Sometimes, it was easy to sleep while he was sick. Fighting off whatever new infection had taken hold quickly exhausted what little strength he had, and it was a much less unpleasant time just to sleep through most of the experience, and to try to stomach what food he could in the brief periods he was awake. Eventually, he’d wake feeling much better, and from then it was simply a matter of regaining his strength until he’d be allowed to play again.
Other times, though, it was much harder. The aches would prove to be enough to disturb any sleep he managed, if the coughing fits didn’t shake him awake before he could even drift off in the first place. It took longer to recover when he couldn’t sleep. And it felt like he spent a lot longer sicker in general when he couldn’t rest, too.
He’s too hot. Everything hurts - his chest especially. And its scary, trying to sleep when every breath is already taking so much effort, and the idea that he may just go to sleep and not wake up keeps coming to him.
The youngest keeps his eyes shut, though. Feigning sleep even when it keeps eluding him. Because then he doesn’t get scolded for not resting. But he must have drifted off, just for a little bit, because he hadn’t realised there was someone else in the room with them. Not until he felt their father’s fingers in his hair.
The contact is brief, but his father’s fingers feel so much cooler than his face does.
And then he’s speaking, and while Astre had intended to continue feigning sleep to spare himself being scolded, his father’s soft words sound… sad. So he gives up on it, for now. Forcing his tired eyes open again to blink up at the man.
He forces a weak smile in a feeble attempt at comfort, an attempt to pretend he’s okay. The amount of effort required for each wheezy breath ruins any chance he had at fooling anyone, the fact he needs to clear his throat to get words past the fluid that keeps building up in his airways, that the words come out raspy and whispered.
Talking makes his throat hurt.
Watching his son having to struggle to do as much as breathe was a pathetic sight as much as it was sad. It was as though shadows had closed around his heart, squeezing out empathy, regret maybe, worry, too.
But then his secondary son smiled at him, and the regret vanished from the mixture of emotion the moment he watched him attempting to be strong.
No, he had not been a waste of space. This was his son, and he should be feeling guilty for as much as having the thought of him being a mistake. The Earl mirrored the smile, and brought his hand back to pat on the top of his hair, and comb some more sweaty strains out of his face.
❛We Phantomhives don’t go out that easily, after all. Our family has faced many struggles in the past, but we win the upper hand. We always will, my sweet…❜ he hummed, faintly remembering words his mother might have said in the same situation. Whenever he was sad, he was reminded of who he was.
❛Don’t speak much for now. Papa has brought you lemon cough drops, though somehow some ended up as wrappers in my pocket...❜ He knew that it had been Ciel stealing them, and Astre probably knew, too. He hoped to amuse him.
❛Do you want to hear a story?❜
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