in any case, he hates doctors. even though this matter is no hospital-worthy predicament, he hates, hates, HATES hospitals and doctors with every fiber accumulating to form his 175 centimeter stature. the unspoken assumption exists that this hatred is due to the many hours of his childhood spent bedridden by his father’s hand, his mother in weary tears as she forces out some LIE about what’s happened to him.
yibo knows well that harsh menstrual cycles are a familial trait, passed down from his mother’s lineage and perhaps even the females bearing his father’s surname. so while the pain does not surprise him, it irritates and ails him to no end—not only due to the fact that the pain is so intense on occasion that it renders him immobile, but also that he is a boy and he’d rather not have to face such circumstances most other males do not. the fact that he’s chosen to bear the CHARADE of being cisgendered to not only his best friend, but the entire WORLD makes for an even farther annoying and painful experience——yibo is near certain it adds to his physical agony.
it isn’t that he means to lie, but that the other hadn’t ever a s k e d — he didn’t have to! that makes the younger male proud, in some way.
the taller of the two curls in on himself, eyes closed tightly and lips pursed in a similar manner. he exhales, a sharp, stabbing sensation ripping up his stomach and causing him to whimper, and groan lowly. by the time the other returns to the room, the brunette is holding his breaths, as though breathing itself links to the horrific spasms at his waistband.
watery hazel oscillates toward the familiar face, his eyes the only attribute of his body that he can move without wanting to tear his uterus out—though he’d always wanted to do that in general. for a boy who appears so rough around his edges, hardcore and BRASH at nearly all times——now, he resembles some delicate child, completely lost, helpless, hurt.
❛ thank you … ❜ he says softly, his low voice breathy, but cracked like afflicted glass, ❛ i’m sorry i bitched you out. i … i didn’t mean to, ❜ he explains, willing himself to sit up and throwing a pastel-hued pillow into his lap, right over the area of terror, from which the pain derives, ❛ i’m just in a lot of pain … and … ❜ sleeved fingers ascend to SCRUB the traces of still-falling tears away, a throaty sigh breathed past his irritated jugular, as he never does finish this statement.
romaincrisis
vaporwave
stormborns
areudirty
