52C: Illness of the Page
Jul 6, 2018 4:39:40 GMT
Post by Sho Tsuginaga on Jul 6, 2018 4:39:40 GMT
MPC Title: Sick Leave
MPC Number: 52C
Reward Requested: Posts.
Crisp turns of yellowed book pages were the only company of a boy underneath a mound of covers and still in his pajamas. The soft click of the ticking analog clock on his nightstand was naught but a ghost to greet him with the senseless passage of time. Something he'd only use to tell himself that he'd really timed it out. To remind himself that every minute and a half he'd cough, every twenty minutes he'd have a rapid fire of three sneezes, and every hour he'd run out of sips of water then fumble his hands around for another bottle. And his throat would always, without a doubt, be endlessly sore.
Sho told himself not to mind that he hadn't timed out his hunger, or rather, some selfishness within him wanted water to be the only thing that could smudge the kanji on his printed pages. But he still didn't mind having his flip phone beside him, hoping it would ring or buzz with something that would keep this day from becoming just another ailed and misty memory. He already couldn't work, and he could've sworn that the pages on the desk next to him were from some kind of test prep.
Even as he finished up that novel, text, tome, or dictionary his mind now obscured from his thoughts, he still found himself reaching. Catching himself with an outstretched hand, bringing it back to shield his sheets from a rough and sticky cough that made him want to gag. Nothing about this place made him want to leave those chaining covers. Sho barely wanted to leave his room in such a state, but his stomach had other plans.
Almost seems like everything had different plans in the afternoon.
Sho, still within his hamster speckled pajamas and half squished slippers, began to head down the stairs watching every step. It was just easier to pretend that he was going down the stairs slow because he didn't want to slip and snap his neck than to admit that he was tired and weak from being out of commission for more than three days. Gone at the very cusp of the weekend when he'd have to ask Momoko about what he'd missed and ask his father if he had to go anywhere. But out of all of it, he had to tell himself that he'd be right here in front of the fridge until somewhere near Monday.
The fridge was probably the only full thing in the house, so it was inevitable that Sho would be taking out some mess of ingredients. Veggies and broth, maybe some leftover meats that no matter what cookbooks he had sitting right in the corner of his tunnel vision, Sho couldn't figure out how to cook. Plus he barely knew what "Shibuya" veggies, broth, and meats were like. Something that made his forehead simmer more than the lowering fever.
Sho decided to fish for pots in a cupboard he'd never opened and got something tiny. While the pain numbed his brain, his hands couldn't be bothered to tell the difference between the water and broth that happened to end up inside the pot. Even just turning on the stove seemed to sting his eyes enough to close them. But the smell produced after just a couple of minutes he didn't feel like any sting was even there. The air still a sweet poison and his limbs still feeling limp and on strings, he simply let whatever sense he could slip away. Maybe he could call it that? Slipping Away...
He felt like his eyes were floating out of his skull.
Luck was the only thing keeping him from slicing up his fingers or putting himself face first into the alluring warmth of an azure gas flame. Every wobble and groan another stumble onto surviving just trying to make some stupid soup who's own name seemed to just stumble into his head. But right now, all of that seemed to be done. He could just leave the thing on low heat, and the headache that was still addling his every move could help him stumble upstairs. Something so much more preferable than stumbling into a particularly sharp knife.
The bookworm couldn't help but just trip up to his bed again, neatly tucking himself in without a single wrinkle in his plan to catnap another useless sick day away. Maybe the house would burn down and this time they'd both have to move. And maybe Sho only realized he could stave away his worries by pestering a girl he just met and no one else. After all, leaving Nagoya really only meant leaving one person. And that person was probably sitting in a new room, under used sheets, feeling just like him.
This room wasn't a hospital. And in these times he couldn't even count on them getting terribly sleepy over the same place. Both bodies simply separated.
Sho was sure that no matter where you were a knock on the door meant waking up. And the addled pipsqueak was just sleepy enough not to tell himself to shut up and instead hoarsely answer "Who is it?" Little did he know the door would creak with his voice, and before it would reveal someone with his face. Well, his chubbier face, attached to a taller man with small eyes and no glasses to call attention to them. His hair no messier than he was and his used suit just as restraining as Sho's own sheets. But, at least he was carrying a bowl.
"Good evening wouldn't hurt. Don't treat me like a stranger who just happened to work through their day just to see how you are." Their breaths were heavy and far between, but that's just how he was. "How are you, anyway?" Sure he said it like that, but it didn't change the expression that was melting around Sho's glazed eyes a bit.
"Fine." Sho didn't have to remind himself to shut his gob anymore. His throat clamming up did that on its own. His father nearing his bed didn't help much either.
"Sure. At any rate, I got you your soup. So drink up and you might feel a little better than fine while we're here." They added, handing the bowl to Sho with a wide spoon. The orange looking muck was appetizing enough, but it only took one sip to tell him otherwise about the mush. Everything he put in had become a semi-liquid film, it slid down his throat, but the taste was so stinging and sharp at the end. The bitterness just wouldn't leave him be! But his fingers slipping on the small plastic cup next to the bowl gave away what it was. A squinting glare and puckered lips were all he could give.
"Don't leave my stove on. And pick up after yourself when you cook, you're my son, not a pig!" He huffed, gruffly leaving Sho with the only meal made that day. "Drink up and enjoy all of it! We have to go shopping on the weekend..." And as he left his room into the hall, Sho could only begrudgingly accept without a second to retort.
That night, every last bitter drop was gone from his bowl. But no one took it from his desk.
MPC Number: 52C
Reward Requested: Posts.
Crisp turns of yellowed book pages were the only company of a boy underneath a mound of covers and still in his pajamas. The soft click of the ticking analog clock on his nightstand was naught but a ghost to greet him with the senseless passage of time. Something he'd only use to tell himself that he'd really timed it out. To remind himself that every minute and a half he'd cough, every twenty minutes he'd have a rapid fire of three sneezes, and every hour he'd run out of sips of water then fumble his hands around for another bottle. And his throat would always, without a doubt, be endlessly sore.
Sho told himself not to mind that he hadn't timed out his hunger, or rather, some selfishness within him wanted water to be the only thing that could smudge the kanji on his printed pages. But he still didn't mind having his flip phone beside him, hoping it would ring or buzz with something that would keep this day from becoming just another ailed and misty memory. He already couldn't work, and he could've sworn that the pages on the desk next to him were from some kind of test prep.
Even as he finished up that novel, text, tome, or dictionary his mind now obscured from his thoughts, he still found himself reaching. Catching himself with an outstretched hand, bringing it back to shield his sheets from a rough and sticky cough that made him want to gag. Nothing about this place made him want to leave those chaining covers. Sho barely wanted to leave his room in such a state, but his stomach had other plans.
Almost seems like everything had different plans in the afternoon.
Sho, still within his hamster speckled pajamas and half squished slippers, began to head down the stairs watching every step. It was just easier to pretend that he was going down the stairs slow because he didn't want to slip and snap his neck than to admit that he was tired and weak from being out of commission for more than three days. Gone at the very cusp of the weekend when he'd have to ask Momoko about what he'd missed and ask his father if he had to go anywhere. But out of all of it, he had to tell himself that he'd be right here in front of the fridge until somewhere near Monday.
The fridge was probably the only full thing in the house, so it was inevitable that Sho would be taking out some mess of ingredients. Veggies and broth, maybe some leftover meats that no matter what cookbooks he had sitting right in the corner of his tunnel vision, Sho couldn't figure out how to cook. Plus he barely knew what "Shibuya" veggies, broth, and meats were like. Something that made his forehead simmer more than the lowering fever.
Sho decided to fish for pots in a cupboard he'd never opened and got something tiny. While the pain numbed his brain, his hands couldn't be bothered to tell the difference between the water and broth that happened to end up inside the pot. Even just turning on the stove seemed to sting his eyes enough to close them. But the smell produced after just a couple of minutes he didn't feel like any sting was even there. The air still a sweet poison and his limbs still feeling limp and on strings, he simply let whatever sense he could slip away. Maybe he could call it that? Slipping Away...
He felt like his eyes were floating out of his skull.
Luck was the only thing keeping him from slicing up his fingers or putting himself face first into the alluring warmth of an azure gas flame. Every wobble and groan another stumble onto surviving just trying to make some stupid soup who's own name seemed to just stumble into his head. But right now, all of that seemed to be done. He could just leave the thing on low heat, and the headache that was still addling his every move could help him stumble upstairs. Something so much more preferable than stumbling into a particularly sharp knife.
The bookworm couldn't help but just trip up to his bed again, neatly tucking himself in without a single wrinkle in his plan to catnap another useless sick day away. Maybe the house would burn down and this time they'd both have to move. And maybe Sho only realized he could stave away his worries by pestering a girl he just met and no one else. After all, leaving Nagoya really only meant leaving one person. And that person was probably sitting in a new room, under used sheets, feeling just like him.
This room wasn't a hospital. And in these times he couldn't even count on them getting terribly sleepy over the same place. Both bodies simply separated.
Sho was sure that no matter where you were a knock on the door meant waking up. And the addled pipsqueak was just sleepy enough not to tell himself to shut up and instead hoarsely answer "Who is it?" Little did he know the door would creak with his voice, and before it would reveal someone with his face. Well, his chubbier face, attached to a taller man with small eyes and no glasses to call attention to them. His hair no messier than he was and his used suit just as restraining as Sho's own sheets. But, at least he was carrying a bowl.
"Good evening wouldn't hurt. Don't treat me like a stranger who just happened to work through their day just to see how you are." Their breaths were heavy and far between, but that's just how he was. "How are you, anyway?" Sure he said it like that, but it didn't change the expression that was melting around Sho's glazed eyes a bit.
"Fine." Sho didn't have to remind himself to shut his gob anymore. His throat clamming up did that on its own. His father nearing his bed didn't help much either.
"Sure. At any rate, I got you your soup. So drink up and you might feel a little better than fine while we're here." They added, handing the bowl to Sho with a wide spoon. The orange looking muck was appetizing enough, but it only took one sip to tell him otherwise about the mush. Everything he put in had become a semi-liquid film, it slid down his throat, but the taste was so stinging and sharp at the end. The bitterness just wouldn't leave him be! But his fingers slipping on the small plastic cup next to the bowl gave away what it was. A squinting glare and puckered lips were all he could give.
"Don't leave my stove on. And pick up after yourself when you cook, you're my son, not a pig!" He huffed, gruffly leaving Sho with the only meal made that day. "Drink up and enjoy all of it! We have to go shopping on the weekend..." And as he left his room into the hall, Sho could only begrudgingly accept without a second to retort.
That night, every last bitter drop was gone from his bowl. But no one took it from his desk.
