#and the coughing really sucks. mucus my enemy.

[ghostzzy]

1am 36-hour post-top surgery update:

the numbness in my hand is gone which is great. but i’m coughing sooo much and i’m sooo bloated and i just puked my brains up. :^(

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 6)

lPart 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, (here) Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

TW for hypothermia, illness, talk of self-isolating behavior, mention of Yennefer’s self harm scars.

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The trek to Kaer Morhen was a penance, and that was just getting from the city to the base of the path that the witchers called ‘The Killer’. Autumn was truly giving way to winter now and fine flurries came down with more ferocity than was warranted from a few snowflakes. 

They were all on foot, Roach pulling the cart with their supplies. As they advanced up the trail Ciri and probably Jaskier would sit in the cart. The path was called killer for a reason, it could kill witchers. For now, though, they let Roach rest as much as she could. It would be a tough climb for her as well, and whenever they stopped Geralt gave her extra brushing down and treats. 

Geralt...hm. Well, since Jaskier had snapped at him back in the city their relationship, already tense as a bowstring, had gotten worse. They didn’t snap at each other, but tiptoed instead, walking on eggshells. Jaskier was waiting, had half expected Geralt to cast him aside again, or to gripe about Jaskier’s uselessness. Instead the witcher walked around like he’d been kicked. 

He was always looking at Jaskier though, glancing at him with that piercing, penetrating gaze. He was examining the bard for something, but for what, Jaskier didn’t know. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to let Geralt have the satisfaction of seeing it. He kept walking, head up, eyes straight ahead. He didn’t complain. He barely spoke. Making himself as unlikely a target for Geralt’s ire as possible. 

That was the odd thing though. Geralt didn’t seem to have much ire, per say. It was almost an overbearing sort of concern. Jaskier tried to make it fit in his head, there was something there, Geralt’s anger at Jaskier for sleeping with the innkeeper, the care with which he’d carried Jaskier into town, this awkward caution. It meant something. In his heart Jaskier knew what he hoped it meant. He couldn’t trust his heart with this though, he needed to use his head. There was a disconnect between Geralt’s words and his actions. Between the mountain and now. He needed to use his head.

His head was aching.

Jaskier really barely could think, much less work out the complexities of Geralt’s character. His chest ached. That little, half-ache had taken root in his lungs and bloomed into a great, heaving flower. He was coughing now, which he was trying to hide, he knew, without much success. The cough had started dry and grating, but had progressed to a hacking wetness. It would have been bad enough, but it was upsetting Ciri. Jaskier wouldn’t go within six feet of her, for fear of making her sick too. Her big, grass green eyes watched him almost as consistently as Geralt did, and she was picking up the little crease between her brow as well. Sometimes, when a particularly vicious cough made him double over her lip trembled, and that was a special sort of torture. Yennefer kept giving him tea, too, which was a weirdly kind, somewhat pitying gesture.

“I’m not good at healing,” she grouched at him from across their campfire the first evening on The Killer.

Jaskier shrugged. “’s fine,” he said, taking another hesitant sip of the tea. It was herbal, not in the way that mint was herbal, but the way that a handful of leaves and moss tasted herbal. 

“Mh,” Yennefer said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It’s one of those things you have to specialize in, magical healing. Magic heals magic injuries best, anyway.”

“I’m okay,” Jaskier said, fully aware that he wasn’t, but glad that Ciri and Geralt had gone to fetch more wood so he wouldn’t have the big witcher sniffing out his lie.

“You need a healer.” Yennefer skewered him with her gaze, purple meeting blue like a lightning storm. “You’re sick.”

“I don’t see why it should bother you.”

Yennefer sighed and stood up, grabbing the kettle from the fire. She poured herself a mug of the tea and sat down with it next to Jaskier. After a brief examination she drank it, then winced. “Eugh. It bothers me because we’re friends.”

“We are not.”

“Eh, well, Geralt screwed me over, he screwed you over, the enemy of my enemy...”

“Geralt isn’t my enemy--”

“Could’ve fooled me with that shouting match back in town.”

“Anyway he screwed you over more...literally.”

Yennefer looked at him, a little smirk on her lips. “Is that what this is about? That I slept with Geralt?” She looked at Jaskier, squinting at him as he studiously examined his tea. “No, that isn’t it,” she decided. “You aren’t upset he slept with me, you’re upset he never slept with you.”

“I’m upset that he decided he loves you!” Jaskier shouted, unable to take the prodding. He regretted it as it kickstarted a coughing fit that made him double over. He spat out some phlem and straightened up in time to see Yennefer’s grimace. 

“He decided he loves you,” Jaskier said, panting a little. “After only just meeting you. He decided he couldn’t live without you in his life, so he bound you with that djinn to keep you safe. And that sucks for you, it does, and he shouldn’t have done it. Melitele knows the man never thinks things through, it’s just...”

Jaskier looked into the fire and Yennefer waited.

“He barely knew you and he couldn’t bear to be without you. I spent two decades at his side and he’s never called me a friend.” He scoffed ruefully. “Called me a shit shoveler though.”

Yennefer nodded. “I heard.”

“You did?”

“I hadn’t gone that far when, well...you’re a pain in the ass, bard, but you didn’t deserve that. Men like Geralt...” she twisted the mug in her hands, turning it round and round and Jaskier saw flashes of scarred skin at her wrists. “People like Geralt and I,” she continued. “We pull at our safety ropes until they come undone. It’s just how we are. We were hurt so much, so long, that when we hurt we reach out and undo any ties that could help us.”

Jaskier was at a loss, so he bumped his shoulder against Yennefer’s. “You’re so much more fashionable about it though.”

Yen smirked and returned the shoulder bump. “Definitely. Geralt though, he cut all his safety ropes that day.” She didn’t have to specify which day. “I cut mine first though. I didn’t want him romantically, not really. It’s djinn magic, he’s not my lover, and I can’t fix him and I don’t want him to fix me.”

“Fix him?”

“I think people like Geralt and I can heal, but we can’t heal eachother. Ciri helps. I’m a mom to her, you know? She called me Mama the other day when she was really sleepy and it felt...” Yennefer trailed off, then she looked over at Jaskier. 

“I don’t love him, not like you do, and he doesn’t love me. But I’m not good with these things, and I can’t help you two fix what he broke that day. More than that, I won’t. It’s not my job to fix you two, or to deal with your problems for you, and if you two can’t communicate on your own then maybe you shouldn’t at all.”

“I communicated,” Jaskier said. “Twenty years. I thought those were the best years of my life, and I gave them to him, and did all the communicating. I’m not doing anymore. If I’m not...” Jaskier was ashamed to find a lump in his throat. “If I’m not a curse and a burden to him then he has to tell me, has to say it, because I can’t keep going if his words are just going to contradict his actions.”

“Good,” Yennefer said, standing and pouring her tea out onto the ground. “Don’t. Make him communicate. It’s up to him. And to make it be up to him, that’s up to you. He has words. If he can use them to hurt you then he can use them to heal. Don’t give in.”

It seemed that portion of the conversation was over because Yen began setting up her magic tent. “You’ll sleep in here tonight. The cold isn’t doing you any good.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Can’t. I could make Ciri sick.” 

Yennefer sighed again. “You’re right, of course, but you’ll sleep in Geralt’s tent. He can’t get sick and he’s a walking heater.”

Jaskier was about to protest when his lungs heaved again and he began coughing. The force was so great he swore he felt his ribs creak. Despite all the mucus his throat felt torn and raw. He dragged air back into his lungs then spat. Blood came out.

Of course, that was the moment Ciri and Geralt returned from getting firewood.

Ciri gasped, eyes wide, and Geralt dropped the armful of logs he was holding. They scattered but the witcher paid them no heed as he advanced towards Jaskier, stepping over the rolling wood. Geralt gripped Jaskier’s face and tilted his head back, holding his mouth open. 

Jaskier wondered what he could see with his witcher-enhanced eyes.

“Throat’s raw,” Geralt grunted after an awkward moment of peering into Jaskier’s mouth. “Probably nothing internal.”

Geralt wiped the blood from the corner of the bard’s mouth with his rough leather glove, then he peeled off his glove and pressed a hand to Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier just leaned in to the warmth of Geralt’s palm, but it was obviously chilled, the temperature of a normal human, not the furnace heat Geralt normally held. 

Geralt frowned and stepped closer, taking his hand away and pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s forehead instead. It was a gesture that Jaskier’s nursemaid had sometimes done, an easier way to check for fever if one’s hands were too cold to tell. He wished he could linger there, in the warmth of Geralt, so close, with his cloak still smelling of the pine forest all around them and the copper-sharp scent of snow as well. 

“Fever,” Geralt grunted.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, eyes filling.

Jaskier pulled away and bowed theatrically, ignoring his aching joints’ many protests. “Never fear little princess,” he said. “’twould take more than a fever to best the bard Jaskier.”

Ciri didn’t giggle, but at least she didn’t begin to cry. 

That night Jaskier and Geralt tucked in together, sharing not just a tent but a bedroll. Geralt had turned onto his side and pulled Jaskier in so that his face pressed to Geralt’s collarbone and he was surrounded by the witcher. It was as if Geralt was shielding him with his body, protecting him from an enemy, but that enemy was inside Jaskier already, and he could feel the fever burning through him, even as he relished the warmth.

His mind drifted to other times. Days and nights when coin had been tight and they’d shared beds, shared meals. They’d shared lives for so long, orbiting around eachother. Geralt like some bright planet and Jaskier his moon. He ached for it to be like that again, but he couldn’t do it alone, Geralt had to be part of it too, had to want that life to exist, not just allow it to happen. 

The next day dawned white. Snow had fallen and continued to do so, the little flurries of before now a full snowstorm that whipped and raged. Geralt loaded a pack full of supplies onto his back to lighten Roach’s load, then they set off. 

Ciri and Jaskier walked as long as they could, but the wind beat them back. Yennefer was struggling too, pushing magic in front of her so that the snow buffeted off of it, streaming around her and making the walking easier, but Jaskier could tell it drained her, and her shield flickered sometimes. 

Ciri stumbled once, around mid morning, and Geralt picked her up by the back of her cloak, scruffing her like a kitten. He patted some snow off of her and placed her int the cart with the supplies. Jaskier was going to go at least a couple hundred more feet, but Geralt scruffed him too, bundling him into the cart alongside Ciri. Jaskier prayed he wouldn’t get Ciri sick, but with the wind howling around him he imagined that whatever ill humors he could exhale would get swept away. He curled up opposite the princess, the pair of them ducking down miserably as the snow blew over the sides of the cart. He heard Geralt speaking to Yen. 

“We can make it by nightfall, if we push. Can you make it?” His voice was pitched above the wind, but still barely reached Jaskier.

“I can make it,” Yen said. “I’ll have to, they need warmth, and Jaskier needs medicine.”

“Vesemir knows herbs and potions, he can heal him.”

“Then we’d better get a move on,” Yennefer said. Her voice was strained, but they forged on anyway. 

Jaskier took occasional peeks over the sides of the cart. It was a winding path, a goat track, really, but the northern mountains were said to be beautiful and he imagined it must be very scenic. As it was, the wind and snow obscured most of his vision. What he could see were ancient pines, large and weather worn. Nevertheless, they swayed like reeds in a current in the hellstorm that whipped around them. 

“Ciri,” Jaskier wheezed. “Let’s play a game.”

Ciri, tucked into her cloak so far that he could barely see her, gave a muffled, “okay.”

“How many red things can you name?”

“...apples,” was the muffled reply. 

“Cherries.”

“Rubies.”

“Wine.”

“Chili peppers,” Yennefer said, the wind almost stealing it, but Jaskier and Ciri smiled at eachother for dragging her into the game.

“Raspberries,” Ciri said.

“Blood?” Geralt grunted.

“Gross,” Ciri said, at the same time as Jaskier said, “What a witchery answer.”

“Tomatoes,” Yen said.

The game trailed away for a while as the cart rattled worryingly across some tough ground. Geralt and Yennefer ate while they walked, and Ciri and Jaskier chewed on some dried meat. Mostly Ciri, Jaskier dozed, too exhausted to even chew. 

When he opened his eyes again the wind was still howling, but the sky looked darker. It must be evening.

“Dandelion,” Ciri whispered. “are you awake?”

“Mmhm,” he said.

“I’m cold.” 

Jaskier was too, the snow had soaked into him so he was damp, but then it froze again, taking him with it. 

“We’re almost there,” Geralt grunted. His voiced sounded strained and weary, but Jaskier didn’t have the strength to look and find out why. “C’mon girl,” Geralt said, clicking his tongue at Roach. “We can make it, do it for me.”

“Hey Ciri,” Jaskier slurred, tongue heavy in his mouth. 

“Hm?”

“Roses are red.”

He imagined Ciri smiling at him tiredly, but he couldn’t see her, bundled in the blankets. He could hear her teeth chatter though. “Jam is red, sometimes,” she said. 

“Eskel’s shirt is red,” Geralt said, raising his voice above the wind. 

“N-no fair,” Jaskier muttered. “I’ve never even seen him.” To his surprise he was drifting off again. It felt different though, a little like drowning. Some part of him felt he should panic, but he hadn’t the energy. 

“You can see him,” Geralt said, sounding a little frantic. “He’s right there, standing on the path ahead of us. We’re here, Jaskier, look at Eskel.”

Jaskier wanted to, but his eyelids were too heavy.

“Geralt--” began a new voice.

“Eskel please, they need help.”

“I know, give her to me, I’ll carry her the rest of the way.”

Carry who? Jaskier wondered, then he realized that he hadn’t heard Yennefer speak lately.

A whistle came from up ahead. “C’mon Pretty Boy,” another new voice. “I’ll take your pampered horse, you lay them in front of the fire.”

There was some rustling and Jaskier wreched his eyes open with his last ounce of effort. An older man with a moustache and a face like a wall of granite was lifting Ciri from the cart. He took care with her, cradling her and walking away quickly. Vesemir? Probably. His eyes fell shut again. 

“Jaskier c’mon,” Geralt said in his ear. His breath stuttered warmth across Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re gonna be okay, we’re here, just don’t fall asleep on me, please.”

Jaskier wanted to open his eyes, just to reassure Geralt but everything seemed to be drifting away. He was laid down on something soft and felt the heat of fire on his face. There was the scent of pine logs, snapping and cracking as their sap burned away. Hands, Geralt’s hands, rubbed up Jaskier’s arms, forcing the blood to move. His soaked cloak was stripped away, leaving him chilled but dry, and then soft, dry fabric was pulled around him. Someone had wrapped him into a blanket and was rubbing his fingers. Both his hands were cupped between two larger ones and warm air was blown across them. The blood returning to his hands felt so hot it burned and hurt and he squirmed, but he was too tired to pull away. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he heard Geralt say as he rubbed more heat into Jaskier’s fingers. “Ciri’s okay, and Yen’s okay. You have to be okay, Jaskier. Warm up. You need to be warm.”

“Give ‘im some time, Lad,” Jaskier heard. Another new voice. Must belong to Vesemir. 

“He’s so cold,” was the whispered reply.

“The boy trekked after you for years, he’s resilient. He’ll be okay.”

“But--”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, let him rest.”

Jaskier heard no more, but it was so nice, the fire and the fur beneath him, and Geralt, holding his hands. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. 

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They finally got there! 

Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz @samukai @charlies-dragon @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @morte-mistrata @mewithanie @sharondnovels @stinastar @ionlylikemycat @annafortoday @its-the-quenchiest-stuff @kkiyomizu @so--many-fandoms @endless-whump @ineffable-monster-romancer @sweetiepieplum @tookarma @seraphim-miryam 

Tags are being weird, if I missed you, or you want to be added, let me know

[hero-of-rime-blog]

Down with the Sickness

This is a short story/scene of Conner fighting an enemy stand user in Naples, Italy. Trigger warnings for illness, violence, and gore.

Enjoy <3

Conner watched the setting sun, getting up and putting his phone away. It was unseasonably warm in Naples this evening, not that it was ever an issue for him. He pulled on his jacket, straightened his glass, and was off.

There was an outbreak in Naples, some odd disease that effected people quickly and suddenly, with no discernible vector. It seemed to just grow in people, causing nausea, phlegmy coughing, vomiting, fever, and, in the later stages, psychosis. Eventually, the victim’s heart could take the stress no longer, and it ceased to beat. While the hospitals and labs struggled to find any trace of the illness in the diseased victim, the Speedwagon Foundation had collected samples of infected blood. Under the eye of another Stand User, the microscopic invasion became obvious. A Stand User with the power to cause a unique disease in his victims was loose in Italy

So here was Conner to clean up the mess. Walking the streets in the evening, the people were obviously a bit rattled, looking worried with every cough or slight chill. The evening was growing dimmer by the moment, and tonight, like the last one, looked to be a quiet one. Until he heard the sound of raspy coughing from an alleyway. He hopped it wasn’t just another homeless person with a cold as he turned to hustle down the path.

Turning the corner, he saw a homeless man, yes, but around him was a cloud of faintly glowing black fog. It moved about him like a swarm of gnats. With every breath between coughing, he sucked more and more of it into his lungs. Acting on impulse, Conner thrust an arm forward, quickly chilling the air around part of the fog, causing flecks of ice to fall from it like snow. Reacting violently, the fog shuddered and started to flow away, down another alley, past an old well, over a fence, and…

Conner bumped into someone, a short, grey haired man of at least fifty, sporting a tan vest and a well-trimmed mustache. Both of them hit the ground, the old man grunting on impact, his dark red beret landing in a puddle.

“Shit… Shit shit shit…” Conner looked around, the fog completely gone. He looked at the windows above, and the well behind him, finding himself alone here… with the exception of the old man. He turned to look at him, the man rubbing his back and slowly rising to his feet.

“Maleducato Americano! How dare you!” He spoke with a thick accent, but clearly had a fair grasp on the English language. Conner helped him the rest of the way up before speaking.

“Did you see anyone back here?” He asked, obviously in a hurry. His stress didn’t lessen one bit, either, as the old man took his sweet time complaining in Italian about his back and rude people. Conner motioned for him to hurry up.

“Dio mio! the only other person here was a boy at the end of the alley there! Why?” The old man hissed, but Conner was already spinning on his heel, running about halfway down the alleyway before stopping in the middle.

He saw movement at the far side of the alley. He took a short breath, his exhale visible as the air took on a chillier climate. Ahead of him the alley stretched to a dead end, and above him, apartment block windows dotted the walls. The moon was overhead, full, and bathing the alley in a silvery light.

“Well!” the old man yelled. “Go get him!”

Conner didn’t move, instead turning to face the old man and sighing. “So, an ambush then?” he asked, pulling a water bottle from his coat pocket and opening it. The old man didn’t say anything, but he looked fairly flustered. “I’m curious, who exactly would work with such a disgusting Stand.”

The old man’s face took on a new shade of anger, paling his indignance earlier. “You… I don’t know what you’re talking about! Go get your man! He’s right-“

“There.” Conner finished, stepping back toward the old man, forcing him to jump a bit. “Agent Conner, SFSD. Come quietly and you won’t be hurt.”

The old man growled, a sickly glow surrounding him. From above, windows shattered, raining glass on the alleyway, a few of the shards cutting Conner’s jacket. Several men and women, all panting, faces running with sweat and mucus, eyes unfocused and hazy, landed in front of and behind him. Conner sneered at the sight. A stand that spreads mind control as a disease. The old man’s cackling filled the alley as much as the groans of the infected.

“Come quietly? Idiota! You’re the one who should be surrendering!” His stand slowly manifested, a hulking humanoid crustacean, a black crab made of solidified fog. “Down with the Sickness! Il suo nome è Down with the Sickness, and it is invincible!” He motioned for the infected to attack, and they began lumbering forward. “First, I could kill anyone I wanted to, just by exposing them to it, now the exposed serve me!”

Conner sighed, breath fogging the air, and he moved his foot along the ground, finding the stone below to be a bit damp from the moisture in the air. It was really all he needed. “Blood Runs Cold!” he called out, his stand erupting from him to strike the ill around him with enough force to push them to the ground. “You’re nothing, old man, and your invalid army is a fucking embarrassment.” The sweat in their clothes froze to the damp stone, sticking each victim in place as they hit the ground. He started toward him, smirking. His friend would be better by sun-up at this rate.

Suddenly, the shirt holding one of the sick down ripped open, and he shot up, slamming his fists into Conner’s back with all his might. It was enough to knock the wind from him. Several others rose up the same way, shedding clothing in a near panicked state, using all the energy in their sick bodies to destroy what was right in front of them. Conner tried to steady himself, but the next blow cracked a rib, and he hit the ground, water bottle flying from his hand.

“Bellissimo! Show him what he gets!” The old man cackled as kick, after stomp, after furious punch came his way. He rolled across the ground, curling up, a shell of ice starting to form around him, but shattering under another blow. “Basta!... Basta. Bring him over here…” He commanded, and the ill followed that command. They hooked hands under his arms, and dragged him over toward the old man.

Conner was sporting one black eye, three cracked ribs, and scratches and bruises pretty much everywhere at this point. His jacket was all torn up, and his glasses were left somewhere in the alley, probably shattered. His cheek looked swollen too, and he looked down at the stone, blood running from his lip.

“Si, now tell me who’s the weak one around here! A stand you called it? Tell me who has the weaker stand now!” the old man cackled. Conner mumbled something, something muffled, and one of the ill grabbed his hair, “Speak up, boy!”

When the sick man pulled Conner’s head up, he spat a cheek-full of water at the old man. It was all he’d managed to grab from the bottle as he was being pummeled, but it was enough. The water began to freeze in the air nigh instantly, the tip coming to a point so sharp one couldn’t even see where it ended. This tip shot forward, and buried itself right into the old man’s neck, clearly hitting something important, and blood began to run and he fell back, clutching at the spike. Pulling it out only made the flow worse, and some ran from his lips, as Conner rose to walk toward him.

“D-Down with the S…” the old man choked out the words, but his stand did appear, swinging one claw toward Conner’s face in desperation.

“Blood Runs Cold!” Conner called one last time, his stand grabbing the two points of the claw, forcing the moist air between each microscopic piece of his stand to freeze, locking them together, and he pulled that claw apart, shattering it. This damage reached the user, as his thumb tore from his hand with a sickening crack. Conner looked down at the man, fixing his jacket as best he could, watching him pass out from blood loss on the ground as he scrolled through his contacts, selecting one.

Ring… Ring… … “Yeah, it’s Conner. Stand user neutralized. Stand Designation, Down with the Sickness. Stand user…” he paused, frisking the old man’s body for a wallet. “Stand user, Jethro Tull, age 55. Cause of Death, Exsanguination. Status of victims… Well, send some medical staff and some ambulances to check that. I think they should be all right though.” He turned back, and indeed, the people in the alley were less pale, though their consciousness seemed to be ebbing. “Lock onto my GPS signal. Once you guys get here, I have a friend to check on. Thank you, sir.” Conner pulled the phone from his ear and ended the call, walking over to the alley wall and leaning against it, slowly sliding to the ground…

Another job well done, he supposed.

[jojotier]

Sick Day

(aka way to get an entirely preventable cold oh unbreakable one)

“Jojooooo…” Noriaki moaned, lifting his face from the sheets. “Why does my body hate me so-” The melodramatic spiel in the making was cut off abruptly by a raucous set of wet coughs that filled the room and only served to make Noriaki feel like his lungs had liquefied and were in danger of staining the surgical mask he wore. Of course, no such thing happened, as the source of his congestion was still very unhelpfully localized in his chest region and not dripping from the white cloth over his mouth.

Jotaro raised an eyebrow at him. “Maybe because you chased a stand user for three sustained hours into a river, and then proceeded to get yourself soaked to the bone in said river diving after him.”

“Thank you for reminding me- I was just in the process of forgetting everything over the last twenty-four hours.” He wrinkled his nose, holding back a sneeze and just causing his chest to feel uncomfortably swelled for a few seconds. A box of tissues was very gently, but insistently pressed against his side, and Noriaki looked up to see Star Platinum’s wide-eyed face peering down at him. He sighed and took a couple tissues, trying to see if his smile could make it through the mask.

“Thank you- you can just set that box on the table, along with the car…” And the various books, and his sketchpad, and his entire set of paints, and essentially anything that Star Platinum could get his hands on to bring. Noriaki didn’t even know he still had those brushes, and hell if he knew where the bright pink toy car had come from since it wasn’t as if Jolyne had come to Morioh. 

Noriaki went back to being generally miserable with a sour little, “Besides, it was an important chase…”

Star Platinum’s hulking form went to set the tissues aside and then went off, presumably to find more things to bring to the ever-growing hoard surrounding Noriaki in their hotel bed. Jotaro came over from where he’d been packing up his supplies, apparently deciding to forego the general starfish dissection and experimentation for the day to do something that didn’t add to the disgusting smell of vomit that had gone throughout the hotel suite just hours before. Noriaki could feel Jotaro’s eyes on him, and he lifted his head up just a bit to look back at him, realizing that he was carrying water and a damp cloth.

“Three hours. You didn’t stop running for three hours straight. And then you jumped into a river that was half frozen over.” Jotaro stared at him for a moment and Noriaki turned over onto his back, huffing.

“My spine and several bones are cybernetic.” Noriaki scoffed, trying to prop himself up on his elbows despite all of his limbs having taken on the consistency of jello. He heard Jotaro shuffling around, the clink of a bowl, and a small trickle of water. “What’s the point of basically being a cyborg if you don’t take advantage of it?”

“Your immune system isn’t cybernetic- you can’t even make something like that cybernetic. Have some common sense, Noriaki.”

“Are you really trying to lecture me about common sense? That’s really rich coming from you after the rat incident-”

Jotaro’s lips twitched the slightest bit as he winced. “Give me a break…. Are you still on the rats? It’s been weeks.”

“Oh, you best believe-” Noriaki paused to cough out his own mortal life before continuing somewhat shakily, “Believe, that I’m still on it.” His voice dropped as deep as he could manage, eyebrows furrowing in an exaggerated approximation of his boyfriend’s sour expression. “My name is Kujo Jotaro, and I can apparently track two tiny rats through a field but God forbid I think to not touch the obviously poisonous projectiles that an enemy is throwing directly at my face.”

Jotaro raised his eyebrows again, and then replied in a slightly snotty, nasally tone of voice, “My name is Kakyoin Noriaki and I jump into frozen rivers in the middle of summer that are obviously caused by the stand user I’m chasing after because god forbid I think any of my reckless actions through.”

“He would’ve gotten away otherwise!” Jotaro finally made his way over with the bowl, wringing out a cloth loudly by Noriaki’s bedside and folding it up. Even if the cool touch of the cloth on his fevered forehead was very much appreciated- as was the way Jotaro’s hand lingered and gently touched his cheek- Noriaki was still rather cross with him anyway. Perhaps some slightly unsound judgments had been made the day before- but that didn’t mean that Noriaki regretted them. Even though he sorely regretted contracting this cold. 

“Mhm.” Jotaro hummed, just staring Noriaki down with an entirely unimpressed look. Noriaki got the message loud and clear- I still think you were being an absolute dumbass. At least the dumbassery got results...

Noriaki laid back and sulked a bit, trying to hold back another phlegm-filled cough as he peered up at Jotaro. “This sucks.” He grumbled, nose wrinkling. Then he immediately descended into sounding like a thirteenth-century English peasant, complete with boils popping in his throat to come up as a wad of mucus. Noriaki whined, looking up at Jotaro. 

“I can see that,” Jotaro said, staring back at him before starting to move away again. Noriaki wanted to grab Jotaro’s hand to get it back onto his feverish self, but that seemed a little too much like conceding defeat. “You need cough drops.”

“I need some soup,” Noriaki mumbled, turning his head to look at Jotaro despite knowing full well that this hotel room had no kitchen in sight. Hierophant finally poked his head out from where he had been similarly sulking under the bed, only poking himself out enough to send two tendrils to tug at Jotaro’s jacket sleeves. “But like... my mom’s soup.”

“Your mom lives three hours from here.” 

“I’m very well aware of this.”

Hierophant tugged on Jotaro more insistently, trying to pull him back towards the bed. Noriaki probably should have stopped the stand, but at this point, the thing had a mind of its own. As his equally sick stand started retreating from the bed and winding itself underneath Jotaro’s jacket, Noriaki stared pointedly at him. “Please though.” 

“How exactly am I supposed to get your mom’s soup all the way out here.”

“I don’t know- phone Speedwagon or something. I don’t care! Just please?” Noriaki pouted through his surgical mask. “Your shit attitude is making me feel even crummier.” 

Jotaro finally gave a little sigh, muttering, “Good grief... fine, I’ll grab you some of your mom’s soup.”

“Yayyy.” Noriaki mumbled before another hacking fit got in the way. 

“Want me to grab you the puke bucket?”

“Ugh, no thanks...” At least, not for now...