"He's sick again," Laxus could distantly hear his fathers voice coming through the other side of the half open door. "I swear that kid gets sickness on others' behalf." He didn't sound happy, and even Laxus, in his feverish state, had the mind to flinch ad swallow shallowly as the words (sorry, dad) danced through his mind.
There was a lot for Laxus to be sorry for, in Ivan Drayer's books. Laxus was more or less aware that in a way that children knew when their parents were disappointed in or by them.
"He can't help that Ivan - besides, i bet he stayed up waiting for you nail he got sick again," he recognized his grandfathers voice saying, the intonation gentle but firm.
"He should be stronger than this," Laxus's dad said, just clear enough for laxus to make out every single word and imprint them in his mind. They would come back later at irregular intervals, pulsing and throbbing inside him like poison, but that would come years later.
