him, even though all he wants is to sink into the warmth of her arms and weep. she does the next best thing though, and stands next to him, close enough that he can feel her presence beside him, a hand resting on the back of the chair he's slumped into.
i'm sorry thomas, she says, because that's all there is to say. i'm really, really sorry.
all he can do is cry harder in response, coming apart at the seams. he feels shattered into a million pieces, just as confused and scared as when he was a child. he thinks he might be sick, if that's even possible, and he can't shake the creeping sense of dirty shame washing over his skin, making him shiver and wail in response.
but at least now, he's not alone. he doesn't have to keep this secret anymore. at least he has that.
I do not do any smut, nsfw, or gore. Its not my strong point and im doubtful ill ever write one. The only nsfw is like dark stuff. I also dont do yandere. I also dont do romantic fics between children x adults. Children romance fics will be puppy love type fics. Nothing serious.
Im kinda iffy on modern au, but I am open to attempting AUs if requested.
Im also iffy on angst/no comfort but if its with comfort i can handle it.
Im adore fluff and song fics so im definitely ok with doing that!
Donate if you you'd like to support me! (And my gatorade needs)
…….on a related note i’m thinking about francis developing a cycle of settling into a group of peers or acquaintances with thomas clinging annoyingly to his side and just waiting for those people to get just as annoyed with thomas as he is, and once he feels that they properly understand what a pain thomas is to deal with, that’s when he starts hitting him in front of them.
the first time is always a shock, earning a few anxious chuckles and gasps from the onlookers, but they don’t challenge it either. after all, thomas is annoying and self centered and overbearing and overemotional, and these people always like francis far more than they like him, and thus watching him get physically struck for talking too much or going on about his poetry or even just interjecting himself into the conversation can be, on some level, excused. francis presents himself as a reasonable person, after all, he’s spent a good amount of time building that reputation after all, and he’s had to deal with thomas for years now. with all his outbursts and clinginess and nonstop whining, it’s too easy for people to think that maybe thomas does deserve it, at least a little. he’ll wilt in the aftermath of the violence, but he always goes back to his usual self soon after, so in their eyes it’s not really affecting him that badly. no one feels the need to stick up for him, and some even encourage the abuse because it gets thomas to shut up for a bit.
then, cue his relationship to the other ghosts, in whatever au way they manifest here. thomas gets to know them on his own terms, outside of francis’s attempts to control his behavior and reputation (because oh, francis relies on thomas’s reputation being much worse than his, doesn’t he), and in spite of all of his flaws and obnoxious behaviors there’s still affection that develops there. for the first time, he’s experiencing real friendship—maybe even family, though thomas tries to ignore that thought. even though his new friends all still very dysfunctional and he does ending picking fights with them at point, he still feels much safer with them than he is with his own, “real” family, and he’s not sure what to think about that.
of course, francis is still his family as well, and it’s inevitable that thomas invites him over to properly meet his new friends rather than the brief polite pop ins he’s been doing. he rambles about him up until his visit, and mostly, he says positive things about him, because francis has taken care of him since they were little, and he considers the two of them to be relatively close, even after some time apart. there’s also some petty grievances sprinkled in there, of course, but he doesn’t say anything that indicates anything’s wrong with their relationship. when francis shows up at the door, alison greets him warmly, kitty and captain and pat all engage him in conversation, with the others chiming in every so often. he seems perfectly pleasant, charming even, and thomas is happy to see them all get along.
but then thomas fucks up, because he always fucks up. it’s not even anything that egregious, maybe he’s just a little too loud while he’s arguing his point against captain or julian, or he’s taking up too much of the conversation, or he says something that’s a bit rude but overall harmless because the people who love him know he’s prone to being a little too blunt and insensitive at times. and francis knows how long thomas has been around these people. he can see them rolling their eyes and sighing in response, and he knows that these people also see him as polite and reasonable. and so, believing the others won’t protest, he reaches over and he slaps thomas. and he slaps him hard, the sound horrifically loud in the small room. it’s almost certainly going to leave a mark.
it’s immediately obvious that it’s a miscalculation. the room goes deadly silent. mouths are open in shock, even those who moments before were openly frustrated by his cousin’s motormouth and hardheadedness. thomas wilts in shame as he always does, but the way he shakily cradles his cheek betrays that the reaction is different this time. unshed tears are burning in his eyes, because these are people who—well, they actually seem to care about him, they’re more his friends than francis’s friends for once, and now they’ve seen that this whole time, there was an easy way to shut him up that he’d been hiding from them. he’s trembling, curling in on himself, bowing his head to hide the bright red flush of humiliation on his face. he’s ready for the usual laughter and mockery that comes after the shock fades, and he wrestles back the anger and hurt rising in him because it always makes it worse to fight or lash out against it. always.
meanwhile, however, francis is trying to do damage control—oh, i’m sorry, i thought there was a fly near him, did i hurt you cousin, i apologize—unlike usual, though, no one’s buying it. something hardens in alison’s gaze, and there’s more venom in her voice than thomas has ever heard before, even considering all the times she’s been angry with him when she hisses get out. now.
francis tries to protest, insisting it was just an insect, but kitty tearfully tells him that there wasn’t, they know there wasn’t. fanny shakily says with rage guided by her own trauma that you still don’t just slap someone out of nowhere even if there is a fly around them, and the others murmur in agreement. captain mutters something about how it’s wrong to strike a man who’s not expecting it. there are hard eyes trained directly on francis, and for once, he’s taken off guard, because he’s not used to people taking thomas’s side over his.
he tries another tactic. he argues, well, come on, you all can’t tell me that none of you have ever thought about smacking thomas when he’s “acting out”. pat looks him dead in the eyes and says we’ve all wanted to smack each other at times, mate, but that doesn’t mean you can just do it. especially not when he’s not doing anything to ya.
thomas only just barely registers the fact that people are actually defending him. currently, he feels like he’s shaking apart, the enormity of what happened weighing on him. he nearly jumps out of his skin when julian of all people comes over to his side, silently putting a hand on his shoulder, and julian shushes him gently, gently squeezing. that’s when thomas finally breaks, and the tension is broken as he rapidly dissolves into loud, heart wrenching sobs. he’s never felt more embarrassed in his life. he’s never been more afraid. he’s never felt so…….pathetic, and that’s really saying something, given how weakness has permeated his life.
you’re going to leave now, alison states, an eerily calm rage in her voice, or we’re going to make you leave. make your choice.
thomas doesn’t see what francis chooses in the end. julian helps him to his feet, and humphrey surges forward to help when thomas nearly collapses on the spot. they take him up to the tv room and sit him on the couch, and he weeps uncontrollably as he’s given a cup of tea and a blanket, humphrey making the effort to wrap it comfortingly around his shoulders. julian puts on one of his favorite romcoms, only grumbling a little bit at the cheesiness of it all, and passes him a washcloth wrapped ice pack for his cheek. at some point, kitty joins him up there, settling down on the cushion next to him and taking his hand, murmuring something about how scary it was to watch her friend be hit with such viciousness. she’s sniffling softly, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s crying too, just more quietly than he is. he’s not sure what’s more embarrassing—being punished for his thoughtlessness in front of people he’s begun to think of as friends, or the way he immediately started crying like a baby about it. the physical pain is fine, he’s used to that, but the humiliation is harder to stomach. he’s embarrassed himself in front of all of them before but not like this.
when his sobs have slowed down enough he can finally breathe again, alison comes in, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of him at an angle so he can still see the tv. there’s a deep frown on her face, and he thinks with an ache in his chest that it doesn’t suit her. he hates that he’s the one who put that there, even though he’s long craved for her to worry about him and show him she cares about him in some way. now that he’s finally getting it, it doesn’t feel very good.
she’s so gentle that it paradoxically hurts when she takes his hand—thomas, she starts, more softly than she’s ever spoken to him before. has he hit you like that before today?
thomas inhales sharply and nods. his hand tightens on kitty’s. she squeezes back comfortingly, though her breath hitches tearfully.
alison looks unbearably sad at his response. thomas feels a little sick to his stomach. does he hit you a lot?
thomas’s bottom lip wobbles, hesitating. the way alison looks at him compels him to be honest, though, and he nods ever so slightly, even though the admission stings. alison’s frown deepens sympathetically. kitty sobs lightly next to him.
does he do anything else to you?
thomas’s heart leaps into his throat. his mind flickers to intimate touches he regrets begging for and harsh scoldings for soiled sheets and vomit stained clothes. he starts to hyperventilate, tears welling back up in his eyes.
you don’t have to answer that now, alison says quickly, fresh worry shining in her eyes. you’re safe now, okay? you’re safe. we’re not—he’s not gonna touch you again, okay?
she means it, kitty adds, and he looks up to meet her wet eyes with his own. there’s nothing but earnest kindness there. she helped me and fanny, she’s going to help you too.
thomas’s eyes drop to his lap, letting out a weak sob. he knows that’s true. alison has always helped him immeasurably, even though he has a tendency to get on her last nerve. his hand trembles in both of their hands, and suddenly he craves far more warmth and closeness than that.
can i—can i get a hug? he asks shakily, his voice still destroyed with tears. i just—i want—
kitty’s arms are around him immediately, squeezing him close. he buries his face in the side of her neck as best he can, even if the curve of his spine is uncomfortable. alison stands up as well, wrapping her arms loosely around both of them, and thomas breaks again, crying uncontrollably in their arms.
sorry, he whispers, barely able to choke out the words. ‘m sorry…
ssshh, it’s alright, alison murmurs, her voice full of affection and barely held back righteous anger. it’s okay. you’re safe, thomas. you’re safe.
and with two other bodies pressed against him comfortingly with no intention to hurt or violate him, he finds himself believing it.
putting this under a cut for csa but thank you @skyactually for enabling me. please note that many of these descriptions are written to be as skin crawling and disgusting as possible :)
been slowly catching up with my target word count before that thing reaches me being a full week in writing debt by working on this silly little number where zoë and yasper play pretend it’s yasper’s funeral and it’s definitely not angsty at all in any way
comes out of the wip covered in blood. this was supposed to be a short little tumblr fic what happened omg 😭😭😭
alkdjfklasdfj anyway! as i've teased several times now here's a fic for the munchausen by proxy au, or the love isn't injected with syringes 'verse as it's now dubbed (thank you heresy! ^-^), ft. a fucked up little slice of life scene between a teenage chris and celia. no other cornley members appear cuz it is a backstory fic, i just wanted to write a little thing about what his life was like before he met them and they were able to help him, and it. uh. spiraled lol. i swear it was not supposed to be this long, nor was it supposed to take this long to write, but here we are!
like i said, this was meant to be a shorter fic meant for tumblr, but the intent was always to cross post it to ao3 at some point, so if you'd prefer to read it there i'll have it published tomorrow on my tea_at_twilight_time account. i'll also be reblogging this post with a link for the sake of convenience and also because i love self promo lol :)
warnings for this fic include: implied poisoning and medical malpractice by a parent (cuz uh. munchausen by proxy lol), hurt/little comfort, hurt/manipulative comfort, child abuse (mostly emotional and medical but referenced physical as well. also celia is def starving this kid so references to that too lol), vomiting and semi graphic descriptions thereof, choking as a result of said vomiting, references to body fluids, nightmares, drowning, celia's general hot and cold nature with this poor kid, chris seeming wayyyy younger than he is (agere brain did not turn off while writing this i will not lie to you all lol). if there's anything else please lemme know but this should cover the major things <3 yes this fic is evil don't @ me about it akdjflkds >:3
now, without further ado..........
"I know it's not right to say, but...sometimes, I quite like you like this."
Celia's words come into Chris's ears as a soft croon, her hand stroking his overheated face and sweat soaked hair soothingly. He breathes out shakily, but despite the pain radiating up through his limbs, he finds himself smiling a little, her tone washing over him more than her words.
"Mama," he mumbles, weakly lifting a hand for her. "'m...'m..."
Celia shushes him, her hand trailing down to cup his cheek, her thumb rubbing over his feverish, pallid skin. "My poor darling," she continues, her voice sickeningly sweet. "You're so good for me when you're sick, aren't you?"
Chris hums lowly, tilting his face further into her palm. She doesn't get like this often—sweet and gentle, touching him like he's something to be loved. Normally she's more clinical, her touch impersonal as she checks his temperature, gives him his pills, helps him bathe...he relies on her for quite a bit, really, so it's not surprising she can't always indulge him in affection like this. Still though, it's nice when he gets it, these rare moments where she's more his mother than his nurse.
"You're so weak," she says, soft, like it's a compliment. "So helpless. You're so lucky to have such a loyal mum like me, who's willing to stick it out. Most women would consider you too high maintenance, but not me. I'm willing to sacrifice a lot for you, Chris, don't forget that."
He nods faintly, as best he can with his head feeling so heavy. She'd just given him his medicine, and that always drains him a bit—he doesn't think it's fair that the thing that's supposed to make him better makes him feel so damn tired, but Mama always assures him that that just means it's working. Sometimes, the things that make you feel better make you feel worse for a bit, something she's always quick to remind him of when he complains. He tries not to complain so much nowadays, though. She's only doing what's best for him.
"Anyway," Celia says, bringing him back to the present. "I have some things to do, so I'll be leaving you here for a bit. Can you get some rest for me while I'm gone?"
Chris whimpers before he can stop himself, opening his eyes sluggishly. He knows he's being selfish, but a part of him hates how often she leaves him alone, knowing how much he needs her. He reaches out for her weakly, trying to gently grab onto her arm or even the hem of her blouse, but she grabs his wrist before he can reach her, placing it back against his chest.
"Chris. Don't be difficult," she says, voice still sweet but with an edge of that harshness he so dreads to hear from her. "I'm doing this for you. I have to leave to pick up your new medication."
"I th-thought," he starts, words slurring as his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, "th-thought this was the new medi-medica—"
"It's one of them," Celia says, mercifully cutting him off before he can embarrass himself further. "But with your condition, well...we just need more than one course to make you well again. You're quite sick, you know."
He does know. He whines, but nods again, his head moving helplessly against his pillowcase. "'m s'rry," he mumbles, eyes growing wet with tears. "D-don' mean'ta make it so hard..."
"Oh, I know, I know," Celia soothes, pulling the blanket up to cover his chest. "That's why I need you to sleep for me now. We won't know if this dose is working until you get some rest and let it work, alright?"
Chris breathes out shakily, letting his eyes fall closed. "Mama?" he asks, voice tiny.
"Yes, dear?"
For a long moment, it feels like all he can do is breathe. Finally, he quietly asks, "D-don' wanna be difficul' still, b-but can you stay til..."
He trails off, taken aback by the hand in his hair. "Yes, Chris?" she prompts, soft voice tinged with irritation.
He wilts a little, and shame tinges his voice as he mumbles, "J-jus' til I fall 'sleep..."
Celia's quiet for a long moment, continuing to stroke his hair rhythmically. Eventually, though, she sighs, as though he's asked something truly exhausting of her. Maybe he has, he's not sure.
"Okay, darling," she says, sounding put upon about it. "Just this once. The chemist doesn't stay open all day, you know."
"I-I know," Chris mumbles, a few stray tears escaping. "'m s'rry, Mama."
Celia sighs heavily again, and Chris can see the way she shakes her head, even with his eyes closed. "I suppose you can't help it," she says, her nails digging slightly into his scalp as she continues to stroke his hair. "Being a bit...needy. It's only natural, since you're sick. Still, you really ought to not make it a habit."
"I won't," he whimpers, relaxing a little into the mattress regardless. "'m s'rry Mama."
"Sssshh."
Obediently, he falls quiet at her shushing, letting himself be soothed by her gentle petting. He doesn't deserve it—he doesn't deserve her, and all the things she does for him. She's really too good to him.
Those thoughts carry him to sleep, a thank you and a declaration of love dying on his tongue. He plans only to say the former to her later, knowing she’ll appreciate his gratitude, but the latter will be kept to himself, like a secret. No use in saying that he loves her when she won't say it back, after all.
-
-
The ocean out in front of him is vast and choppy, tossing his little ship around helplessly.
Chris's stomach churns with the movement of the sea, a steadily rising nausea coming over him like the waves he's currently sailing on. He's not sure how much of it is seasickness, and how much of it is sheer terror—terror he's struggling to keep under wraps, lest his crew see just how fucked they really are. The faceless men around him shoot him concerned glances with their smooth, eyeless visages, well aware of how dire their plight is, and though he knows this, Chris sends them attempts at reassuring nods anyway, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat.
"Captain," one of them says, sending a nervous glance to the waves in front of them. "The sea—"
He doesn't get to finish before a wave suddenly hits them, tall and unavoidable even if Chris had noticed it before it came. Chris feels himself getting swept away, and he shouts, calling for help he knows won't come. There's no one to help him. Anyone who could, anyone who would've cared enough to, is getting swept away with him, his crew getting carried away alongside him. Tears spring to Chris's eyes as he realizes he's failed them, and the pain in his stomach spikes, a cramp that would make him double over if he was still upright.
He doesn't get to dwell on that long, however, until he's plunging into the jarringly cold water surrounding them. A wail dies in his throat as his mouth fills with water, blocking any further sound from escaping him as he gags and splutters, attempting to clear his airways with each convulsion of his chest. Anything that he manages to cough up is quickly replaced, however, as the sea presses in all around him, the inescapable pressure making his chest tighten around the liquid slowly filling his lungs. Tears sting his eyes, but if any escape, he isn't able to tell as they're quickly lost to the saltwater carrying him.
Mama, he calls out in his mind, as though she'd be able to hear him—as though she'd be able to get to him out here. Still, a hopelessly hopeful part of him can't help but call for her, Mama, come save me!
He coughs again, but it's getting harder to breathe. He's going to die out here, he realizes. He's going to die alone and scared and without his Mama here to hold him and tell him he's going to be an angel in heaven if he dies here and—
—and suddenly there are hands pulling him from the water, warm and solid against his clammy skin. He feels himself get rolled onto his side, somehow on solid ground now, and this time when he coughs, water comes out. He sobs a little once his throat is clear, and then vomits, more water coming out of him, this time accompanied with sea gunk.
"There you go, my angel. Get it all out."
Is that...is that Mama? Chris whimpers, relieved to hear her voice—but how did she get out all the way out here?
"Sssshh," she soothes, her hand feeling real and alive in his hair. "You're alright. Just breathe."
Chris gasps, eyes fluttering open to see Celia hovering over him and a trail of vomit leading from his mouth, yellowish and liquidy from his consistently empty stomach. He whines loudly, and then convulses, another wave of bile pouring out of his mouth and spilling onto the pillow next to him.
"I know, love, I know," Celia croons, brushing back his hair and rubbing his shoulder. "Just let it out, and then we'll get you in the tub again, alright?"
Chris whimpers, but he can't really protest that plan—his pajamas feel a bit damp, and he can't tell what of it is sweat or...other, less desirable fluids. He lets his eyes fall shut and thinks of the sea from his dream again, the way the cold saltwater washed over him, and feels grateful to at least be on dry land as he coughs and sputters his way through his little nausea spell, unfortunately not that uncommon at this point in his life. He doesn't usually choke during them, though, and he can't help but whimper again as his stomach contracts and spews up more acid, the vomit stinging the sores already formed in the back of his throat as it comes up. All the while, Celia murmurs to him, soft words of reassurance as he retches, and he soaks up the affection as much as he can while he's in this state, never knowing when he's going to receive this softness again.
"Mama," he mumbles, once his stomach has finally settled enough for him to speak without bringing more of the sparse fluids in his abdomen up, "don' feel very good..."
"I know, my angel," Celia croons again, now reaching down to help guide him upright. "You'll feel better once we get you in the bath. Oh, and fortunately, I just brought back your new medication, and that'll have you feeling right as rain as well, won't it?"
The idea of putting anything else on his empty, ravaged stomach makes Chris feel lightheaded, mouth watering with the threat of more vomit. Still, he knows better than to argue, especially after the scare he must've given her. He wonders how she deals with it, the constant brushes with death his illnesses give him. She never seems outwardly afraid for him, though he knows she must be, given how much time and effort she puts into keeping him alive. If he had the energy to, he'd feel guilty for it, but right now, he barely has the energy to keep himself sitting, instead leaning heavily against his mother once she's got him upright.
"Mama," he groans, trembling as she starts to pull him to his feet, his legs unwilling to support him. "Mama, don' wanna be sick 'nymore...'m tired..."
"Sssshh, I know," Celia soothes, holding him around the waist as she guides him toward the bathroom, exercising a surprising amount of strength as she holds him upright almost entirely on her own. "Hopefully the pills help this time, but...oh, you've been my sick baby for so long, I just can't imagine you any other way..."
Chris whimpers, legs nearly collapsing beneath him. Baby. He doesn't get dubbed with that title often, but it always makes his chest warm, a weird fuzziness rushing over his head when she says it. He lifts his heavy, trembling arms, hoping to cling to her before they reach the bathroom, but before he can muster up enough strength for it, she's dropping him unceremoniously on the toilet, setting him aside as she preps his bath. A few stray tears escape his eyes at the loss of contact, and he curls around himself with a groan, clutching at his still aching stomach.
"Do try not to vomit again, Chris," Celia says, her voice not cold per se, but losing the warmth it had not even a minute ago. "But if you do, you know where the wastebasket is."
Chris whimpers, less at the nausea rolling over him and more at the clinical neutrality in her tone. Back to business as usual, he supposes. It had been a nice run of her rare gentleness, longer than she normally affords him, but he should've known that it was inevitably going to end. Still, despite his disappointment, he does his best to follow her instructions and not puke again—it's not too hard, even for as nauseous as he is. Anything he could've thrown up has already been expelled, so he just closes his eyes and against the dizziness washing over him, letting the sound of the tub filling keep him distracted. The warm water will feel good on his aches, he knows this from experience.
"Mama," he mumbles, once his mouth is no longer full of saliva, a threat of vomiting his body won't follow through with. "Mama, thank'ou..."
"Don't speak, Chris," Celia chides, not harsh, but not kind either. "Not until we're sure you won't be sick again."
"But 'm...I don' think 'm gonna..."
"Chris."
This time, there is harshness to the words. He's annoyed her again. He slams his mouth shut and whimpers, and then swallows back any other noises, feeling more than seeing her annoyed stare with his eyes still shut. He flinches slightly when he feels her come over—physical punishments aren't common, but he's never sure when he's aggravated her enough to draw one out of her—but she merely starts to help him out of his pajamas, wordlessly pulling the hem of his shirt up. Chris instinctively moves his arms up to help her, the movements routine by now, and in no time at all he's undressed and being guided into the tub.
He doesn't open his eyes again until he feels the water surrounding him, warm and clean and a sharp contrast to the cold salt water from his dream. The memory of it makes him shiver even in the heat surrounding him, and he pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around himself, keeping his eyes on the steam rising up around him rather than on his mother fluttering around him.
After what feels like a long silence, she speaks up again. "Chris. I do appreciate the gratitude."
Chris perks up a little at that, finally looking up at her with round eyes. "Really?"
"Of course," Celia murmurs, crouching down by the tub next to him. "It's rare that a boy understands the sacrifices his mother makes for him. But you...you've always been so obedient for me."
Tears well up in Chris's eyes at the praise, and his breath quickens, squeezing his eyes shut as she runs a damp washcloth over his shoulders. "You do so much for me," he mumbles, and before he can stop himself, before he can remember why it's a bad idea, he finds the words slipping out of his mouth, "I love you, Mama..."
Celia is quiet for a long, terrifying moment, no acknowledgement of the words he's just spoken. She doesn't even stop washing him, but that's a good sign—at least he didn't upset her too badly. Still, she must be a little upset with him given her silence, and the thought makes his stomach start to turn again unpleasantly.
"'m sorry," he mumbles, dropping his face into his knees. "'m sorry...sorry...s—"
"Quiet, now, Chris," Celia interrupts, cutting off his next apology. "Let's just get your bath finished so you can go back to bed, alright?"
Chris whimpers, nodding weakly. He'll probably be moved to the guest room while his sheets are being cleaned, but he doesn't mind too much. It's always nice to have a change of scenery, no matter how brief, though he often does find himself wishing for more sometimes. Maybe if he feels better tomorrow, and if he asks really nicely, he'll get to sit on the couch and watch a little telly. Maybe Mama will even sit with him, and show him one of her old movies. That would be nice. He won't get any of that if he doesn't get better, though, or if he's not good. So far, it feels like he's failing on both fronts.
He tries to push the thought out of his mind—the last thing his mother needs is for him to accidentally induce one of his crying fits—and the rest of the bath passes in a half aware haze, exhaustion taking over once again now that his stomach doesn't hurt so much. The warm water feels really nice, after all, and a few times, Chris nearly finds himself drifting off, though he does his best to fight off the urge, since Mama can't lift him out if he falls asleep. He's not keen on the idea of waking up to a cooled tub of water if she has to leave him in again, nor on the idea of said cooled water making him sicker. It's far too easy to set off his various illnesses, and Mama would be upset if he caused them to get worse by doing something stupid and easily avoidable like falling asleep where he's not supposed to.
He is a bit relieved when she finally pulls the drain, finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He trembles as the water rushes away, leaving him exposed to the cold air around him, but a towel is soon draped over him, soft and fluffy and protecting him against the chill that forever permeates the house. He whines a bit as he's guided up to his feet, but the way he's shushed quickly quiets him, and this time he wastes no time in latching onto his mother as best he can with sore, trembling arms, not wanting to miss his chance to cling to her while it's still acceptable to do so.
"Guest room, Mama?" he asks, voice quiet and a little shaky, matching the way his legs tremble beneath him.
"Yes, Christopher," Celia says, a note of something he can't quite identify in her voice. "Can't exactly have you sleeping in soiled sheets, can we?"
Chris shakes his head, whimpering at the thought. That'd be worse than sleeping in the bathtub, he's sure. The bathtub gets pretty cold, but at least it's clean.
"Exactly, my angel," Celia says in response to his displeased sounds, leading him in the direction of his new sleeping arrangements. "We wouldn't want to undo my hard work of getting you all clean by putting you back in your own mess, would we?"
Oh, he said part of that out loud, hadn't he? Chris flushes a bit at the realization, but he still shakes his head dutifully in response, breathing out shakily as his stomach starts to churn again. Movement always disrupts it when he's already been sick, so he's not going to worry too much about getting sick again unless he feels the saliva start to swarm his mouth or the bile tease at the back of his throat, the tell tale signs that he's going to retch. He knows them all intimately by now, even if the whims of the rest of his body still feel confusing and out of reach.
Thankfully, the trip to the guest room passes by in a half aware haze, most of Chris's focus on his sensitive, flipping stomach. It's a relief once he's sat down on the bed again, and he sighs as he flops onto his side on the mattress, soft and comfortable beneath him.
"Chris," Celia scolds after a long moment, and he looks up through his lashes to see her standing above him, bundle of clothes in arm.
"Sorry Mama," he mumbles, pushing himself upright again on trembling arms. "'m tired..."
"I know, dear, which is why I don't understand why you're making this so much harder on me," she huffs, coaxing a pang of guilt into his ravaged tummy. "I just need you to sit up for a bit longer, are you capable of doing that for me?"
Chris flushes in shame, and he nods shakily, biting his bottom lip nervously. "I can," he says softly. "Sorry, Mama."
Celia huffs, and Chris braces himself, wincing as she starts to guide his tender limbs into a fresh pair of pajamas. It's not like she's trying to cause him pain, of course. She's just trying to get the job done quickly. It's not her fault if it hurts a bit, if every little movement makes his sore limbs ache dully, so he does his best to let her work, trying not to fuss it. The warm water from his bath had helped a bit, but the pain never fully goes away, the aches from his illnesses a constant background noise he can never entirely block out.
It's a relief, then, when he's finally laid back down on the bed, guided by his mother's hand. There's the ghost of affection in the gentleness of the gesture, and it bleeds into the way she tucks him in as well. He soaks it up as best he can, letting out the smallest of whimpers as the blanket is pulled up to his chin.
"There you go," Celia hums, not quite warm, but Chris clings to the vestiges of it in her tone anyway. "Are you going to get some sleep for me, now?"
Chris breathes out shakily, but he nods, his exhaustion and his mother's pointed stare giving him no other choices. "Yes Mama," he breathes, curling up childishly in the sheets. "Um...wait..."
Celia pauses on her way to the door, turning on her heel and looking at Chris with an uncomfortably neutral expression. "Yes, my angel?"
Chris breathes out, fighting the urge to suck at the edge of his blanket, a nervous habit his mother heavily disapproves of. "What if I have another nightmare?" he asks, voice quiet. "O-or I get sick 'n almost choke again?"
"You're not a child Chris, you can handle another nightmare," Celia says sternly, before her voice and face soften just slightly. "But you don't have to worry about choking again. I'll always be here to protect you, to save you. You know that."
Chris nods, feeling oddly cold under the layers of blankets. He wishes his mother would come closer, take him in her arms like he's a kid again and hold him to her chest, but he knows it's a big ask. It's as she's said, he's too old for that kind of thing—he's just turned fourteen, and Mama's made a point to let him know that because he's not a child anymore, he's too old for her to let him curl up in her lap just because he's not feeling well. Not that she held him much when he was younger, of course—she was too busy trying to take care of him, checking his vitals and bringing him water and tea and running to the chemist for his medicine. Still, sometimes, when he was really sick, she used to pull him close, let him lay his head against her shoulder as she held him and rocked him. It hurts to think that he's not going to get those occasional bouts of affection anymore, but he supposes that since he has been sick for so long, he should be able to handle the stress of it on his own now.
Still, he tries not to pout as he cuddles the blanket closer, trying to imagine it as a pair of arms embracing him. "I know Mama," he murmurs, the words a ghost of a breath on his lips. "A-and thank you…you really do so much f'r me..."
"Yes, I do, don't I?" Celia hums, sounding almost pleased—Chris can almost believe she's pleased with him, though he knows it's likely not the case. "And I have more I must do for you. Can you do something for me in turn?"
Chris nods, already knowing what she's going to ask. "Yes Mama," he mumbles in answer, letting his eyes droop closed. "I'll get some sleep f'r you..."
"Good, my angel," Celia says, and he can hear the light switch click as she shrouds him in darkness. "I'll be back for another round of medication later. I would give it to you now, but I have to sort your new pills with the others before I know what to give you...besides, I don't think the painkillers from this morning have quite left your system yet, anyway..."
Chris isn't so sure about that, given the way his aches have only sharpened since his bath. Still, he knows better than to argue with her, especially about his medication. She knows far more than he does about the kind of treatment he needs—Mama knows best, just like she always tells him.
"Okay, Mama," he breathes, clinging to the softness of his pillow. "Thank you. Thank you for takin' care 'f my medicine, Mama."
"Of course, my angel," Celia says, voice so quiet it's barely audible. "Sleep now. I'll be back to take care of you later, like always."
"Like always," Chris repeats faintly, a weird feeling squirming in his chest and tummy at the words. He thinks it's love, maybe, wriggling around, disallowed from escaping him through his throat and tongue—he's certainly not repeating that mistake again so soon.
"Yes, dear," Celia says, still so quiet, yet effectively breaking him out of his thoughts regardless. "Sleep well."
Chris nods, suppressing a whimper as the door clicks shut behind her, a quiet announcement that she's left him alone in the dark room. He curls in tighter on himself, feeling himself tremble slightly. Despite how exhausted he is, sleep suddenly feels far away, the dull ache in his body overwhelming in the darkness of the room. He almost wishes for something to do—a book to read, a show to watch, even something childish like toys to play with would be a welcome distraction. But he knows better than to ask for them, and that it's better if he merely focuses on resting, even if his mind is racing a million miles a minute and making it hard to drift off again.
It feels like ages until his body finally catches up with the situation, his heart rate slowing enough for him to lay under the covers without fidgeting around restlessly. He knows it probably won't be long until his mother wakes him up again for his medicine, given how long he laid there awake, but she asked him to rest for her. He's determined to fulfill that request, even if it's only for a pitifully brief amount of time.
He tries not to feel like a complete failure as he finally nods off again, hoping that the unease won't bring the nightmares back around. Despite his mother's words, he doesn't think that he is equipped to handle another one, and he really doesn't want to disappoint her again. The last thing he ever wants to do is disappoint her, even if it feels harder and harder not to, the older and sicker he gets.
Sorry Mama, he thinks, his last coherent thought before sleep finally takes him again, anxiety lingering at the edges of his subconscious mind. I'm trying to be good. I'm sorry, Mama.
guards age regress that man. guards make that man remember his abusive family while in the arms of a family member who loves him. guards imagine with me what melodramatic pains in the asses (affectionate) isabelle and thomas would be about their wedding because the mental image is killing me
