sirenspull_logs | i don't feel so well

Entry tags:

i don't feel so well

Who: Franz (

discretion) & Daedalus (

gaveherwings)
When: 5/16, shortly before sirens
Where: Their apartment.
Summary: Someone's got a case of the deadly guilt-flu.
Warnings: References to illness and vomiting. A disturbing + violent dream sequence that includes implied harm toward children.

[His NV has been buzzing on and off for a half hour. Or maybe it's his work cell phone. Or at least, Franz thinks there's a buzzing, somewhere - it could all be in his imagination for all he knows or cares, or perhaps a hornet has made its way into the apartment somehow. He is not the least bit interested in moving even the slight bit it would take for him to sit up and pick up his NV from where he halfheartedly threw it on the dresser and check.

Franz is sick. Like he hasn't been since he caught food poisoning on Titan. Sure, he's somewhat acclimated to the headaches and sometimes nausea that accompanies his empathic abilities, but this is a different beast entirely. He had awoken with the sniffles and treated himself to a dose of vitamin C this morning, and by the time his day was nearly finished it was all he could do to keep from puking in the wastebasket near his desk. It wasn't just mild congestion by then, but aches and a fever and gripping nausea.

He decided the wise thing to do was to get a cab and vomit in the clean privacy of his own home. He texted his boyfriend: think I'm sick :( and promptly neglected to make any other sort of response.

Fortunately Franz was able to achieve this goal of throwing up in his own bathroom. Repeatedly. He had barely enough strength to brush his teeth (because seriously, ew), take the dog out to do his business and crawl into bed. He only just managed to kick off his shoes and throw off his work jacket before pulling the covers nearly over his head.

He is in bed and uninterested in moving. Mr. Muggles is very concerned.]

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What an awful workday. The hospital has been carrying a worried air of tension, and even on his usual treatment rounds, rumors have stirred up from the 24-hr Clinic floor. The waiting room has been busy since shortly after siren, with a good deal of uproar over ineffective immunizations. A new flu strain? That reminds him that Franz had sounded a bit under the weather, that morning.

And then he gets a text on his brief break, one which makes him groan with concern (and faint endeared amusement, at Franz's resorting to little frowning faces) and remind himself to pick up juice, on the way home.

Thankfully he isn't scheduled at at the Newcomer Clinic today, but checking in is first on his list of calls to make, especially considering the network has also shown quite a few people coming down with a nasty bug.

This is far worse than the worst of the flu season last fall, conditions becoming severe, several newcomers showing symptoms. If it's spreading this quickly citywide, he can't help but think about emergency procedures for Romdeau contamination. On a civilian level, his powerlessness over something on an epidemic scale is a little frightening. It's not as though he has any sort of power to order airlocked district quarantines, here.

So instead he tries to call Franz several times to hear back something-anything of his condition, but takes some time fussing at the store- lozenges, more supplement tablets, fever reducer, tissues, juice, vitamin water, a new air filter screen for the apartment, a new filter for water tap, two new boxes of tea, broth cubes, more hand sanitizer than he could possibly need to restock. The aisle is crowded with similarly worried people, they treat a young man in a doctor's coat as an advice dispenser....he's held up later than he'd hoped.

"Franz?" He calls out tiredly, unlocking the apartment. There's the rustling of plastic bags as he puts some things away, knowing that if he doesn't take the time to do it now, things will be left undone.

Daedalus comes to the bedroom doorway and watches the lump of blankets that is his ill boyfriend sleep for a longer moment, a wave of vague exhaustion finally setting in as he removes his doctor's coat.

"I'm home." Coming forward, (calmly setting an anxiously whimpering Pomeranian aside) he bends at the beside and tucks back the covers, laying a hand on Franz's forehead. "Ah, and you have had a fever."

"I threw up," Franz says miserably. He's stuffy, his voice rough. It feels like a lot of effort just to roll over to his side so he can see Daedalus. He's somewhat tangled up in the sheets, buttons from his work shirt snagging on the sheets. Even such little movement is a tad dizzying. He is rather brightly flushed from the fever, yet his typical glow is very faint, as it often goes when he is unwell. His eyes are red and glassy. Even blinking seems a little painful, too much light, so after a moment he shuts his eyes and keeps them that way. "Twice," he added, brow furrowing as he sits back. "But don't worry." Franz tries to smile a little, shaking his head almost a little too much in his groggy state, making himself dizzy. "I checked, and there's no way I'm pregnant."

Franz laughs a bit at his own joke, probably more than is tasteful. But the laughing triggers coughing, and he curls up on one side, trying to calm it.

Daedalus leaves endearments out of his bedside manners by force of habit, though it's certainly a little more tenderhearted, at home in his own bedroom. He rises to his feet and places a fresh tissue box and some lozenges on the nightstand, rising to adjust the light....glad they decided to install those dimmer switches after all.

"Get out of your work clothes," He says gently, heading to their drawers. A fresh glass of water too, and... he begins to rattle down the list in his mind. "I'll get you a fresh undershirt."

He shuts his eyes with a soft shake of his own head at Franz's poor joke, tsking quietly. He listens to the ragged coughing...a sound that's by no means foreign to him, but worrisome to hear from his own bed.

"Ah, there had better be no way you're pregnant." He replies wryly, with the faint dryness of knowing it certainly would never be his doing, bringing a new cotton undershirt over.

Franz makes a rather pathetic whine of protest (perhaps he learned from Mr. Muggles), struggling to sit up and get out of bed enough to take off his shirt and tailored pants. Normally these are tasks he can do neatly and efficiency with an almost professional air of dignity but not today. He fumbles and struggles. His fingers are slow, feel thick and heavy. Who knew that climbing into a fresh set of underwear would be such a struggle? He was so unsteady he had to brace himself on the nightstand. He's swaying slightly, and he isn't sure whether he wants to throw up again, or crawl under the bed and die. He decides to do neither of these things, fortunately.

"I'm sorry about this," Franz mutters to Daedalus, as if he needs to keep a secret in their own bedroom. "You deal with sick people all day and now you have to deal with me... I don't know what happened, I was fine this morning."

"It's fine." the doctor shakes his head tiredly, his voice worn but not so raw, nor congested. He's...holding it together. Has to. This is job, and he's needed, where he ought to feel most content. Still, it's a bit unnerving, the situation. Thankfully it's only a widespread flu, and not the alarming fallout of earthquakes, or violent riots. Daedalus feels as if his first three months in Siren's Port, and the Night Clinic shifts, have prepared him for the worst of the worst.

But watching Franz struggle is...sort of miserable, frankly. Re-l's never been sick this way, outside of her swift recovery from contaminants outside Romdeau, and even then- she'd done nothing but steadily improve.

Coming home to find Franz in bed with a migraine is not uncommon, but this is decidedly worse than usual. It effects him on the personal level more than he ought to, a doctor's place mingling into the one part of his life he's been free to cast it off, and Daedalus smiles wanly, hoping that the thickness when he swallows is not an onset of sinus trouble for himself.

"I'll bring you some water, put on some soup when you're up for eating? If you'd like I'll just let you sleep. You probably should just try and sleep."

"I don't think I want to eat ever again," Franz moans. It was meant to be a joke but came out more like a complaint. He really can't abide the idea of eating anything, even simple soup, at the moment. Of course in his limited experience he knows, somewhere in his mind, that he should eat, but 'not ever' still sounds a lot more comforting for the time being.

Sluggishly, Franz crawls back under the covers, pulling them up to his waist. "I'll need to call Raul. Do you think taking a day off to recover will be enough? Maybe two?" Franz reaches for his NV, which has still been lightly buzzing with the missed call/voice mail warning this whole time. "Sorry I didn't call you back..."

Daedalus hides his slight exasperation with the slightest twitch of the mouth and brief shuttering of the eyes while is back was turned- hyperbolic statements from patients could be one of those infuriating things, for a doctor, trying to parse out actual pain or self-assessment from melodramatics of 'I don't want to eat again ever'.

He loves Franz, but certainly no matter how ill he feels, his lover ought to know better than to make such silly, overblown statements. It was really impossible to gauge off of that, and he wished again there was a way to simply make people more honest about spouting the first overblown peals for empathy that tumbled from a place of physical misery.

It's too late in the day to get annoyed about this, and toward the people he cares for most.

"Of course you will." He soothes instead with affected patience, returning quickly with the glass of water and plucking up his NV for him, cycling through the list of calls which are mostly his own, a few from the office too.

"I will call him for you, and I'm sure he'll understand," Raul's temper was nothing Franz should face, and it was better that he have an officious Romdeau college than a moaning-pitiful Frenchman on the line anyway. He'd take to business better, and Daedalus could pass on a few advisories to make sure Creed himself stayed well. "...that in this shape, you will be home here with a doctor's note until you are well enough to return to work."

Fortunately (well, unfortunately, really), Franz is too sick to really gauge much of Daedalus's tone, nor understanding exactly why he is being irritating. Illness apparently has the effect of making Franz particularly self-centered, it seems. Perhaps partly because whinging is a way to take out some of the helpless frustration he feels about this situation, and more so than that, the worry. From his lover's complaints as well as the news coverage he knew this illness was widespread, stretching tentacles to every corner of the city. Treatment was not going well, and more were falling ill every day. Fortunately, Franz is otherwise healthy, giving a better chance of fighting things off, but the risk is still there. The fear is still there.

He carefully picks up his glass of water and takes a long pull, flinching at how sore his throat is now. "Okay," he concedes, "But at least have him send some paperwork for me to look over between naps. He needs me."

Managing half the office from bed, and with a fever! Daedalus was tempted to just say that Raul would manage, but knew he wouldn't, not well, that without a graceful filter in the outer office, he'd be pitching fits over the phone at fussily privileged people who couldn't take his tempers or understand that the world did not revolve around the domineering agendas of Raul Creed.

"I'll ask him what's to be done from home." He sighs, sometimes wishing he wasn't in the position of knowing his boyfriend's employer so well. It made the understanding a little endearing, a little frustrating both ways. (It was amusing, though, to imagine Raul doing the scrambling work of two men. Hopefully he was not ill.) "And he will understand you will need rest, and are in no condition to be fielding phone calls, or dragging yourself out of bed to run errands."

"Let someone else deal with the ludicrous wedding planners for now." Sitting at the edge of the bed again, he ran his fingers bare-handed through Franz's hair and felt all at once too aware of the different between tending to the sick at home or at work, behind latex gloves. "Get some sleep. I'll be in the living room, I'll be in to take your temperature in a bit."

Daedalus's hands are cool, comforting in Franz's hair. He closes his eyes to savor the touch for a few moments. After forcing down a few more swallows of water, he hunkers back down in the bed, a lot more comfortable now that he's in his work clothes. Curled up on one side, he falls into a deep, black sleep almost immediately.

But it is not an untroubled one. Fever brings out strange dreams.

For the first time in ages, Franz dreams of his house in Paris. It is neat as a pin and horribly quiet, except for the sound of his mother sobbing loudly in her bedroom. He knows how she must look right now, thrown out on the bed with her face in the pillows, yet even muffled like that her cries are announced to the whole house. Sometimes it's a blessing they had to dismiss the servants.

He walks into his father's study. Even years after his death, it's still his father's study, never his. He always feels a tendril of dread curl in his stomach when he enters that room for any reason, as if he's about to be scolded. Franz spends some time looking at the books - none of the titles are familiar, some of them even seem to be written in a strange, symbolic language.

He's about to leave when he notices a paper weight out of place on his father's desk, and approaches to straighten it.

And also that his father is there. Has been there, sitting in the shadow of his high-backed chair, watching him this whole time. The dread in Franz's stomach leaps to his throat - something is wrong - but the relief and surprise overwhelm that.

"You've been here all along? Father, you must go upstairs to mother! We thought you were dead! They pulled you out of the river."

"I've been waiting for you."

And that is when Franz realizes that his father is dead. His beard is matted with black, dried blood. His fine jacket has ragged holes, stains from being run through several times. His blue eyes are milky, and his pale flesh is gray, hanging off of him in strips like peeling wallpaper, showing peeks of the bones in his fingers, his teeth beneath his cheeks. As Franz stares, jaw dropped in his horror, a little maggot wiggles from his eye.

"Father...!"

"You were supposed to take care of her, and now here we both are. Can you go to your mother?"

Not wanting to be confronted with the sight of his father's corpse any longer, Franz runs up the stairs, nearly tripping on his own feet. "Mother!" he cries.

His mother is still in her dressing gown, sprawled out. No one has combed her hair or seen to her. Her fair hair has gone almost white over the years, and now it sits in a tangle above her head like a madwoman. The sheets are grubby and mussed. Her face is red, crusted with the snot and tears. There are empty bottles, she may have been like this for days.

She cannot hear him. Franz reaches for her, to touch her shoulder, but his hand slides right through her.

His father has followed, but when Franz turns to look, it he is no longer his father, but his dearest childhood friend, Albert.

"It wasn't worth it, what you did. I never asked you to."

"Albert," Franz whispers, "I'm sorry. Please... just the once, will you hold me?"

For a moment he's comforted by the sun-warm embrace of his friend. He tilts his head to kiss him on the mouth. It tastes like ash and spoiled milk. Albert shoves him away.

"What are you doing? I thought we were friends? Maybe that was a lie, just like you lied to me to fight in the duel? What kind of sick game are you playing with me, trying to entice me?"

"It's not a game," Franz staggers. The words are like blades piercing his skin: he can hardly stand. He falls. He is on an altar, he realizes, he is in church. No church he's actually visited, more like the idea of a church, an endlessly large, dark space with lines of pews and sky-high stained glass windows. "Find me a priest," Franz sobs, "I need to confess. My soul is stuck in limbo. I'll never get to heaven like this."

"How rude of you to interrupt my Mass!" It's Raul Creed in that high collar now, but his eyes are mis-matched. No wait, he is the Count. Or is he? One moment a powerful man, one moment a blue-skinned monster. And then he is dusky-skinned Fernand Morcerf, Albert's father.

"Please, I'm sorry," Franz sobs, doubled-over in a painful bow. "I know I've done everything wrong. I've acted on my worst urges and betrayed my only family, all for something I should never have let myself feel."

Two men sit in the audience: his friends, Kurt and Blaine. They are wearing finely cut suits. Kurt has a beautiful hat with a feather in the cap. Both have their legs neatly crossed, and are looking on with a detached, almost arrogant look of amusement.

"If he dies, I want his shoe collection."

"I want his neckties."

"My friends?" Franz whispers hoarsely. Tears sting his eyes. The pain is unbearable, every word, no matter how faint, seems to slam into his body like a blow from a sledgehammer.

"You mean your favorite living accessories."

"It's not like that, it's not true," Franz has to cover his face, knows he will start to weep openly, weep as uncontrollably as his mother. And if he does that, perhaps he'll never stop. Perhaps he'll drown this sanctuary in his tears.

"Then what is it like, Franz d'Epinay?"

Franz senses several figures behind him. Perhaps they will be gold like the statues and filigree decorating the altar. Perhaps they will be angels. Perhaps they will be dead. He never figured out what Romdeau was a metaphor for, if it was heaven or hell or just plain made up.

He knows one of those figures has Daedalus's voice, and Franz cannot bring himself to turn around.

Now: a perfect little cottage with hardwood floor. It's sunny bright outside, Franz can smell the breeze from the sea. There's a newborn baby in his arms, tiny and red and perfect with a little button nose and a shock of dark hair. For a moment, he is completely, blissfully happy, looking at her.

Daedalus and Re-l are dressed finely, putting on jackets to go somewhere out on the town. Re-l has piled her hair on top of her head. She's wearing opera gloves and a gown of indigo silk. Daedalus is looking substantially less elegant, but all the more charming in his three-piece-suit. Daedalus, ever the caregiver is rattling off instructions:

"And the emergency numbers are by the phone in the kitchen, but don't hesitate to use my cell phone if necessary. There's breast milk in the fridge, be sure to heat it to sterilize, and test before you give some to Isabelle-"

"I know, you told me all of this when I arrived," Franz laughs, and squeezes the baby to his chest lightly. "Isabelle loves me, so don't worry so much."

"We're going to be late," Re-l chides, gently herding Daedalus - still calling instructions - out the door.

"Have a good time! I'll see you two in the morning!"

Franz goes to the door to watch the car peal from the driveway. He laughs a little to himself. Re-l still drives like a cop.

"Now, baby Isabelle, what shall we do?"

The baby stirs and coos and looks up at him with all of the love and trust of an innocent. Franz takes her to the bathroom, carefully bracing her so she's safe in one arm while he fills up the sink with hot water. He sings to her softly, "Mon petit lapin a bien du chagrin, Il ne saute plus, ne danse plus dans mon jardin..." And once the sink is full, he unswaddles the baby and drops her beneath the surface of the water, and holds her there--

Blood is dripping from the ceiling onto his cheek. Warm, sticky-wet, almost like a tongue lapping. And then there's something cold against his forehead--

Franz wakes up all at once. Mr. Muggles is licking his face. Recalling his nightmare, Franz sucks in a breath of horror as a wave of nausea overcomes him. He presses his palm to his mouth and forces himself to breathe calmly, trying to will it to pass or at least trying to rally enough to climb out of bed. Idly shoving the Pomeranian away, he dizzily struggles to sit up.

Daedalus makes himself tea, pops another immune-system booster, and fights the urge to get off his feet just long enough to change out the air and water filters before collapsing back on the couch and trying to convince himself that he's not running himself down yet, can't.

Just can't afford to, right now. Not when Franz isn't feeling well, and when people are up in arms about flu, of all things.

With that at the forefront of his mind, it's nearly impossible to still it long enough to try sleep.

Instead he lays back and replays outbreak scenarios in his mind, the training simulation programs from his preparations to be chief medical director. Little flashing indicator marquees scrolling by, data gathered in easily accessible figures, a simple action at the decision making control board meant the difference between success or failure. When he shuts his eyes he can still remember the screen and factors to keep his eye on monitoring...quarantining, resource division, research attention and so many other areas to facilitate and ready for a mounted attack on a spreading infection, none of which he has any control over here.

There is no command board at his fingertips. He might try to advise SERO's disease control center, but people born in this day and age knew so much more about how to deal with epidemics on the island. It wasn't nearly so simple, the people anything but docile and compliant to public announcements, no autoreivs to be dispatched or districts to be airlocked at the push of a button.

The lack of control here, along with his distance from any real position of authority was almost paralyzing and frustrating. What was a clinic doctor to do, with nothing of significance to work with beyond individual patient care?

But perhaps he was too high-minded, too full of expectation for a role larger than he was ever meant to play in this world. Accepting that still proved difficult, even after nearly two years of living like this.

First siren had sounded, when he finally decided to pull himself up from dozing off and check for any updates on the computer. His eyes watered at the brightness of the screen, and Daedalus did not check in long, soon returning to see how Franz was doing.

He found him struggling to sit upright. "...no better, my dear?"

Franz shakes his head a little. It's a struggle to pick up the glass of water on the bedside table, but he manages it, taking several long drinks of water before speaking. He still feels tremendously ill, but at least the nausea has quelled for the time being. Now the details of the dream come tumbling back like a mass of shaken puzzle pieces. His light is flickering and faint.

"I had the weirdest dream," he whispers hoarsely. His eyes are filled with tears - he's unaware of it, or undoubtedly he'd be smiling, blinking them away. "I think... I think I did something terrible." Franz runs a hand through his hair, as if about to make a nervous confession. No further words come out, though, at least for several more moments. Franz finally rubs at his eyes with the heels of palms. "I must be so, so unattractive right now," he mutters.

"In your dream?" He places a mug of peppermint tea on the nightstand, watching him pull himself together. Sweat, and maybe even tears stain his boyfriend's face? Daedalus frowns with concern, and puts a pair of pills on the nightstand too. "Well don't fret about it, Franz, if it's just a dream?"

Daedalus shrugs, blinking with a sort of off-guard surprise for the things Franz chooses to fuss at himself for- the state of things that happened only in his sleep, and the state of his appearance. He can't help but shut his eyes lovingly and shake his head, brandishing an ear thermometer.

"And you're not feeling well." He leans in and combs away some hair just long enough to take temperature, frowning at the digital numbers. "Worrying about how attractive you look should be the last thing on your mind." A pause, and then he adds, kindly, "A little dishabille, that's all."

"I wasn't sure, for a moment. I could feel pain in the dream, I usually can't..." Franz barely stirs when Daedalus fusses and takes his temperature. If he's aware of what he's doing, he doesn't acknowledge it, though he sits quite still. Blearily, he thinks he doesn't really want to know how bad it is. It's sort of scary being this sick, but he doesn't want to have to beg Daedalus for the meaning of it all, for the assurances he's already working so hard to give him with his soft voice and touch. His eyes are wet with tears again when he turns his gaze to his lover again.

"You're so... so cute when you speak French." Franz picks up the pills Daedalus has left out. Of course he trusts Daedalus, but common sense dictates he not take a pill without knowing what it is: "What are they?"

"You're not feeling well." He supplies simply, with a mild little shrug- he's a doctor, not really anyone skilled for dream analysis. The fever's not alarmingly high, but he sighs when he sets down the thermometer, noting that Franz is watery-eyed too. In a moment, he'll retreat to retrieve a damp washcloth, he supposes. And make sure the bedsheets can be changed out later for something fresh and cool.

"Ah, but my lousy french probably doesn't help your head much, does it?" Daedalus laughs, gentle, pleased that Franz thinks to ask. Smart patients always do. "Serofed-Flu. It's just a decongestant plus NSAID."

"I killed a baby," Franz mutters stubbornly. He's not willing to let go of that miasma of self-loathing that lingers around him in the wake of those ugly nightmares for the time being, in fact he seems to pull it more closely around him, like a blanket, his expression gloomy. Wrinkling his nose a little, he pops the pills in his mouth and diligently swallows them with several large gulps of water.

After recovering a moment, Franz speaks a bit more kindly, almost shyly. "I like your lousy French. It means a lot that you're trying so hard. No one but you ever has for me, you know. I don't deserve it." His voice cracks a little and he looks away, rubbing at his eyes.

"You what?" Daedalus rears his head back sharply, desperately hoping he meant only in a fever dream. Killed a baby? In dreams, that might mean any number of symbolic things, but he doesn't want to consider that now. Instead, he watches Franz settle in misery and wishes there were better means of helping him sleep.

"You do deserve it!" He protests, with his own indignant pout, about two seconds from grasping Franz by the wrists to forcibly drag his hands away from his eyes. The last thing he needed was an eye infection on top of things. "And isn't Kurt always itching to practice his French with you? He speaks it far better than me."

"I didn't really kill a baby," Franz mutters after a moment, fussing with his grubby-damp hair and pushing it out of his face. A few of the tears he's been trying so studiously prevent drip down his flush cheeked, feeling cold to the heat of them. "I just wanted to, because I was jealous. I'm horrible." His words are a little slurry, from sleep or fever. He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his arms.

"I've barely spoken to Kurt for weeks," Franz says. "He got really angry with me awhile ago, and I made him cry. I'm scared to talk to him now, since apparently all I ever do is make him cry. Just like all I ever did was make Albert angry--" Further complaints are cut off by a violent fit of coughing.

"Darling, things that happen in dreams rarely make any sense, and they're often a symbolic load of subconscious 'junk'-thoughts, all mingled together. Or, if you follow Freud, it means you have more buried sexuality issues." He sighed, wiping his boyfriend's face in turn with a cool cloth. "I wouldn't worry who you've killed in your sleep, or why. You're not horrible. Everyone dreams of things they'd never really do."

"Kurt's..." Daedalus makes a softly exasperated noise here, shaking his head gently. "He's a regular mess of involuntary emotion, you know. He's been through a rough time, and I'm sure you were only trying to talk some practical sense into him. "

"I told him something that he didn't want to hear. He acted like I broke his heart and called me miserable. Albert never realizes that I have feelings too, just because I can hide them, just because I always have to. I would never say anything just to hurt him, just to interfere with his happiness. I only nag because I want him to be happy, so badly." Franz snatches up Daedalus's hand, his eyes blurred with tears. He presses his cheek against the cool cloth a moment, swallowing back the sobs that gather in his throat and threaten to break free. Perhaps this is what waves of malaise mean: not just nausea but a sort of hysterical despair that he can hardly keep track of, that makes him want to hide under the covers and cry for days. "Speaking of a mess of involuntary emotion..." He sniffs, and curls up to one side on the bed. He's completely ignored the offering of tea. "I'm sorry... can you please stay until I fall asleep?" Franz's voice sounds small, not unlike how it must have when he was trapped in his childhood body.

"Sometimes, people need to hear a difficult truth." He finds himself thinking of Re-l, of his hurt declaration that she was an awful girl, and what he's heard of Iggy calling her a selfish bitch. That's something which seems to have stuck to her in a very miserable way...but he's seen her try to be better, a little more conscious of people who care for her. True, she'll still flout his pleading and go out to fly after siren, but-

Well, you can never expect to change people. Simply nudge them toward the right path, and sometimes the nudge is a little more like a rough shove that catches one completely off guard. "...in the end, if you never let them know, it'll only take them longer to grow."

"I know you have a good and selfless heart, Franz." Daedalus sighs, he really shouldn't take close contact with the sick if he can help it, preserve himself for another day on the front lines. But Franz asks so needily, and...well. He does have something of a weakness for feeling necessary. So against his better judgement he obliges the plaintive sniffle and settles on his side, on top of the blankets, and rubs at Franz's back through the comforter. "That you mean well."

"It's not a good heart," Franz murmurs. "I'm just as selfish as anyone else, I just do it by being as unselfish as possible." Such a statement might normally be followed with a waggle of eyebrows, a joke about his sexual proclivities, but in this state, it is mostly just quiet and honest. He closes his eyes and relaxes a little, very comforted by the rhythmic, soft touch of Daedalus's hand on his back. Franz would never admit it because it's a little bit strange, but he loves the way Daedalus touches him, always so careful and steady. The way he's so reserved yet darling rolls off his tongue sometimes, as if it's meant to be there. Franz still feels absolutely terrible, feverish, but he is able to find some peace with his lover present.

"Tell me about your day?" Franz mostly wants to hear Daedalus's voice, knowing he can't focus very well on the actual words. It's stupid, this clinginess. He's never like this. He's always independent. He already knows that things have gotten bad in the city. "Or, if that's too stressful... I don't know. Tell me about something interesting your read recently, or something...?" His words are muffled by the pillow.

"But you try so hard, not to be selfish!" Daedalus sighs in protest, resting his own head down against the pillow, hand falling into a steady, soothing pace. "That's the best that anyone can be expected to do?"

It's a quiet killer, to harbor temperance in the way he and Franz have, sacrificing so much, Franz even further and more nobly than himself. Daedalus is a little jealous, sometimes, for how good his lover is, even when he claims to be just awful. Even when he wrestles with all the conflict over Albert- Franz is less proud than he is, over Re-l. Franz worships Albert less, loved him in a way that Daedalus fiercely envies, because of their equal footing.

"You've even hurt yourself, for the sake of sparing others. How can you doubt that you are good? We all want good things for ourselves. You're very good at recognizing when other people can be elevated above your own needs..." And not because they're flawless gods in a secret, exquisite, way that only you know. If only you hadn't given everything of yourself for him- ah, but then you may have never been mine.

"Maybe even a little too much." He admits quietly, sighing at the prompt to keep talking about more mundane things. The hospital politics are boring, treatments all went smoothly, there's no need to frighten him further with just how much an ordeal this 'flu' is shaping up to be, so Daedalus tries to pass off his doctoring as casually as possible.

"My day's been mostly preparation for this bug you've caught, since it seems to be very contagious, and spreading fast. I hope it's not something in the food supply? They're talking about possibly something bacterial, some are saying viral- It's too early to confirm, lab's busy from the clinic alone." He mutters, giving a lower grunt of stress.

"I haven't really had much time to read anything lately, unrelated to work?" His hand lifts to comb at the back of Franz's hair gently, moving sweaty strands off the nape of his neck. "Maybe you should find me some more Sturm und Drang, and we can relish together in all the prettily put miseries of man-" Rolling his eyes behind closed lids, he smiles. "I've been reading Schiller's letters on aesthetics, actually...you see? I am trying to understand all these things you're so passionate about."

Franz shivers pleasantly when Daedalus's fingers dance spider-light on the nape of his neck. For a moment, he feel possessive and indulgent, and a little bitter he can't enjoy this attention in better spirits. He smiles into his pillow, exhausted and aching down to his bone marrow. "Only through Beauty's morning-gate, dost thou penetrate the land of knowledge," Frans mutters, of Schiller's letters. "An idealist dreaming of utopia... I love you for trying to understand it. No one but you ever would, I think, you know?"

His eyes are closed, his voice drifting, but already lulled into a half-sleep. "That's why... I could never kill your baby... no matter how jealous I was..."

Maybe he's more than a little half asleep.

He's pleasantly surprised that Franz can recite lines off by heart in such a state, smiling gently, tousling though his sweat-damp hair. It's nice that he recognizes it immediately- that Franz understands, too, it is his own attempt to make better understanding of all his partner's sense of taste and style. True, it's a bit more scholastic an approach than, say, studying the magazines that Franz pours over with Kurt, when he's over, but.... Franz is right. Few would reach for Schiller, in efforts.

"You really are fever-addled." He sighs with a low scoff- my baby indeed. "...you have no reason to be jealous, Franz. I'll be right here."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i don't feel so well

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warning: violent/disturbing imagery ahead

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