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“I want my boobs back,” Beatrice laments for at least the tenth time now, Battler hasn’t exactly kept count of it; he’s not here to count Beato’s misery, but to try and comfort her.
“They’re uh, gonna come back again,” he says a little awkwardly, because he isn’t entirely sure what else he should tell her. It’s just a cold, and it seems to be a magical cold that Maria brought with her from the witch school she goes to these days, resulting in both her and Beato by extension (given how much time they spend together) ending up with no magic powers anymore.
Apparently, that includes Beato losing her usual body, even though they’re in the Golden Land, and battler obviously hasn’t asked just what else has changed, but her boobs are gone.
Which Battler knows, because she’s been saying so a lot, and it’s only been three hours of the symptoms showing up. Past a stuffed nose and a sore throat – she’s had those ever since yesterday night already.
Battler can just hope he won’t catch it. He’s gotten too used to using magic himself, he’d probably suffer, too. Not in the same way as Beato, though.
He knows how much her body means to her.
“It’s going to take ages till they come back,” she sniffs, reaching past Battler for another tissue to take out of the box, and immediately starting to blow her nose into it.
If she wasn’t his wife, he might find it disgusting, but she is, so it’s whatever. Battler isn’t weirded out by some snot or whatever.
“How long does this stuff last? Maria’s been having it for a week or something now, right? Her cough’s better now, though, so…”
“Hm. A week or two. A whole week without my boobs. I’m going to die.”
Really, Battler doesn’t mean to laugh, but it’s a little absurd, okay? So, he ends up giving a short laugh, and pulls her closer once she’s thrown her tissue onto the floor, the plastic bag they got for them having long filled up ages ago. He’s ought to get her a new one sometimes soon, but for now, he thinks she just needs some cuddles to be honest.
“It’s alright, Beato. If it makes you feel better, no one but you cares. Of course it’s totally fine you care, but the rest of us don’t mind.”
“I’m not going to be able to leave this room,” she mutters, burying her face into Battler’s collarbone and taking in a breath that ends in a very dramatic sniff.
Since they can’t really battle the cold itself, they’ll have to battle the symptoms, or whatever – Battler is going to go find her some nose spray later when she’s back asleep.
…Also because otherwise, he isn’t going to get much sleep, either, given how loud and frequent her sniffing is.
“You can!” he says, “like I said. The others won’t care, and I mean… they know anyway. Though, I mean, we can grab you some of those boob pads you used to wear or whatever… if that makes you any more comfortable?”
“…I don’t think so. I’ll just stay in here for however long it takes.”
Her voice sounds so depressed about this all, and Battler knows that he could keep pressing, and that it’d probably lead to a good outcome, but right now, it feels wrong. She’s sick anyways. She shouldn’t leave this room anyways, so what would the point be? He’s told her that no one would care, which is true. Whether she believes it or not, that’s up to her.
Once she’s better and feels ready for some fresh air, he can at least try to get her to walk around the forest with him a little or something, where no one can see her.
For now, though, Beatrice belongs in bed. So, Battler swaddles both of them in blankets even more, pats them down until they’re a caterpillar of two people, and brings them down until she can rest on his chest again.
However, she draws back just a little, just enough so that her chest isn’t anywhere close to him.
And, well – if Beato believes the others are going to judge her for a lack of boobs, that’s still tolerable. She should work on that, of course, because they genuinely don’t care. But if it extends to him, then that’s a much bigger issue.
“Beato?” he whispers, making her look up at him a little from where her face ended up squished more or less against his chest, only one leg timidly resting against his, her foot bumping into his calf.
“Yeah?”
“Look, I really don’t care. I’m sorry for the blatant bullshit I said as a kid, okay? I love you, boobs or no boobs.”
“It’s not just my boobs,” she says, “it’s- everything else too. The scars are there, too. It’s- pretty ugly, you know? I don’t want to look at it myself, even if I know it’s temporary… I don’t know how I lived like this for so many years, to be honest. Being back to this feels… really weird.”
“I can imagine. I mean, I don’t get it, but I can at least imagine that it sucks a lot,” he says, “come closer?”
“But-“
“Beato. I don’t care. And, besides, ever since you’ve been less close to me, you’ve started shivering all over. Come closer, I’ll at least warm you up.”
For a few more moments, she hesitates even more, her eyes flitting to her body, hidden in blankets, up towards him. In the end, she asks a single question.
“Are you sure it’s okay? Are you sure you don’t find me disgusting, even if I look like this?”
“I don’t,” Battler says, throwing his arm around her properly, and pushing against her back a little.
Finally, she comes closer, until she’s lying on his chest properly, flat chest pressed against him, her legs entangled with his. Through her clothes, Battler doesn’t feel any difference – apart from the lack of boobs, obviously – but given how she cringes a little, she probably does. He gets it. It’s the same thing when you have a rash somewhere or whatever, and touching anything with it feels different. It’s not the exact same thing, and Battler probably can’t in any way understand just how uncomfortable this must be for her, but he has a slight grasp on it anyway, he thinks.
“I really don’t find you disgusting in any way. You’ll recover again, and then you’ll be back in your usual body, okay? Please don’t worry about it so much, Beato. You’re going to be alright again, and I get it if you doubt the others but… please don’t doubt me, okay?”
Battler tries to emphasize his point by kissing her hair once, and then burying his hand in it. With his other, he takes her that is resting on his stomach.
“Yeah. You’re right. That’s unfair of me. I wonder why I’d think you’d be so into boobs, I don’t know, might be the fact you make it half your personality-“
“Hey,” Battler interrupts her, but at least her own joke gets a very small cackle out of her, which is better than nothing at all.
“I’m not wrong, though.”
“…Kinda. I do like boobs. But even if you didn’t have them, it’d be fine,” Battler says, because he means it. As long as it’s the same person that he used to read mystery novels with, the same person who he jumped after, the same person he died with on the dark bottom of the ocean, he couldn’t give less of a flying fuck about what they look like.
“I’m sorry, though,” she sniffs, then coughs, shaking her head against his chest a tiny bit.
“About what? It’s barely your fault you caught this cold to begin with. I mean, Maria had to have someone take care of her, and it’s not like she just lets anyone do that when she’s sick, and Rosa has to sleep at one point, too, so…”
“Not that. I’m sorry for not being what you want me to be.”
It’s those words that sting. Not because of his own hurt or whatever, no – Battler knows just how much he has fucked up as a child, and he’s really and truly sorry about it – it’s how she feels the need to apologize just for being herself after all this time.
“Beato… seriously,” he starts again, but she shakes her head again.
“No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m sorry, I-“
“Beato. I don’t care what way you exist in, and whether you’re all cute and docile, or cackling and killing my family- well, okay, I mean, I do mind the ‘killing my family’ part. But you get me. I don’t care. You’re still the same, even if you’re not. I wouldn’t have you any other way, okay? If you stayed in this form, it wouldn’t… change anything for me. It doesn’t matter for me. So cut it out already, okay?”
At first, she quiets down a bit, but judging by how she starts trembling again, and how he feels something hot and wet soaking through his shirt a few seconds later, he can tell that she’s crying.
That’s okay.
Maybe she’ll be better after crying it out properly.
“Ssh, it’s fine,” he whispers, stroking through her hair again and again, and then her back, her sides, just making sure not to brush against her chest or anything below, either, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate that right now. “It’s alright, Beato, okay? I love you. I’ve already written you this tale. It’s our truth now. So, no need for any more doubts or false promises, okay? I love you, and nothing can change that. Not something like a little cold, anyways.”
It takes a whole while for Beato to calm down, and Battler keeps petting away at her, keeps hushing her and trying to reassure her while his entire shirt gets absolutely soaked with her tears. He holds her while she cries it out, but given she hugs him even closer at one point, he thinks that he at least gets through, which is better than before.
After what’s probably ten minutes or more, her tears finally stop, and she buries her face into him, her next sniff even louder, her voice all hoarse when she speaks up again.
“I’m gross.”
“No, okay, listen, I love you, but you saying that about yourself goes a bit too far, and it might just make me mad-“
“No!” she suddenly yelps, “not like that! I mean, I’m full of snot. And tears. I need to blow my nose again, Battler. I’m gross because I’ve got a cold, and- I mean, I’d have to lie if I didn’t find myself a little gross otherwise right now, too, but- it helps. That you don’t find me gross. I mean it.”
Battler strokes her hand with his, then slowly intertwines their fingers, their rings clinking together, bound forever, both in the Golden Land and in the black darkness only to be found several feet below the water’s surface, in a catbox and somewhere in another tale.
“That’s good to know. I really don’t find you gross. Not even your snot, by the way. I mean, a little, but a surprisingly small amount. Must be because you’re my wife.”
“Hm. I am your wife, so I guess you have to take care of me.”
“Yes, exactly,” Battler laughs, blowing another small kiss into her hair, “alright, sitting up? Shall I fetch you a washcloth for your face?”
“…No, I need the bathroom, but I can’t get up, so you’ll have to carry me, because you’re my husband, and I’m weak and ill,” Beato says, but gets weirdly shy at the last part, like her bold plea to be carried is suddenly embarrassing – as if. Battler couldn’t care less.
“Alright,” he sighs, sitting up, getting out of bed, and then swooping her up in one smooth motion. “What are husbands there for if not to go carry their wives to the toilet so they don’t piss-“
“Battler.”
“Yes?”
“I take it all back. I’m not gross. You are, though. You’re really gross, dear god. Shut up.”
She struggles a little against him, playfully so, knowing she literally can’t have him let go of her right now because if he did, she’d drop straight to the floor.
Battler only laughs again, and props her up a bit more, starting to walk towards the bathroom.
“See? How dare you call yourself gross when I exist.”
“…You’re insufferable.”
“Hm. Good. You love me anyways.”
“That,” Beato sighs, smiling a little against his shoulder, “I do.”