Chapter Text
There’s something rotten inside Zanka.
He can feel it with each dull throb of his head. In the ache of every single joint like he’s an ancient marionette someone has just picked back up. Stomach uneasy, uncomfortable like it no longer fits right within his rib cage. There’s an unpleasant heat and ache seeping out from the stitched together wound on his inner thigh. Feels like it’s poisoned, slowly forcing more of itself through his system with every beat of his heart. A constant cold sheen of sweat coating his palms and sticking the fabric of his shirt to his back. Leaning too heavily against Lovely Assistaff for support because just keeping his feet under him feels like it might kill him. Like the effects of gravity have suddenly intensified and are trying to crush him into the ground.
He’d barely made it through their mission. It had taken everything in him to just keep moving and now he’s got nothing left. Shivering where he stands despite the oppressive, dry heat. Despite how hard he tenses every muscle in his body to try and dispel the tremor before anyone notices. His hands tender like they’re bruised where they curl around his vital instrument. All the strength sapped from him until even that feels nearly impossible. Just hanging on.
There’s sweat beading on his hairline, grimacing as it drips down his temple. He has the thought to reach up and wipe it away but his body doesn’t respond to it.
Each beat of his heart is too forceful in his chest. Can feel every pulse as it travels up the side of his throat, rings in his ears, rattles his contused brain harder in his skull.
Fuck, he’s gonna be sick.
Or pass out.
Or both.
“We’re heading back!” Riyo calls at him, waving him towards the car as she turns over her shoulder.
Head snapping back in his direction in a double take that Zanka would have found comical if he didn’t feel so damn awful.
“Whoa, dude, you look like shit.” There's an edge of a breathless laugh in her words as she approaches, brows furrowed with a sort of amused concern as she approaches. “Did you get hit?”
Zanka wishes he had.
Then he'd kind of have a reason to feel like this.
“No,” Zanka forces out, wincing at the sound of his own voice.
It’s too flimsy, more of a wheeze. Catching unevenly and rasping oddly. Reaching up to press a hand to his throat as he forces a hard swallow to try and clear it away.
“Uh.” The concern overtakes the levity in her expression, green eyes quickly scanning him over like she’s looking for a wound he'd failed to notice receiving. “You look really bad, Zanka.”
Zanka’s sharp retort dies on his tongue. Too weak to put the effort he needs into conjuring the words.
Instead he just glowers at her. Jaw clenched as he clings to Lovely Assistaff and trembles.
“Everything alright over here?” Enjin’s easy voice prickles along Zanka’s clammy skin.
Gripping tighter at his staff as he keeps his eyes fixed on Riyo. Even as she shifts her attention above Zanka, meeting Enjin’s eyes over his shoulder.
“Something’s wrong with him,” she says simply, glancing back down at Zanka, eyes dancing around his face. “He says he’s not hurt though.”
Enjin makes a thoughtful sound before he’s stepping around Zanka. Bending slightly at the waist to get a better look at the boy. Golden eyes scrutinizing as he examines him. Zanka holds his breath, forces himself to hold the other man’s gaze as he picks him apart.
“You do look a little pale,” Enjin remarks, straightening before his hand is coming up, backs of his fingers pressed firmly to Zanka’s brow.
Zanka’s heart stutters at the contact and it makes his head hurt but he doesn’t dare move. Blinking at Enjin’s face.
“You’re burning up.” Enjin frowns, considering Zanka for a few more moments.
Expression unreadable as his eyes shift between Zanka’s. Hand shifting to rest against the top of Zanka’s hair, fingers just barely pushing through the strands. A gesture likely meant to bring comfort but it only exacerbates the pounding of his heart and he feels bile at the top of his throat.
“Your leg?” Enjin’s voice is low, private, like they’re the only two people in the whole world and it makes Zanka’s vision swim with black.
Despair curls heavy in Zanka’s chest.
The last thing he wants is to appear weak or needy in front of Enjin. And his first instinct is to lie. To brush away Enjin’s concern. A small voice in the back of his head telling him that if he'd just been better, faster, stronger, he wouldn’t be in this situation and the fact that he hadn’t been means his suffering is deserved. Just another proof of his mediocrity. But he also realizes that Enjin already knows, and his pain is clearly pretty obvious so really what's the point in lying. He’s already been seen for what he is.
So, Zanka just nods, is afraid of the sound he’ll make if he tries to speak.
Enjin clicks his tongue, fingers patting lightly at Zanka’s hair before he lets his hand drop back to his side.
“You’re going straight to Eishia when we get back. No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.” Enjin orders, pointing a stern finger in Zanka’s direction. “Now, let’s get you to the car.”
Riyo ends up holding Assistaff so that Enjin can thread Zanka’s arm around his broad shoulders. The older man looping his arm around Zanka’s back to help support him. The pressure and warmth of it nice. And again, if Zanka weren’t currently dying he would be elated at the closeness.
Instead it takes everything in him just to focus on staying conscious as he lets Enjin half drag him. Just the shift of weight onto his left leg sends pain all the way up into his lower stomach and strengthens his nausea. Afraid he’s gonna vomit and collapse in it before they get to the jeep. Follo seems to see how severely he’s struggling, moving to support Zanka’s other side. Zanka hates it, the worry, the doting. But it also brings a wave of relief. He feels like he can breathe now that his full weight isn’t landing on that foot anymore.
So he lets Follo help him settle into the back bench. Slightly surprised when the older boy stays there with him, though he keeps enough space between them for Zanka to lay down. He’s aware of Riyo and Rudo bickering about something from the row in front of him. Poor Tomme trying to make herself sink into the middle seat as the two younger cleaners argue over her head.
Zanka doesn’t quite drift off, just exists in a sort of hazy state in between.
The pain in his head just keeps getting worse, almost makes him completely forget about how bad his leg hurts. And despite the fact that he’s still covered in a thin sheet of sweat he can’t stop shivering. Curling in on himself to try and find some semblance of warmth, comfort. Aching hands tucked against his chest.
“Zanka’s gonna be ok, right?” He hears Rudo ask, mind alerting him to the sound of his name even if he can’t force himself to respond to it.
“He’ll be just fine once Eishia sees him,” Tomme soothes the boy, Zanka can hear the comforting smile in her voice. “Don’t worry too much, Zanka’s strong, he can handle it.”
“Yeah, I know.” Is Rudo’s soft, almost petulant reply and it sends a swell of something through Zanka.
Soft, warm in his chest. A feeling that would probably be pleasant if it wasn’t so muddled by his discomfort.
He doesn’t remember them arriving back at the headquarters. Doesn’t remember getting up or out of the car. He remembers Follo’s arm around his waist, his head limp on the other boys shoulder. He remembers Follo’s quiet assurance of, “I know, it’s just a little further, Zanka.” He thinks he vaguely remembers Eishia’s alarm at his temperature. Remembers her soft, cool hand on his face.
There's still a dull throbbing behind his temples but it’s manageable compared to the roaring it was before. His leg still feels tender, but it’s a normal level of pain for the wound he’s sustained. The sensation of bandages stuck to his skin over the injury is almost more unpleasant than the pain. His body still feels achy, fatigued, but it too is milder now.
He blinks up at the ceiling. At his ceiling, not the sharp white of the med bay.
He groans softly as he reaches up to rub at his forehead. A sort of grogginess hanging over him that makes him want to just roll over and go back to sleep.
Might have done just that if it wasn’t for the low chuckle of, “welcome back to the living,” that comes from his bedside.
Zanka blinks at his ceiling.
Blinks again.
Because that’s Enjin’s voice. Which means that Enjin is at his bedside. Which means Enjin is in Zanka’s room.
And there’s something about that, that doesn’t want to connect in Zanka’s brain.
Because Zanka has logical lists of where people belong. Enjin is in the mess hall, the training yard, the bar, the main entrance of HQ, at Semiu’s desk, downtown, but not Zanka’s room.
Despite how many times Zanka has indulged in the guilty pleasure of imagining it. The two of them alone in such a personal, private space. Enjin’s golden eyes warm and focused just on Zanka. Broad, tattooed hands in his hair, on his face. Zanka’s name on his lips as more than just a call or a greeting but as something intimate and meaningful.
Zanka’s entire body flushes with heat. Heart kicking in his chest and setting off the throbbing in his head, which still isn’t as bad as before.
Slowly turning to glance over at Enjin where he stands.
Watching the older man set down two thermoses on Zanka’s desk.
He’s in casual clothes, just a plain t-shirt that shows off a significant amount of red and black swirling ink. His usually golden spikes of hair hanging loose over his forehead and undercut. Shooting an easy smile at Zanka when he finally turns to meet his eyes.
Zanka can’t help but think he looks younger like this.
Softer.
“Eishia said your wound was pretty badly infected, likely had been for a while, but she was able to get the worst of it under control. She had to replace your stitches so it might feel a little extra sore. She also said the meds she gave you might upset your stomach a bit so to eat light.” Enjin gestures to the thermoses and it clicks in Zanka’s head that must have been what had woken him up, Enjin entering his room. “She wants you on bed rest and light activity only for the next five days. No training and no missions.”
The small high of Enjin caring enough to come check on Zanka is immediately bittered.
An indignant defiance rising in Zanka as he forces himself to sit upright.
“But Rudo-”
“Will be fine,” Enjin cuts him off with a smile that suggests he expected rebuttal, dragging Zanka’s chair across the floor so he can drop backwards onto it, arms draped lazily over the backrest as he looks Zanka over. “He’ll train with Riyo and Follo for the next couple days and then you can pick right back up where you left off. And you could use a couple days to rest, I mean, when was the last time you took time for some RnR?”
“RnR?” Zanka frowns at Enjin and is met with a sort of defeated huff.
“Yeesh, kid, I know you run a tight ship but you’re telling me you don’t do anything to relax?” Enjin crosses his arms over the backrest of the chair, lets his chin drop to rest on his wrist as he stares at Zanka.
“I… read,” Zanka conjures, though he doubts reading battle strategy books is what Enjin had in mind. “I- I can’t afford to rest. If I slack off for a day not only could my progress halt, it could start movin’ backwards. If I want to continue to become stronger I need to keep workin’ at it. And don’t call me ‘kid’.”
Enjin blinks at Zanka, holds his gaze and Zanka feels something rattle in his chest. There's no overly animated reaction, no clear expression that tells him exactly what Enjin is thinking. His expression instead is surprisingly neutral, almost contemplative, like he’d just learned something he didn’t already know about Zanka. Fingers drumming lightly against the seat and it makes Zanka feel too seen. Stripped bare in a way that makes him want to shrink.
There's no admonishment for Zanka’s work ethic or lack of self care that he had been expecting.
Instead all Enjin says is, “you are a kid, Zanka.”
It probably would have hurt less if Enjin had just slapped him across the face. The heat of shame and something like rejection burning inside his gut.
“You’ve never treated me like one,” Zanka asserts. “You‘ve never treated any of us like kids, don’t start now just because- because what I got sick? I would have been fine after a little rest, it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It is a big deal, Zanka. You could have gone septic, you could have died if you’d kept trying to hide it.” There’s an unfamiliar sternness in Enjin’s voice, in the frown on his face and it stings in Zanka’s chest, feels the same way it used to when his father would chastise him. “But it’s not about you getting sick. I know how capable you are, how capable all of you are and respect each of you for it. I value your intellect, your ability to strategize, your steadfastness, I rely on it. You’re not a child that needs their hand held, you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself. But you are still a kid.”
There’s something about it that settles heavy in the back of Zanka’s mind. Something about the way Enjin says it. Something about the way he’s looking at Zanka.
“Why, because I’m still seventeen? My birthday’s only in a few months, how much of a difference is that really gonna make?” Zanka frowns, trying to pick this apart, trying to convince Enjin he’s wrong.
“It won’t make a difference at all. You’ll still be the same you,” Enjin says easily, fingers tapping restlessly against the chair. “Why are you fighting this so hard?”
“Because you’re the last person I want treatin’ me like a kid, Enjin.” Zanka swings his legs over the edge of his bed, pressing a palm to his chest. “It’s one of the reasons I… respect you. You’ve always heard me out and taken my advice without dismissal or prejudice. You make me feel like I could be your equal, and I- I wanna be. I want you to see me as someone mature, capable, reliable. I don’t wanna be a child chasin’ behind you, I wanna be a man, a partner walkin’ beside you. That’s how I want you to look at me, to see me. And I understand if that’s something I need to work towards, to earn, but don't just suddenly start treatin’ me like I’m too young to understand things because we both know that isn’t true.”
Zanka’s voice starts catching the longer he talks, throat protesting his use of it by going hoarse and itchy. Finds his eyes slightly watering against the urge to cough but he refuses to until he’s said what he needs. Doesn’t want to look weak in front of Enjin. Needs to prove his case as he’s trying to make it.
It isn’t helping that he feels like he might be sick.
Frustration and anxiety rolling in the cavity of his chest until it feels polluted. Like he needs to carve it all out and start fresh. Hoping Enjin equates the dampness in his eyes with the croakiness of his throat and not something emotional. He already feels too vulnerable. Too close to losing his grip on something that will collapse his carefully crafted control.
Enjin has a hand pressed over his mouth. Expression still hard to read but there’s something in his eyes now. To Zanka it almost looks like pain. Like this whole ordeal is causing him anguish.
Zanka curls his fingers in the sheets as he feels his throat tighten. Wonders if he'd accomplished the opposite of his goal. If his long winded speech had just further solidified Enjin’s view of him. Proved Enjin right in his own mind and now he’s just suffering through Zanka’s presence. Through his childish outburst.
Trying to figure out where Zanka fits into the grand scheme of things now that he’s gone and ripped apart their rapport like nothing more than a sheet of wet paper.
Zanka feels something bubble up his throat. Realizes almost too late it’s the urge to cry. Gripped by the cripplingly familiar sense of hopelessness just like he'd felt at the bottom of that well. In the darkness that Enjin had been the one to pull him out of. Enjin now the only one who can pull him out of this, or be the one to send him back. To push him back to the bottom of that well and leave him to rot.
He feels his hands shake and quickly swallows it all down. Forces his face to remain controlled. Refuses to let this look like an emotional outburst instead of a logical honesty. Holding Enjin’s gaze because it feels like he’ll instantly lose if he’s the one to break first.
Enjin takes a deep breath through his nose. The look in his eyes transforming as he lowers his hand. It reads to Zanka as somehow simultaneously a challenge and defeat. Like somewhere in the process of milling over Zanka’s words, Enjin had lost something. Or rather that one of his battles had not been lost but simply transformed, the goal post now shifted.
“You already have earned that, Zanka. I value your insight more than anyone’s. And I want you beside me just as much as you want to be there.” Enjin heaves a subdued sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “But you are young Zanka, and that doesn't detract from your maturity or ability, it’s just a fact.”
Zanka frantically searches Enjin’s face, trying to decipher the look in his eyes but he just keeps coming up blank.
“Are you angry with me?”
Enjin huffs out a surprised laugh, eyes finally softening to something that feels familiar, safe. The chair scraping slightly against the floor as he stands. Zanka’s mind buzzing as he watches Enjin approach. The older man crouching in front of Zanka so he’s just below Zanka’s eye level. His hand raises and Zanka expects it to land on his hair, like it usually does. But instead Enjin’s fingers slide over the swell of Zanka’s cheek until his rough palm is holding him. Warm, so warm where it sits against his skin and Zanka’s brain has given up on him. Even the involuntary function of breathing no longer responding to his lungs need for air.
“No, I’m not angry. But I’d be pretty devastated if I lost one of my best cleaners to an infection because you were too proud to ask for help.” Enjin’s voice is low, soft, and all Zanka can smell is tobacco and soap, Enjin’s eyes following the motion of his thumb gently stroking over the highest point of Zanka’s cheekbone. “I wish you didn’t feel like you need to do everything yourself. I wish you’d rely on us more.”
Zanka’s not absorbing the words as clearly as he wishes he was. It’s hard when Enjin is touching him like this, gentle, tender, unfamiliar. Zanka doesn’t remember anyone touching him like this. Everything else was passing brushes, Riyo leaning against his shoulder, Rudo tugging on his arm, Enjin’s hand on his head, Follo patting him on the back, Eishia’s touches clinical and practiced. Any touch he’s ever felt with intent behind it has been to hurt. And it’s so strange, to feel safety in the touch of an open palm instead of the sharp sting of a strike. He can feel his mind warring with itself, the frantic cry of fear, of self preservation, struggling against his desire for more. A part of him he didn’t even know was there clawing its way forward and pleading not to let the feeling fade.
And Zanka doesn't know what to do with that, can’t grasp what any of it is supposed to mean to him so he compartmentalizes. Processes it in multiple parts, like looking at snapshots.
Enjin had called him one of his best. Enjin had said he’d be devastated if he lost Zanka. Had said he wants Zanka to rely on them.
And Zanka wants that too, more than anything, but even just admitting it out loud feels impossible. He can feel his body rejecting the words before he can even decide to say them. Throat tightening and jaw turning to stone, tongue sticking like wet cement to the bottom of his mouth.
He feels stinging behind his nose and grits his teeth. He can’t cry. Not now, not like this, not while Enjin is still here. Still holding him, still looking at Zanka like he’s something good and special. He refuses to ruin this for himself, to look needy in front of the older man.
Zanka forces a nod and he swears he can hear the way his neck creaks with the effort behind the movement. Likes the way Enjin’s callouses feel as they brush against his skin with the gesture. Wants to keep doing it. Wants to lean into the pressure of Enjin’s hand. Wants to feel it on more of his skin, on all of him.
“I’ll try,” Zanka finally croaks, face warm as he fights the urge to break away from Enjin’s stare.
To hide his vulnerability, his desire.
Enjin sighs softly, like it’s not the answer he wanted but he doesn’t seem disappointed by it. Especially with the way he smiles at Zanka. Not his usual, smug neutrality but something warmer. More genuine. Crinkling the outer corners of his eyes.
“Well, I guess that’s all I can really ask,” Enjin concedes.
Another brush of his thumb, fingers twitching slightly against the base of Zanka’s skull. Then he’s slipping away and Zanka wants to plead with him not to go. That new found voice in his head wailing to chase the contact, to do anything to keep it from stopping. But Zanka wouldn’t dare despite the way it aches behind his sternum. Swallows the feeling down like he does everything else.
“Don’t forget to eat.” Enjin points a thumb at the thermoses. “I think Follo’ll tear me a new one if he thinks I’ve neglected my duty.”
Zanka blinks at the older man. Then blinks again. Feels like his brain has done a hard reset at the sudden pivot in topic.
Feels dumb when he blurts out, “Follo?”
“Mhm, he was real worried about you missing dinner. Wanted to make sure someone brought you something.” Enjin states, reaching up to rub at his chin in a theatrical display of thoughtfulness. “You know, he could have just brought it himself.”
Zanka is saved from the line of conversation by a light knock, both of them turning towards the sound.
“It’s Eishia,” her voice is so quiet it almost doesn’t travel through the door. “I brought you medicine.”
Enjin doesn’t even hesitate before he moves for the door. Like this is his room, his space and he has the rights to it.
Zanka takes the moment Enjin’s back is to him to steady himself. Mind stuck on a useless loop of Follo, Follo, Follo because it seems so strange. So out of place. Hopes his face is an acceptable level of pink now to pass off as just having woken up.
“Oh.” He hears Eishia's surprised exclamation when Enjin opens the door. “S-sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“Nah, not at all. Just came to make sure he was still with us and bring him some grub,” Enjin assures her, that easy, relaxed nature he usually carries himself with back in his voice as he steps aside to let her in.
Solidifying to Zanka that whatever had just happened, whatever moment they’d been in, whatever had just transpired between them was over. They were back to the way things usually are, always have been, are always supposed to be.
“Oh, perfect.” Eishia steps inside, offering Zanka a sort of bashful smile as she does. “You should eat before you take these.”
She holds a little orange bottle out to him and he can feel Enjin watching him as he reaches out to take it from her.
“It’s an antibiotic,” she explains. “Take it twice a day for the next five days, only after meals, it might not sit well on an empty stomach.”
She hands him another bottle then, this one smaller, less official looking.
“These are just an anti-inflammatory. You can take them as needed, but try not to take more than six or so in a day.”
She looks him over for a second before glancing at Enjin, then back at Zanka. Soft color climbing into her cheeks as her eyes fall to the floor.
“Could I check the wound?”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Enjin says lightly, moving for the door and panic screams like an alarm bell in Zanka’s head.
“You don’t have to.” It leaves Zanka without his permission, but he’s grateful that it least sounds casual, stable.
Turning to meet Enjin’s eyes. A single golden brow arched softly with something like an amused curiosity.
“I don’t mind.”
Enjin seems to consider it. Zanka can see it in his face, can see the scale tipping towards Enjin making his escape but then he shrugs. Pushing Zanka’s door back shut.
When Zanka turns back to Eishia her face is almost the same color as her eyes, which are still fixed on the floor.
“If you could.” She gestures to his leg, voice squeaking slightly.
Zanka’s pants are loose enough he doesn’t have to take them off. Able to push the leg of fabric up over his knee, just high enough to reveal the bandages. It stretches from the back of his thigh in a diagonal line, stopping just above his kneecap. Zanka grimaces as he gently lifts the covering, hating the way it sticks and pulls at the fine hairs on his leg. The stitches are expertly done, as Eishia always does, but the skin still looks angry and pinched between the black threads. She nods contently as she looks it over, the color slowly fading from her face as she focuses on her task.
“It looks much better,” she notes, gesturing that he can replace the bandage and lower the fabric with a wave of her hand. “If it starts to swell or get warm again, tell me right away. That way we can treat it before you’re in such a bad way again.”
There's a quiet sternness to the furrow of her brows and the press of her mouth but it feels so non threatening coming from Eishia. Zanka knows she's only worried, frustrated he'd made her job harder than it needed to be because of useless pride.
“Yeah, got it. Thank you,” Zanka offers genuinely and that seems to placate her.
“Good, now get some rest. And try not to bend that knee too much, I don’t want those stitches ripping.”
And with that she parts, offering a quiet ‘thank you’ as Enjin opens the door for her.
“Well, you heard the doctor, take it easy.” Enjin smiles over at him and Zanka hates it because he knows it means he’s leaving.
“Yeah, I’ll- I will,” he corrects, because his reflex had been to say ‘I’ll try’ and he knows that's the wrong answer.
“I’ll come check on you later,” Enjin says like he can hear the violent turmoil going on in Zanka’s head, mouth splitting into a toothy grin. “Help you hobble down to the mess hall. Unless you want me to convince Follo to bring the soup himself next time?”
“That’s-” Zanka feels his face warm and Enjin looks like he’s verging on a laugh as Zanka scowls up at him. “I can get my own food.”
“Uh-huh.” Enjin winks at him, grin still smug as he turns to leave, waving over his shoulder. “See ya’ later.”
As soon as the door closes behind Enjin, Zanka flops down onto his back. Staring up at the ceiling as he waits for the heat to fade from his face.
Finds it takes longer than he'd like it to.
He keeps thinking about Enjin. About his hand on his face. Of the smell of tobacco, like Enjin’s own personal cologne. Of how close they had been. Of how warm Enjin had felt.
But then his thoughts shift to Follo.
Follo.
He likes Follo well enough. He was a good supporter and is proving himself to be just as talented of a Giver. Except he isn’t really talented. None of it came to him naturally. He’s worked hard to be where he is. Persevered and never lost hope that eventually his item would become an infused object, that eventually he'd be able to stand up and fight with the rest of them. Was able to hold on to that dream tighter than Zanka likely would have been able to. Sure he would have given up long ago if he’d been in Follo’s place. And Zanka hadn’t put much thought into it before but he does admire that in Follo. He sees a kinship in him. An Understanding. Someone who knows what it’s like to have to struggle to be good. To have value. To earn his place. And yet has done it with so much more grace than Zanka ever has.
And maybe that’s why it strikes Zanka as so strange, because even though he might not have been putting thought into Follo, Follo was putting thought into him. Even such a simple gesture. Concern over Zanka missing a meal. It makes Zanka feel sharply and viscerally seen. Makes him feel vulnerable.
He thinks of Follo helping Enjin get him into the jeep. Thinks of Follo’s quiet steady presence beside him in the back seat. Thinks of Follo’s soft voice and reassuring words. Thinks of Follo’s warm hand on his back. Thinks of the scars he wears on his face not as a shame but as a badge of honor. Thinks of all the times he’s caught Follo’s gaze on him and interpreted it as passive observation and not quiet care. Thinks of Follo’s bright laugh and easy smile and honey colored eyes.
The flush of warmth that blooms in Zanka’s chest catches him off guard. Groaning as he rolls face down into his sheets.
The pressure on his leg as the edge of the mattress digs into it hurts but the pain is almost a welcome distraction. It helps him refocus.
He carefully pushes himself upright, half hopping over until he can sit at his desk. He drinks the soup out of the thermos, not bothering with utensils, the temperature of it still just past pleasant as he forces it down but he lets it scorch lightly at the roof of his mouth. Then takes his antibiotics with the tea. It’s floral, a little bitter from being burnt but he doesn’t mind it too much. He opts not to take the pain meds. Figures he’ll save them for when it really starts to sting.
He limps back over to his bed, curling up under the sheets and half pressing his face into his pillow. Thinking of golden eyes as he drifts off to sleep, only this time they’re of a slightly darker hue.