A description of all my sickness/illnesses from Sunday -> today, in five drabbles and three fandoms. Because really, just whining alone would be boring.
Prince of Tennis; Tezuka; 191 words
The pain comes in halted jerks and stops, although the ache is always there, like an undercurrent or the throb of his heartbeat, ever present. Tezuka should be grateful that the crippling game that toppled him to the ground during the finals match with Hyotei had passed; he should be grateful he retained movement of his shoulder at all, but Tezuka lies in bed, all but motionless but for the brief rise and fall of his chest with each breath he draws, and he can feel the thin veneer of sweat on his skin, his body’s way of fighting the pain.
A flare of pain slices through his left shoulder when he shifts restlessly in bed, and sometimes Tezuka wonders if it really is worth it. To have played to his limits and beyond, at the expense of his shoulder, his tennis.
Then he remembers Echizen with his cocky smile and challenge in his eyes and the words I’ll take Seigaku’s pillar from your hands, buchou, and Tezuka knows that it's worth it, to have played a part in shaping one of the best tennis players Japan will see in coming decades.
*
Strained back/shoulder blade muscles
Buchou, I do not understand how you managed to play tennis with your injured shoulder. That horrible ache/pain/spasm between my shoulder blades was enough to make my night hell (aka, there was no way to sleep without killing my back) and I was all hunched over while waiting to do my Psych poster presentation on Monday that I started worrying my friend. BUCHOU, don’t push yourself!! ;_;
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Ace Attorney; hobo!Phoenix; 347 words
Time was that the itchy-prickliness at the back of his throat would set Phoenix in a flurry, searching out ancient bags of tea, scouring old lemons from the bottom of his fridge and unearthing a bottle of honey from the back of his cupboard. He carried cough drops in his backpocket, because losing one’s voice was the bane of an actor’s life - mime all well and good, but Phoenix always preferred voice and intonation to capture his audience; body language was just added another layer to his performance.
Then there was that three years. His years of vocal training and projection had strengthen his throat to the point where colds and coughs rarely affected his voice; in law, you learned to talk the judge’s ears off, because if you can’t speak, you couldn’t really defend your client. As long as Phoenix could croak out an objection and articulate his hatter-brain logic in a clear enough voice, it didn’t matter if he was on pitch or not.
Half a dozen years, a bare-minimum lifestyle and hours in the frigid Borsht Bowl Club killed most of that vocal immunity, it seemed. Phoenix had had his fair share of colds, but the slight rasp in his voice seemed to give his poker-player persona character that he tolerated the minor illnesses when they came. But this time, while Phoenix might have escaped the cough, the sore throat had taken his voice instead.
Throughout the entire day, he had opened his mouth, only to have a bare croak (if anything) come out. Trucy kissed him lightly on the cheek and promised to pull his voice out of her top hat when she came back from school that afternoon, but until then, Phoenix had to content himself with banging halfheartedly on the piano to voice his irritation.
Now, with Kristoph Gavin sitting before him with a warm, friendly smile under cold calculating eyes, Phoenix had never been happier to point at his throat and mouth the words can’t speak, no voice to dodge the carefully crafted questions Gavin had been dogging him with.
*
Sore throat to the point of losing one’s voice
Stop growing plot, silly drabbles =_=;;. Fits in somewhere in that long-fic timeline I have in my head. Losing one’s voice sucks, especially when you have presentations to make. But heck can it come in useful when you want to bail out of talking to someone.
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Prince of Tennis; Ryoma (+ Tezuka); 394 words
Ryoma goes through his afternoon games with white noise playing at the back of his head. The summer heat coupled with the warm up laps around the courts should have left him panting, but Ryoma keeps the regular’s jersey wrapped tight around his shoulders and his cap pulled low over his eyes, away from the warm air’s chill on sweat-slick skin and the sun’s bright glare.
If his opponents thought Ryoma’s seeming distraction and overly bright eyes meant he would play at less than his full strength, they were quickly disabused of that thought. The white noise jangled from the background to fill all his thoughts, so Ryoma poured everything his tennis, reacting only to the rhythm of the game, slitting his eyes to the point where he felt more than saw the ball flying his way.
If his skin felt flush, it was only to be expected - tennis was a highly active sport, after all. If his limbs felt heavy and sluggish, Ryoma only pushed himself the more, until he was almost flying over the court, his heartbeat pounding under his skin, tossing a ball into the air for a serve mere seconds after the ball touched down for a point on his opponent’s court.
It was the zero-shiki that finally broke Ryoma’s rhythm. Buchou has been his opponent for the past four sets, the courts are empty around them and the sun has dipped closer to the horizon - practice has been over for at least half an hour. Ryoma stares at the ball rolling gently away of him, and it’s suddenly as if everything - the heat, his exhaustion, that odd jangle-pounding-pain against his temples - came crashing down on him.
A hand grasps his arms before Ryoma can collapse on clay court, the touch warm even against his flushed skin. Ryoma glances up, up and the murmur - buchou - escapes him.
Tezuka doesn’t say anything; he pulls off Ryoma’s cap and runs one hand through sweat-soaked bangs before touching Ryoma’s forehead. “You’re feverish, Echizen.”
How can you tell? Tennis practice is always this intense, Ryoma wants to protest, but one of Tezuka-buchou’s hands is pressed against the small of his back. There’s a look in buchou’s eyes that makes Ryoma swallow against a dry throat, and he allows his head to slump against Tezuka’s shoulder as they make their way to the locker room.
*
Some weird mix between half-feverish/half-delirium
... I’m not stupid enough to play sports when I’m delirious. Then again, I don’t actually figure out that I’m delirious until several hours later when I realize I’m rambling like a crazed woman. I really love writing Ryoma, don’t ask me why.
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Hetalia; Arthur(England)+Alfred(America); 302 words
“Hey, Arthur!”
The yell echoed down the corridors. Arthur cringed, and huddled even deeper into his nest of blankets. He stared down at his paper work, wondering if he could just sign off that last agreement before-
His office door burst open, swung around on its hinges with impressive speed and crashed into the wall with a boom. Half a dozen fairies whizzed out from the neighboring bookshelves in fright; Bluebell, Arthur’s favorite little fairy, dove behind a pile of clean handkerchiefs.
“Hey, Arthur, I heard from Kiku that you’re sick again. Old age catching up to you?”
Alfred, in all his annoying, obnoxious glory, stood framed in Arthur’s doorway. If he wasn’t holding a thermos flask in one hand, Arthur would have thrown his teapot at the other nation, and laugh at the tepid tea flowing down Alfred’s annoying glasses.
“Oh, shut up and give me whatever it is you have in hand,” Arthur retorted, his glare marred by the little coughs that shook his chest and left him exhausted.
Alfred perched himself on the edge Arthur’s desk, scattering the pile of notes there. Arthur sighed, and peered into the thermos flask.
“Cream of chicken?” Arthur asked, surprised, the heavy, savory scent recognizable even through his clogged nose.
“Yep. The last time I tried to give you chicken noodle soup, you almost upended it all over me.”
“Hmmmm,” Arthur murmured, fishing around his desk and coming up with a tea spoon. “At least you didn’t try to put hamburgers on my head to get rid of my cold this time.”
“Well, I wanted to try a sandwich this time, because you complain so much about burgers and I figured sandwiches were English enough for you or something-”
The tepid pot of tea ended up all over Alfred’s head after all.
*
Cough and cold
In my world, Arthur would give Alfred a kiss to shut him up. But I’m currently following canon, and America tried putting a burger on England’s head when he was sick. Seriously, I’m not surprised about the upended tea. I hate colds. It makes my head so stuffy.
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Ace Attorney; Miles; 332 words
It took the insistent beeping of his cellphone to break Miles out of his work-induced trance.
He pulled off his thin reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now that his concentration had been broken, the rhythmic throb of his head warned Miles of an imminent migraine. He reached for his cup of Earl Grey, and frowned at the tepid, lukewarm liquid.
Miles drank it anyway.
It was full dark now, even in the late L.A summer. Miles knew he should return home, eat some dinner, catch a handful of hours of sleep. In his youth, rumors that prosecutor Edgeworth lived in his office dogged his footsteps - a silly little rumor, but one Miles couldn’t quite dismiss as false. He did spend too much time in his office; in fact, now he was closeting away his life in a borrowed office room, since officially, Miles Edgeworth was practicing law and studying foreign judicial systems overseas.
As loathe as he was to admit it, Miles was a von Karma in spirit. Having lived fifteen years with that creed, he couldn’t quite shake off the perfectionism that was always expected of him. Not when it came to the things that matter.
Miles glanced at his desk, at his laptop and stacks of paperwork and half a dozen open law books and glanced just as quickly away. He’d push the jurist system through, even if the far-too-short two month implantation period killed him. He’d give Phoenix the chance to clear his name, and when it was done and over with, Miles can return back to Germany and forget about the too blue, too familiar eyes under an unfamiliar woolen beanie.
Miles didn’t come back to L.A to find love or mend a friendship. He was merely back to repay a favor, to someone who was too close and important to forget.
Miles flipped on the tiny kettle for a fresh pot of tea, and settled in for the long night at his desk.
*
Headache (due to lack of sleep/proper rest) + DYING UNDER PILE OF WORK
Yet another one sort of set in the long-fic timeline of mine. I’ve yet to figure out Miles’ real feelings after Phoenixs calls for his yell years after the breakup, but it’s probably something like this. Miles would do it too (at the expense of his own wellbeing. Workaholic) no matter how much work the jurist system takes. Freak, I wish I was doing my school work for someone else. I hate migraines. They always come when I have the most work (because I get the least rest then).
In conclusion: I would like to rot in a corner, please.
*drags self to write rough draft of 15-30 page research report for tomorrow instead*