Under His Mask

After the battle

I am back with my first appleradio Alastor angst story, because appearantly y'all love these things!

TW:

-Radioapple (slow burn obvs)

-Graphic depictions of injury

-Vomiting

-Slightly OOC Alastor

Enjoy!

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Pain.

Pain, so much pain.

Peircing his every movement, straining his body in ways he never knew possible, centering all his both mental and physical energy on healing, causing his mask to drop more occasionally, making him want to scream or cry, slowing down his mental processing, begging him to sleep and rest, demanding more food than usual, creating frequent nausea and dizziness due to the smell and loss of blood, making his skin and eyes pale, he feels freezing yet always has a fever, can hardly get out of bed, the lethargy and exhaustion take over so quickly, all this because of stupid pain and a stupid chest wound.

Damn it hurts all the time all day long.

Smiling hurts more now too.

Never in his entire life had he wanted to drop his smile more than in this moment. However he hates frowning, he will not stand for it, he will not in any case be seen as weak.

He will carry on past the pain. Like always.

Panting shakily, he took his trembling hands to his bloodied shirt.

He had only barely managed to take off his coat, and the shirt was next.

He felt like puking as the repulsive smell entered his nostrils, and dizziness hit like waves once more.

Closing his eyes tightly, he forced his body not to fall to the side again. Pulling himself up from the floor and proping his body against a wall had drained almost all his energy, and he doubted he could do it a second time.

Oh, how he hated every moment of this weakness and vulnerability.

Taking in a long and deep breath, he forced his eyes open as he steadied himself to address the situation of his wound once more.

Cold sweat dripped down his face, causing his body to tremble more violently.

Carefully, he latched his hands onto his soaked shirt. He felt his flesh pull along with it as he attempted to lift it up.

He let out a soft whimper of pain, and hated the fact that it hurt so much his body should be forced to vocally express his agony.

Carefully, he pried the shirt from his wound, wincing in pain as he did so, and being forced to let go every so often.

He was panting hard now, each breath accompanied by a soft moan of pain.

Again, he grabbed his shirt. The fabric felt dreadful, as if it would dissintigrate at any moment.

He knew from somewhere that it would hurt less if he ripped the whole thing off as fast as he could.

At least that he hoped.

Using every ounce of resilliance he could muster, and clenching his teeth in preparation, he ripped the shirt right off his wound.

Everything muffled and the corners of his vision darkened.

It burned! Oh, how much it burned!

He couldn't tell if he had screamed. All he knew was that he was in agony.