#i'm clearly overanalyzing phel's verse (sung beautifully by K'Sante)

[silencedbeats-moved]

Part 1

tw: hospitalization (and everything that goes with it), surgery, blood, life support (please let me know if I need to add additional warnings💙)

The procedure was supposed to be simple. Aphelios sat on the hard plastic chair, hands clasped bloodlessly in his lap, ragged nails digging into the flesh of his hands. His manager makes a rude noise and makes a move to swipe at his folded hands, but Aphelios can't move.

It feels like he's drowning. Drowning in crisp syllables of a foreign language spoken over his head like he's a child.

&& that's the thing. He is a child. He's 15. Fifteen.

It's a painless procedure, they tell him in small words, small words he can understand. He opens his mouth to ask a question & winces as it feels like shards of glass are rubbing the inside of his throat. He'll be asleep for the majority of it. It'll only take ninety minutes at most. He'll be back at the trainee dorms before he knows it.

He trusts because how can he not? The Lunari signs off on it from across the seas--the rarity of them trusting an outsider to provide care knocking Aphelios off his feet. The company wants him to get back to training. He's thisclose to debuting; he can feel it.

He has a purpose, and he's not going to let his body get in the way of his destiny. So, he agrees with a strong nod, thin shoulders rigid and garnet eyes determined. He's going to get through this, and he's going to become a great vocalist, so help him Lady.

With one last prayer to the Moon, he goes under, vision graying at the edges before he finally succumbs to the general anesthesia.

Except he doesn't.

It's as if he's floating above the operating table. He can see the surgeon in his scrubs and the nurses flitting about, but something's off. He watches, passively, as tears bead on his body's lashes, a few of them escaping to slide down lifelessly still cheeks.

Something's wrong.

Aphelios tries to warn them, tries to alert them somehow--but for the second time in his life, he's betrayed by his own body.

Then, it happens.

His body thrashes around the scope pushed down his throat. Violently. The scissors under the skilled surgeon's hand slice into the muscles and flesh of his exposed throat. Bright red blood burbles and bubbles like a sadistic water fountain from the hole in his throat, from bloodless lips. Nurses run around as the doctor climbs over his body to stem the blood gushing from his neck. The machines he's hooked up to are screaming, the cacophony of beeps nearly deafening. Sharp orders carry over the din.

His body won't stop thrashing. It takes four nurses to hold his body down. The doctor's gloves are soaked in blood, his blood, he thinks, idly. Dreamily. As if he's watching a TV show and not his own body struggling to survive.

Everything seems to happen in a hazy blur. The bleeding stops. The thrashing does not. Terse words are exchanged between the head doctor and his manager. His opened throat is carefully sewn shut, timed between the quakes of his too-thin body.

Another tube is shoved down his throat. A bigger one. Air is being forced into his lungs, and he can see his chest move under thin sheets. The machines are no longer screaming. He's wheeled into another room, and he has no choice but to trail after his body like a lost little lamb.

The tremors don't stop. In fact, they get worse--coming in like a bullet train. His manager's on the phone. The nurses come in like clockwork. Someone calls his manager away.

He's alone.

The silence is deafening.

His fingers itch for his phone. If only he could call Alune. She'd know what to do. She always does.

His manager comes back with a pinched face, the doctor following shortly after. They talk over his body. Words fly over his head--all but one phrase that haunts him to this very day:

MEDICALLY-INDUCED COMA.