[004] For want of soup and general care

[tristranthorn]

[recap: After playing in the snow, Tristran gets sick.]


When Tristran wakes up the next morning, he feels like he hasn't gotten nearly as much sleep as he would have liked. Not that it matters very much anymore, however, as his stomache is growling very, very loudly in protest.

He is motionless for a long moment, his wide eyes staring at the objects across from him blankly, while no single coherent thought runs through his head. In fact, the only thing currently running, is his nose, and he sniffles in order to do something about it. When he turns over a little from his stiff side-position, he finds a series of loose-leaf papers strewn about the bedspread, filled with strange sketchings -- mostly stick figures that scarily resemble him in some rather disagreeable situations (such as the one of stick!him getting hit with a rather large rock of some sort).

He shifts a little more and turns his sore head to his other side, noticing the star looking very much asleep, and very much unconscious to her surroundings. Watching her for a moment makes him forget about his own predicament, filling him with an odd (and increasingly uncomfortable) sense of peace, but it is soon rudely interrupted by the growling of his stomache, and that overwhelming discomfort as he feels his face growing warm once more.

This warmness is obviously due to the fact that he is sick. Obviously.

Comments

[an_evening_star]

The star sleeps rather peacefully, cheek pressed to her shoulder, hair a white-gold mess, and fingers tangled possessively in the blankets by his side. An elaborate swirl traces onto the back of that hand - curing up and around her wrist - and the other loosely holds a black marker.

It had been in the top drawer of the bureau - exactly where their extra clothes weren't, given that they were rather lacking in extra clothes – and was found sometime after trying unsuccessfully to open the window with her mind and before wondering if, in the absence of anymore paper, mapping out constellations on the headboard would be rude.

It hadn't taken too long for her to run out of room on her own hand and so there are stars penned onto his fingertips and a tiny angel in the center of his palm – it reminded her vaguely of one of her sisters, Maea, who probably would have handled this entire situation more successfully than she had. (A thought that only served to make Yvaine frown – and scribble in a set of horns under the angel's halo. Maea always was a suck-up anyhow.)

There are, after all, only so many elaborate and creative deaths one can think up before growing bored of that game.