#➤ ooc. ┊ she’s nauseous，she’s hysterical��and she’s exhausted. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ミ✭ let's measure the distance between us in things we don’t want to talk about and wonder how long it’ll take to reach (from me, to you.)

in parts i, ii, iii, and iv.

╰☆╮

ooc ; A huge thank you to all of the people who helped me write this! (and special thanks to rialismus, for beta reading and telling me that one line 'sort of doesn’t make sense, but i like the sound of it, and how it feels.’ and inspiring everything else about this drabble.)

enjoy.

i.

[training grounds, day-?]

When she’d first heard, she thought it was a joke.

Sick.

She grabs the student by the arms and she grips, hard, and her face is something of a scowl or simply disgust and she says,

“don't joke like that.”

she’s pushed off, obviously. the student’s eyes are wild - “what’s wrong with you?” - shut up!

she snarls, angry; how dare you!

felix isn’t sick! he’s not stupid! he doesn’t just get hurt like that; he’s too careful, too cautious, too-

senseless, not selfless.

(but if she’s being honest, he’s neither of those things.)

felix, who combines a cat’s patience and a lion’s leap and ensnares both present and future;

felix, who is smart, and thoughtful, and clever

felix, who she knows, and loves (even if he makes it devastatingly hard, sometimes),

felix, who does not get injured so stupidly.

right?

[infirmary, day one.]

why is she running?

( though, tripping over her own feet might be more accurate, )

‘don’t joke like that.’ is what she said, right?

yet she’s here, staggering towards the infirmary,

because - no way, - it’s not true.

it’s not true.

she repeats it like a mantra.

since when were these hallways so long and winding?

—hurry up, take me to him

it’s not true.

her thoughts wrangle with her; pull at the edge of her skirt, nip at her heels- piss off! - throw her off her balance. insistent. nagging. they are not in her face but they taste overwhelmingly bitter all the same.

she doesn’t remember a time when running made her so nauseous.

groan-

stumble

keep running.

she arrives- and nearly misses the door.

that might’ve been on purpose, though.

Ingrid stops; breathes, paces

herself, clear your head before you make stupid decisions

You have no other choice (there are all and none)

open up.

fine!

Ingrid throws the door open (it slams against the wall, but that seems nearly inconsequential, now), and she sees Sylvain- he looks so tired, and distant — are you okay? —, but more importantly, she sees Felix.

Oh. Felix.

“...”

Her heart hammers in her throat; it jumps from her chest to her larynx and it hammers, so — say something, please...! — hard in her lungs and knocks all of the air right out.

she was right to be prepared.

What happened ?

Who did this ?

Are you…..

‘who am i talking to?’ she wonders,

absently.

who’s to blame?

who’s to thank?

is she allowed to pin it on someone or something alone?

the door clicks shut, behind her.

ingrid can tell that she’s late, apparently-

rightfully so; she does nothing but isolate herself in the training grounds or with ‘plans’.

Goddess-damned her own self, huh?

{sighs with what little breath she allows into her lungs.}

She can tell that the other students have visited, too. She sees the empty chair beside Sylvain, the tray by the end of Felix’s bed, the cake by his side.

‘it’s a waste,’ she thinks.

‘felix doesn’t like sweets, anyways.’

stepping closer;

Sylvain’s eyes travel upwards- he silently greets Ingrid.

Did your eyes always look so sad, or…?

she eyes the chair beside him.

Ingrid doesn’t make a move to sit.

something about knowing that if she sits

she’ll

shift in her chair; grip the sides and her fingers will - glide, move, tick tick tick- tap (against her knees, her thighs, her seat.), her legs will bob insistently; drumming to a rhythm that doesn’t exist. sitting down means to submit herself to the lack of movement- she can’t stand the idea.

she’s restless.

she doesn’t sit.

instead, she finds herself pacing- takes her hair into her fingers and twirls (choke the blood out of your skin!); presses down the urge to bite at her nails until her hands go slack by her side. she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

she doesn’t know what to do with this.

‘what do i…?’

silence.

she turns then, almost violently, expecting honey brown eyes to stare back - ‘what’s up?’ - but—

sylvain has stopped looking at her; his gaze is fixed on felix.

felix.

sylvain.

felix.

sylvain—

When was the last time you were as quiet as this?

...

ingrid looks at him,

he looks at felix.

sylvain?

the name does not leave her lips.

she walks, slowly,

(your feet are as heavy as the weight of your heart,)

towards him.

she holds his hand.

he squeezes.

she squeezes back.

.

they stay there, still

how many hours has it been?

i don’t know.

do you think he’ll wake up?

i don’t know.

s h u t u p .

—

eventually, though, it ends.

it ends, and ingrid curses her blind obedience.

because, eventually, the nurses usher her out;

they tap and wake her- and their voices are soft beside felix and they manage to pry her away from his bed and out the door.

she’s pliant, as usual;

she only follows orders.

she doesn’t even say anything;

her legs are too tired from pacing

and staying still, where

and when they shouldn’t

she’s too exhausted to think.

so she leaves.

they can’t get rid of sylvain, though,

(they don’t quite try to)

and for once, ingrid envies his stubbornness.

ha,

if felix were awake, he would’ve laughed at her.

she would’ve laughed, too.

ii.

[bed(room), day two.]

the morning comes, again.

how?

nevermind that Ingrid does not get a wink of sleep the night before; not because she is troubled, or afraid- she just hates the way Felix looks

like that (?)

- i won’t entertain the thought of subjecting myself to this,

wake up.

She gets up (“gets up?” don’t be silly!) as soon as it is acceptable; watches orange-red light bleed into her room like a spell -- don’t make that comparison, fool; slings herself over the edge of her bed and dips her toes onto the cold floor as if getting into a pool of water- wary. she dangles her legs over the ever-present maw that is another day; she feels so small.

suppress the shiver.

tired, trying.

ingrid calculates the distance from her bed to the door in steps, (breathe.)

strides, (breathe!)

sprints- GET OUT.

the morning is young, too young,

‘i should be in bed,’ is the sour remark she makes.

‘-not starving.’ is the afterthought.

her hair is messy, tousled. she pulls apart the teal band that holds what remains of her loose braid together and runs her fingers through it; tries to comb through her hair as though they were a replacement for her thoughts.

it does nothing to clear her head.

Ingrid spends the rest of the early morning in the training grounds,

angry, and upset.

she tears into a training dummy; stakes it through the chest!

She fixates on the destruction of guilt,

Maybe that’s what makes it feel so real.

Her form is terrible,

she knows.

[infirmary, day two.]

Sylvain is still here

-not that she expected otherwise.

“I like what you did with his hair,” she says.

— no response.

they sit in silence, watching felix. a softer light pours into the infirmary but they’re too tired to notice - or to care.

but

keeping their eyes open over him seems like obligation, so they do.

this time, she sits. she's tired, but still; hands reach out, search and grasp and hold the end of a chair tight in her hands, pulls it out - don’t scratch the floor, please! - takes a seat.

she half expects felix to groan.

ingrid frowns (when he doesn’t).

still.

she’s still.

this time, she doesn’t fidget. her body is quiet, when her mind is not - stop screaming. - she doesn’t tap. no … rhythm. no rhythm is present.

it never existed in the first place-

she presses her back into her chair- it’s soft, and cushiony. maybe she’s more tired than she thinks.

‘it’d be good to fall asleep beside you, too.’

-

sylvain leans into her side.

(he’s so tired

and yet, so stiff

are you okay?

she wants to ask, again,

but thinks better of it.)

she lets him.

She watches sylvain, and felix; she sees the older boy manage to coax food down his throat - i’m proud of you- but she doesn’t herself. whatever hunger is suppressed by a glass of water-

or two.

or three.

she feels her stomach clench around nothing more than once.

it matters, less.

the day passes by, hours go and ingrid does not know the meaning of ‘fast’ and ‘slow’ anymore.

Sylvain’s fingers are wrapped around Felix’s wrist; protective. It reminds Ingrid of holding a child’s hand when you guide them along.

‘we’re not children anymore’(?)

the dying light of day passes over felix’s face, and for the small moment it does, ingrid can only think

‘the you in this light looks good,’ snrk,

I miss teasing you!

the silence pierces her as if it were her own lance.

carefully, she sits up.

she pushes herself out of her chair, makes sure she doesn’t make a noise when she does.

stands over him.

you’re never below me for this long.

she looks at him, and she presses two fingers on his face- calloused. her thumb holds his chin as her index presses into his cheek, gently, and she can feel small scars and scrapes on his face. she turns it over- like a nurse, checking for injuries.

why do you look like that?

why are you so calm?

why ... --!

“ugh, stop fussing over me,”

he says.

or, no- he doesn’t.

felix doesn’t say anything at all.

she-

she--!

feels like she’s about to cry, she feels tears prick at her eyes- and at the same time, a laugh forces itself out of her throat- she chokes; but it’s there. hard, not at all gentle and hurting but she chokes on this laugh and maybe- maybe? maybe she’s hysterical, or just hurt- maybe a gruesome mix.

why do you look like that, felix?

Her heart rises into her throat like bile, and she has to stop, get out of the room and try her best not to retch.

(Don’t retch, Ingrid-!)

(ugh.)

for once, she’s glad there’s little to throw up.

ingrid doesn’t go back inside.

iii.

[day-- asleep? asleep.]

“wake up!” she screams.

her throat is raw and it hurts; it rips at something other than her vocal cords- takes the strings of her heart and tears it wide open.

ow.

? awake, isn’t he? if he’s staring right back at her then

how is he not awake ;

but maybe his ‘awake’ is different from the ‘awake’ in her head —

no, really;

what thoughts can you have when you’re…

.

...

i look at you; you look at me.

(sure.)

water pools at their feet- it rises, steady

what kind of water is this- to be so dark? murky?

like mud, or acid, you should just

dissolve.

in.

it.

it might’ve been easier to label it as ‘fire’.

hungry,

living,

killing.

(‘the both of us’? or just her?)

he looks so calm.

maybe that’s ok.

they lock eyes, or at least she thinks they do

but it feels less human;

soulless,

strange,

|

lifeless?

(that’s a soft way of putting ‘dead’.)

they don’t lock eyes, not really;

because that’s not alive.

she’s staring at something.

she thinks it stares back.

— hey,

“wake up.” is that her own voice?

it gets harder to recognise.

maybe mercedes had been rubbing off on her, then;

slowly

becoming fatalistic.

‘you’re losing another Fraldarius(?)’

.

the thought is paralysing.

iv.

[bed(???). day three.]

ingrid wakes up again.

but

this time, she wishes she’d never fallen asleep.

[ beat. ]

Goddess,

what a pathetic fucking wretch.