𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

03 | Desires

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Misunderstandings may arise when communication isn't present. Be careful.

Being sick was never pleasant, but Y/n had gotten used to it. Admittedly, when he was a kid, he didn't want to be sick — he remembered all the parties he couldn't attend because medicine was being shoved down his throat, all the you'll get better soon, I promise — that his parents frequently told him, all the feelings of being left out when he saw his brothers come back to the manor with awards and prizes. Nineteen years later, and still Y/n's immune system was embarrassingly horrible, but he had grown out of that jealous phase — and had plunged right into the hibernating phase.

Y/n L/n had gotten relatively lucky with his childhood — while sick, his parents doted on him, and so did his brothers. They cheered him up by showering him with gifts, albeit needlessly expensive, and made sure he was always included in familial events. If he got terribly sick on an eventful day, one family member would stay back to aid him. Y/n was grateful, truly — he had expected to be the brunt of unwitting, mean remarks from other noble children from his perceived lack of strength, for his vulnerability, for his inability to use mana, but it hadn't happened. But Isidor — there was where he struck the jackpot — had always stayed by his side and comforted him.

Y/n closed his eyes. It was night now, and he could hear birds tweeting from afar. He fidgeted on the bed, his hands curling around the sheets — the weather was cold, as controlled by Isidor's mana — but Y/n felt buoyant, floaty, almost — as he drifted from sluggishness to restlessness. Sometimes; if he slept too much, all the energy would be drained out of him and his brain simply would not shut down. It was at these moments he placed a hand over his chest and listened to his thudding heartbeat.

Years ago Y/n believed he wouldn't make it past his debutante age. Women typically debuted at fourteen, while men debuted at a later age, at nineteen. This meant that when Y/n's birthday rolled by, he would have to officially be presented to society. And this meant finding a wife, of course...

A nagging feeling tugged at Y/n's stomach. He couldn't even think of the possibility of courting a woman — much less anyone... He hadn't even believed he would survive through all those terrible bouts of illnesses, all that curling up in his bed where pain was the only thing that could be registered in his head. There were nights, Y/n remembered, where he couldn't help but release a few broken sobs, clutching his stomach. He just wanted to rest. The nightmares along with the sharp, burning pain tormented him, plagued him, strangled him. His breaths would grow erratic, fast, cut off — then the comforting hands of either his family or Isidor would reach out and...touch his wrist. His heartbeat could be felt from there, and it thudded faintly.

("You're safe," his dear mother would whisper. "You're safe; my darling child.")

Now the years had eclipsed him and the pain had simmered to a steady brew. Y/n wondered if the pain had lessened, or he had just gotten used to it. Would there be a huge change — would his limbs become lighter, quicker, more agile — if he were to burrow into the body of another? If...

Y/n peeked at Isidor. From the rise and falls of his chest, Y/n could see clearly that the prince was in deep sleep. He must have been exhausted, Y/n thought, ignoring the headache that was throbbing in the recesses of his mind. He must have been... caring for me.