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savetheearth2014-12-15 09:24 pm
dead_black_eyes) wrote in savetheearth2014-12-15 09:24 pm
Entry tags:
Don't Dare to Care About Someone [December 15, Closed]
Who: Lazarus "L" Lawliet and Tony Sparado
What: Hard living and seasonal contagions catch up to L at around the same time. Tony talks him into going to the doctor, but their taxi's going to have a rough time getting through a particularly chaotic riot downtown.
When: 12/15, early afternoon
Where: Starting at Willow Ridge Surveillance Center, ending (fingers crossed!) at a clinic.
Warnings: High fever hallucinations, hemming and hawing about how pneumonia is not that big of a deal.
L was happiest when he could rely on certain things in his life to be stable. Devoted to rituals, he looked forward to small, safe things he could control, secure in the knowledge that in the space he occupied, he was clean, and he was God. So much had been distracting him in the last couple of weeks; Albero was dead, but some of their worst fears had also been realized. In hindsight, he felt foolish; of course there was a power vacuum, and the riots on television only fanned the flames. PR-wise, things had backfired horrendously, and L had been working tirelessly, sometimes alongside others and sometimes alone, to fortify and secure the former boarding academy. From the outside, it still looked like a decrepit, uninteresting building that few would bother taking time out of their day to disturb, and it was certainly not a known Numbered haunt, which was, for the present at least, a huge point in their favor.
But L had been so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed the buzz in his lungs when he inhaled too deeply, the persistent cough, the tightness in his chest when he took the stairs too quickly. The irony of turning the school into a literal fortress while his body was under attack by much smaller foes wouldn't have been lost on him, except that today he woke up dizzy, shivering, and unable to reflect on very much for long. He was burning up with fever, and his shirt was drenched through with sweat, but he still pulled his sleeping bag closer around his shoulders, curling tightly into himself.
"I'm not sick," he mumbled to himself, willing the words to be true because he wanted them to be so badly. "I'm... not..." he interrupted himself with a violent coughing fit, and when he was spent in that capacity, the hand he'd used to cover his mouth was flecked with red, and he was shivering harder than ever. The sleeping bag wasn't enough, and wouldn't be. He tossed it aside, frustrated, mopping at the sweat beading on his brow.
"Some boy scout you would have been," Moises' faulty and unreliable image said, shaking his head as he leaned against the wall.
"You can't be here," L snapped, raising his voice. "Nothing hides in this room..."
"Since you killed me, you know I don't have to hide. Certainly not from you. Are you cold?" Just a voice, that time. L wasn't sure if it was better or worse.
"Yes," he murmured, the room spinning under him as he stood and closed the window.
"Hypothermia is the leading cause of death of mountain climbers and aquarium fish, and news anchors, if you remember the hill's favorite major league bottle cap," Moises' voice droned.
"...what?" L asked, bewildered.
"Better get warm, terminated fork-fringe. You'll have to meander the carbonated nostalgia if you can't alternate the splicers."
L paced for several minutes, rubbing his arms briskly, the stale air stifling him as he drew it in quick, shallow breaths. He reached for a cigarette, hand shaking as he raised the lighter... and then another solution, simple and perfect, presented itself. He pulled his sleeping bag onto the floor, bringing the flame close to a corner of it, watching the material ignite and moving his hands closer to the infant fire.
What: Hard living and seasonal contagions catch up to L at around the same time. Tony talks him into going to the doctor, but their taxi's going to have a rough time getting through a particularly chaotic riot downtown.
When: 12/15, early afternoon
Where: Starting at Willow Ridge Surveillance Center, ending (fingers crossed!) at a clinic.
Warnings: High fever hallucinations, hemming and hawing about how pneumonia is not that big of a deal.
L was happiest when he could rely on certain things in his life to be stable. Devoted to rituals, he looked forward to small, safe things he could control, secure in the knowledge that in the space he occupied, he was clean, and he was God. So much had been distracting him in the last couple of weeks; Albero was dead, but some of their worst fears had also been realized. In hindsight, he felt foolish; of course there was a power vacuum, and the riots on television only fanned the flames. PR-wise, things had backfired horrendously, and L had been working tirelessly, sometimes alongside others and sometimes alone, to fortify and secure the former boarding academy. From the outside, it still looked like a decrepit, uninteresting building that few would bother taking time out of their day to disturb, and it was certainly not a known Numbered haunt, which was, for the present at least, a huge point in their favor.
But L had been so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed the buzz in his lungs when he inhaled too deeply, the persistent cough, the tightness in his chest when he took the stairs too quickly. The irony of turning the school into a literal fortress while his body was under attack by much smaller foes wouldn't have been lost on him, except that today he woke up dizzy, shivering, and unable to reflect on very much for long. He was burning up with fever, and his shirt was drenched through with sweat, but he still pulled his sleeping bag closer around his shoulders, curling tightly into himself.
"I'm not sick," he mumbled to himself, willing the words to be true because he wanted them to be so badly. "I'm... not..." he interrupted himself with a violent coughing fit, and when he was spent in that capacity, the hand he'd used to cover his mouth was flecked with red, and he was shivering harder than ever. The sleeping bag wasn't enough, and wouldn't be. He tossed it aside, frustrated, mopping at the sweat beading on his brow.
"Some boy scout you would have been," Moises' faulty and unreliable image said, shaking his head as he leaned against the wall.
"You can't be here," L snapped, raising his voice. "Nothing hides in this room..."
"Since you killed me, you know I don't have to hide. Certainly not from you. Are you cold?" Just a voice, that time. L wasn't sure if it was better or worse.
"Yes," he murmured, the room spinning under him as he stood and closed the window.
"Hypothermia is the leading cause of death of mountain climbers and aquarium fish, and news anchors, if you remember the hill's favorite major league bottle cap," Moises' voice droned.
"...what?" L asked, bewildered.
"Better get warm, terminated fork-fringe. You'll have to meander the carbonated nostalgia if you can't alternate the splicers."
L paced for several minutes, rubbing his arms briskly, the stale air stifling him as he drew it in quick, shallow breaths. He reached for a cigarette, hand shaking as he raised the lighter... and then another solution, simple and perfect, presented itself. He pulled his sleeping bag onto the floor, bringing the flame close to a corner of it, watching the material ignite and moving his hands closer to the infant fire.
no subject
He writes down all the numbers and information that is relevant, being honest about his medical history, his symptoms, his habits and tendencies. On paper it looks bloody hopeless. He frowns and scratches out some of his answers, replacing them with ones that won't keep him here longer.
"I hate them, too," he replies blankly. "But when they're a fact of life, it's wise to get used to them. When they're a way of life, you can't not..."
He shrugs a shoulder.
"At least this time I wasn't loaded into an ambulance in front of all my neighbors. Or left on the sidewalk outside. Paperwork's really easy this time, considering."
no subject
"I suppose..." It must be hard, in a way. The things L's been though in the medical community. Then again they both had their difficulties, L's just came in the form of more labs than Tony's had.
"Heh, no. You know I wouldn't do something like that. Could've called an ambulance I guess, kinda slipped my mind at the time..." He was panicking a bit okay.
no subject
"It's much better that you didn't call an ambulance," he admits. "I don't want anyone, even just a couple of random paramedics with no reason to care, to know what's going on in the school. It needs to be kept quiet. You did very well not to."
no subject
"Hm..." He looks uncertain, but relieved that he'd made the wise decision. "Still, it was risky not..." Tony can you just accept you've done something right once in a while? Forever second-guessing, this one. Even so, L was going to be okay and he was happy with the way Tony handled it. Maybe he's not completely inept after all.
no subject
no subject
No more sleeping in a thin sleeping back on just a pile of springs and not eating. Tony will make sure of that.