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janekfan · 11 days

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hi pookie, i’m sendjng an ask because i can’t decide so i’m giving you a lot of options.

any of these for martin/jon and specifically martin saying it if you’re so inclined:

“don’t sit up yet,” “you’re terrible at this,” “you’re so fucking infuriating”

and martin/jon, jon speaking:

“it barely even hurts,” or “you’ve been brave long enough”

and martin/jon with “i’m so sorry” “no you’re not”

i’m just kind of obsessed with thinking like “what if martin said the ones that jon would be more likely to say” and also hurt jon haha

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT!!!!!

i loved your ideas here, and I love how this fic turned out! early archives crew field-medicines the worms out of one another in the spare room with the cot, anyone? jon ignoring his own more serious injuries to tend to the others? finally crashing, revealing true emotions, and bonding for life, anyone?????

Martin can’t bite back another cry of pain as Jon twists the corkscrew further into his leg. Tim has a cool washcloth oh Martin’s head and behind his neck while Sasha fans him with her clipboard, but it’s all providing little comfort.

“Last one, then you’re finished,” Jon soothes. “Ready?”

Martin takes a breath and another shot of the bourbon Jon keeps in his desk, then nods. Jon lines the angle up with the hole and begins to twist. Martin is biting down on his sweater to keep from screaming.

“Stop squirming.”

“It hurts!”

“I’m sorry!”

Martin actually almost laughs at that. “You’re terrible at this,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, you’re going to have to cope with it.” Martin tries his best, but the pain is too much, and he finds that he can’t stop thrashing. “Hold him down,” Jon snaps to Tim. He’s muttering apologies and encouragements, but that kindness gets him little other than a knee to the jaw. As Tim staggers backward, fingers bloody from his split lip, Jon drops the last worm from Martin’s body into a glass jar.

“You’re done now,” Jon reassures, audibly out of breath. He takes his hand in a gesture that’s as comforting as it is uncharacteristically intimate. “Let’s get you lying down. You’re a bit pale.”

Tim and Sasha gingerly help Martin to his feet and then to the cot, where he lies on his back with his feet elevated on a pillow. After a few moments, he starts to look a little less peaky, so Jon beckons for Sasha to sit in the chair before him.

“You’re next, I’m afraid.”

“Lucky me.” She plops down in front of him and lifts her skirt slightly to expose her calf. There’s only one, which Jon pops out quickly and as painlessly as he can with the corkscrew. She barely even reacts. However, he knows that she certainly didn’t get off easy. Most of the worms that feasted on her had attacked her face and are slowly burrowing through her cheeks and jaw. It’s going to be at least as bad as Martin’s extractions, if not worse. The corkscrew feels so, so primitive. He might as well be letting leeches suck the ghosts out of her blood. It’s barbaric.

“Tim,” Jon beckons quietly, gesturing to the empty space in front of him. “Will you sit here? Sasha needs to put her head down so I can get to the holes and I think she might be more comfortable with you than on the concrete.”

Without a joke or quip or flirtatious remark, Tim does as he’s told, allowing Sasha to place her head in his lap. Instinctively, he starts to stroke her hair.

“Remember to breathe, okay?”

Jon is “sterilizing” the corkscrew with isopropyl wipes from the first aid kit as thoroughly as he can, though he isn’t completely happy with it even when it’s as clean as he can get it. “Let me know if you need me to stop. I’d rather take a break than have you move and make the scars worse.” Her face falls at the word “scars.” They’d all known that the wounds were too deep to just heal over like nothing had ever happened, but now she’s picturing her face marred by a dozen holes, a reminder she’ll have to see every day of this horror she’s endured. She wonders if there will be a day in the future, even distantly, where any of them will be able to look at her face and not see this ugly, brutal night in the pockmarks.

She doesn’t know to be careful what she wishes for.

Jon gently sanitizes the side of her face with the alcohol, fingers falling into grooves that weren’t there before.

“Are you ready?”

She takes a deep breath, squeezes Tim’s hand, and nods. “Get those bastards out of me.”

“That’s my girl,” Tim praises. He lets her squeeze the feeling out of his fingers as Jon chases the first worm, wipes away tears as he skewers it and retracts the corkscrew as slowly as he can. It’s methodical, detailed work that requires a steady hand and intense focus, not to mention a strong stomach. It’s no wonder they’ve chosen Jon. He’s actually gentler than he seems, too.

He evicts 10 worms from her cheeks and jaw, plus the one from her leg. He has her check herself over twice more, tells her that they need to be very very sure they’ve got them all. Sasha is positive. It’s not just that she can’t see them anymore or feel them wriggling, but there’s a feeling that has lifted. Like a sense of foreboding and illness that, now that the worms are out, has dissipated into a sore sleepiness.

“That’s all of them,” Jon finally announces. “How do you feel?”

“Like a rat nibbled a bunch of holes in me,” she says, light but pained. “But I’m alright.”

“You did well. You were very brave.” That praise coming from someone who doles it out as infrequently as Jon means a lot.

“Move over, Martin,” she commands once Jon has bandaged any of the wounds that are bleeding. There’s certainly not room for both of them on the cot, so Martin lays the quilt down on the floor and piles his pillows around it to make a nest of sorts.

“It’s like you’ve got a little members club lounge over there,” Tim jokes.

“Yes, well, I’m ready to grant you admission.” Jon cleans that corkscrew like his life depends on it. He’s probably right.

“Do you need my lap?” Sasha asks.

“Or mine?”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe a hand to hold.” Martin and Sasha each grab one, which makes him smile. Jon waits patiently until Tim has had time mentally to prepare. “Level with me, guys. What’s this going to feel like?”

Sasha sighs. “Mostly a lot of pressure. It’ll sting at first, but then he’ll be so deep in that you stop being able to feel it so much.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Thenit’stheworstpainyou’veeverfelt,” Martin rushes in one hurried breath, torn between his desire to be honest and his desire not to scare him.

“What?”

“Well, as the—the worms are pulled out, they… well, they sort of clamp down? And move all around, trying to resist removal. Going in is easy, but pulling them back out is…” He shudders. “I can’t describe it.”

“I’m going to be as delicate as possible,” Jon reassures. He’s trying for comforting, but he’s pretty sure his tone just sounds exhausted. He’s tired. His head is pounding from this stress. Not to mention that his own worms, dozens of them, are burrowing their way deeper and deeper into his body, chomping excruciatingly at whatever they can find.

He shifts to sit up a little straighter and the movement to his hip aggravates one of them, sending a wave of white-hot pain through his hip so strong he sees stars for a moment.

“Jon?” Martin calls when he cries out, clearly not as asleep as Jon had thought. “What happened?”

His face is damp with sweat when he shakes his head, unable to open his eyes just yet. “Nothing,” he replies. “Sorry. I moved wrong.”

Tim frowns. “Are you sure you don’t want to go next?”

“If I do, then we’ll all be too shaky to get to you. Better that I do the three of you and then you can work together for mine.”

Though none of them love that answer, there isn’t a better one, so they simply nod. Tim’s worms are mostly concentrated to his hands and left arm. Unable to hold his hands, Sasha places his head in her lap and toys with his hair while Martin rubs his back in small circles.

Tim starts screaming nearly as soon as Jon touches the hole with the edge of the metal. It startles him, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes rather than snapping at him for the noise or berating him for being dramatic. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Just keep going, Jon. You’re doing great.” Martin offers him a small smile. At least he’s been forgiven from the pain he’d been required to inflict.

Tim’s pain tolerance is significantly less than the other two’s. He requests frequent breaks citing that he feels like he’s going to faint, like he’s going to be sick. Jon gives him all the time he needs, but he can’t shove from the back of his mind that every minute they delay the end of this is another minute longer his own worms have to burrow, and they’re already in so deep. He can tell. He feels them writhing around, their carnivorous little teeth scraping bone. He’ll be lucky to walk away from this with his pelvis in tact.

By the time he’s pulling the last worm out of Tim’s palm, he’s seeing double from his own agony. “How d’y’feel?” he tries, but it comes out slurred and stilted. Tim frowns.

“Erm, not great. Are you alright? You look peaky.”

Jon nods, but there’s nothing to it. Without a word, he stands from his chair, a wave of pain so blinding ripping through his hip that he cries out and collapses to his knees.

“Jon!” Martin is the first at his side, scanning him for any injuries aside from the obvious. He’s ashamed that he hadn’t noticed how poorly Jon looked before. He’s pale, his entire body covered in a thin sheen of sweat despite shaking chills. When Martin places a hand to his forehead, he’s shocked to find an insidious, ominous sort of heat there.

“He’s burning up,” Martin announces.

“Just need to get the worms out,” he begs. “Please, get them out. They’re eating me.”

The group wastes no time getting Jon lying down flat on his back. “Where are they?” Martin asks, corkscrew in hand. His were the least shaky when they compared them side by side, so this responsibility belongs to him.

“Everywhere.”

They think he’s exaggerating until they realize he isn’t. His face and hands are covered, which was to be expected. However, Martin follows the wounds up his arm until he can no longer roll up the sleeve and has to remove his whole shirt. Jon is remarkably malleable for that, even if he did cry out in pain the whole time. It broke Martin’s heart.

With Jon’s shirt neatly folded off to the side, Martin’s eyes widen. Holes everywhere. They have to take off his dress pants, too, in order to reveal the ones that are at his hip and thigh. They’ve barely left anything on his left side untouched.

“Jesus Christ, Jon,” Martin whispers. He turns to Tim and Sasha, who are looking on in pained disbelief. “We’ll need more corkscrews. Find them, sanitize them, and come back.”

They scurry off to find them while Martin pours Jon another shot of bourbon, then a third. “This is going to hurt an awful lot.”

“It already hurts,” Jon manages through a tight jaw. “I want them out. I feel so—so ill.”

Rot. Decay. Infection. Martin shivers at the thought of what all might be coursing through Jon’s system right now. Even with his meager 6 worms, he’d felt like hell. He simply can’t imagine how ill Jon must be. He presses a hand to his forehead again, hoping to find that he was wrong about the fever but only managing to confirm it. He reaches for the washcloth that Tim had been using on Martin’s forehead to keep cool and dips it in the bowl of water. He makes a slight mess aes he wrings it out, then places it over Jon’s burning forehead.

“We only found one corkscrew,” Sasha announces as they barge back into the room so loudly that Jon flinches from the way it spikes his headache, “but there were tweezers in the junk drawer.”

“Anything; anything. Hurry.”

Tim is quick to start sanitizing his tool: of course, the tweezers. They’ll take the most force to use, and he’s got abnormally strong hands.

“Jon, mate, you look awful.”

“He’s running a high fever. We’ve got to move quickly.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sasha asks softly. “You placed yourself last on purpose.”

“I’m going to take the most time,” he explains pragmatically. “Better to save it for last.”

Sasha flips the washcloth to the cool side and strokes his hot cheek with her thumb. She’s wiping away either a tear or a drip from the washcloth, but he feels too fuzzy to know which it is.

“Ready, boss?” Tim asks. Jon, wildly unprepared, nods, then grits his teeth hard as Tim reaches into the hole with the tweezers. And reaches. And reaches. Fishes around a bit, gradually feeding more and more of the metal into his leg until he finally hits resistance and grabs it hard. With a horrible popping sound, a worm, wildly engorged, is plucked from the hole. It’s so large that Jon can see the little barbs on its body, the ones designed to prevent its removal. They’d scraped the inside of his leg badly, but even with that new pain in mind, relief washes over him like a wave.

“Christ, there’s so many of them,” Martin breathes.

“And they’re in deep. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to grab it.”

“Why are they so fat?”

“They’ve started eating,” Jon says. He’s got no proof; he just Knows. “Chewing, digesting away my muscle. Chipping away at bone. They’re going to break me down into compost.”

“That’s not going to happen, Jon,” Martin says firmly. “Now. As fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything.”

And they don’t. They don’t stop when he rolls on his side to vomit into the trash bin, nor when he begs them to take a break because he can’t see anymore. They push through him saying the cruelest things he can think of, pointing out all the things they hate most about themselves. Maybe, if he makes them hate him, they’ll leave him to die in peace. They don’t stop when he passes out from pain, nor when he wakes up crying and repeats that cycle twice more.

By the time Martin pulls out the last worm, it’s larger than the hole it burrowed in through. He gives it one final tug, then places the whole thing into Jon’s jar. The jars had at first been a lighthearted attempt to add a little mirth to such an awful situation, but now it’s just hard to look at Jon’s, twice as full as the others.

“Ngh,” he moans. Martin taps his burning cheek lighty. “It hurts.”

“We got them all,” Martin promises. Doesn’t it feel better?”

He nods. With as much pain as he’s in, feverish and barely conscious, even this is better.

“Is he still feverish? Has it gone down at all?” Sasha asks. Martin checks, and though it’s difficult to verify without a thermometer, he still feels uncomfortably, near scarily warm.

“It’s still pretty bad. I think we need to get him some paracetamol and a rest.”

“I’d like to stay with him if you lot want to go home,” Tim says. “It’s been a long day.”

“Are you joking?” Sasha challenges. “Go home alone, after all that? No, thank you. I’m staying here and sleeping with the fire extinguisher.”

“I suppose that’s all of us staying, then,” Martin says. Together, they set up the cot once more and settle Jon into it. They find instant noodles and coax a few bites into him so he can take a dose of flu tabs. He drinks as much water as he thinks he can keep down. With all those conditions met, Martin scoops Jon off his place leaning against Martin’s shoulder and lays him down on the cot. He accepts the quilt so greedily that Martin takes off his jumper and places that on top, too.

“Do you need anything?” Martin asks. Jon shrugs, then shakes his head. “You hesitated. What can I do?”

“I’d, erm. I think I might feel better—or rather, warmer, or maybe calmer if I—”

“Jon.”

“A cup of tea?”

Martin laughs lightly. “Is that all!” He stands, and Sasha follows with the fire extinguisher. No taking chances, but things at least feel safe for now. Jon allows himself to rest his eyes until Tim clears his throat.

“You really should have said something earlier, you know,” he says. Jon flinches, preparing for a lecture that doesn’t come. “But I understand why you couldn’t.”

“Thank you.”

“No, Jon. Thank you. You were amazing. Like a surgeon.”

He pales. “Ugh. I’d rather not think about that, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” He reaches over and searches for a part of Jon that isn’t bandaged. He settles for his right hand and grasps it, squeezes feather-light. “You saved us.”

“You’re—well, of course. I put you in this mess. I’m responsible for anything that happens to any of you at work.”

“Jon. Say what you mean.”

He hesitates. “You’re my friends. And I care about you.”

“Aw, Jon, you softie,” Sasha taunts from the doorway. They’ve successfully returned with a mug of still-steeping tea, tempered with cold milk. He grabs it gratefully despite Martin’s warnings that it’s hot. He drinks for so long that Martin thinks he might drain the cup dry in one go.

“I’m so glad everyone’s okay,” Martin says. He might be making too early a call on that, but they’ve survived, at least, and for now, that’s all they can really ask for.

“Get some rest, Jon. We’re all here.”

He decides he’ll quickly shut his eyes. Between Tim’s hand holding his own, Martin’s shoulder to lean on, and Sasha draped across Tim’s lap, extinguisher pointed at the door, he decides it’s alright to let go for a moment.

#So goooood

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janekfan · 14 days

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Omg Ingo panicking and Emmet not understanding and making it worse but then making it better... The moment when Emmet first sees his scars. Is it an accident like Ingo rolling up his sleeves to do dishes? Is it during an emergency? Trying to access an injury and stopping short at the sight?

I was seeing the comic of Emmets self destructing behavior even after he and Ingo reunited and wow… that implication it’s not the first time…

How many times must have this happened? How many times until Ingo knew snapping him out by a gentle hand on his shoulder? What bad habits did Emmet develop while being on his own? With "Ingo" encouraging him to be more healthy? Just so deliciously dark! I love it?

On the other hand how much strain Ingo's body going through when he has his moments he sees "the man in white" his body switches to "life-or-death-mode" receiving a little bruise could cause him to fall into full panic mode and try to treat it like a lethal wound if not for Emmet snapping him out of it and calming him down again.

While both have their moments of seeing their subconscious guardian angel both react differently.

Emmet is apathetic towards "Ingo" dismissing him since he’s not even there. He reacts mentally.

Ingo’s whole body could react to small bruises and injuries like they could kill him and depending on his support to get through it. He reacts with his whole body.

Also when Ingo’s aware he’s probably insecure about all the scars he’s got on him now. How many times he almost died… he doesn’t want the real Emmet to know. It’s bad enough that "the man in white knows"…

YES YES!!! This analysis is so perfect!!! If you'd allow me to ramble a bit...

Emmet's self destructive tendencies have been going on for a while since Ingo's disappearance. He has his Elesa and his depot agents to support him/remind him to not truly forget about himself (Elesa trying to take more time off from her job to check on Emmet/invite him out to lunch to make sure he eats, the veteran depot agents frequently checking up on him during the day/encouraging him take more breaks/interrupting his smoke breaks "accidentally", ect) but it's been hard to say the least. It will take some time for these habits to truly go away even with Ingo back, especially on his bad days.

BUT ALSO YEAH! Ingo! If Emmet appears at the corner of his eye suddenly or he sees him from a distance (any sort of blurred visage - as the man in white always appeared as) he might have a knee jerk response - a sudden urge to run or seek safety - but ultimately it won't be too serious.

His body reacts the most drastically when he is already in a state of injury and Emmet is within eyesight. Elevated heart rate, shortness of breathe, blurred vision, body tremors: his adrenaline levels will spike to an unnatural level causing a ton of stress on the body, since his mind is basically telling his body that he's on the brink of death. The quickest way to calm him down if it were to get this bad would be to have Emmet out of his sight until he can calm down...Not very ideal when the source of one's panic works the same job as you, in a work environment where slight injuries aren't too uncommon

#delicious

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janekfan · 2 months

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IT'S HEEEEERE!!

And it's so beautiful T^T

@sandflakedraws

#Touch of Sunlight #Sandflake #original art #Amazing #Beautiful #Spectacular #Omg I can't even #So happy to have been even a teeny part of this!

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janekfan · 4 months

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janekfan · 6 months

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gaza has just been completely cut off from the world.

after increased intensity of israeli aistrikes tonight, the last cable providing communications was destroyed. telecommunications have been completely cut off. they cannot reach one another. they cannot reach paramedics. the red crescent society has completely lost contact with their branch in gaza. nobody inside can reach anyone inside, and especially not outside of gaza to tell us what is going on. this is a complete atrocity.

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janekfan · 6 months

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FireflySummers’ Guide to Arguing Against the Use of AI Image Generators

(AKA I hate AI image generators so fucking much that I published a whole ass academic article on it)

Read the Paper: Art in the Machine: Value Misalignment and AI "Art"

Citation: Allred, A.M., Aragon, C. (2023). Art in the Machine: Value Misalignment and AI “Art”. In: Luo, Y. (eds) Cooperative Design, Visualization, and Engineering. CDVE 2023. Lecture Notes in Computer Science, vol 14166. Springer, Cham. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-43815-8_4

The purpose of the original paper and now this post is the following:

Provide at least one academic article that you can cite. (Full paper + citation available below)

Make explicit community values that have previously been implicit, in order to better examine your own perceptions of the online artist community, and where you sit within it.

Provide rebuttals to common pro-AI talking points, with the intention of shutting down the conversation and reclaiming the narrative.

What this paper and post cannot do:

Act as a sole authority about the online artist community and its values. We are not a monolith, and it is up to you to think critically about what, exactly, you want to take away from this discussion.

Provide a way to convince AI Evangelists that what they’re doing is wrong and bad and needs to stop. You will never convince them. Again, focus on shutting them down and reclaiming the narrative.

Final Disclaimer: I'm a very fallible researcher who is still very much learning how to do academia. I cannot speak for the entirety of the online artist community or fanartist community. We all have different lived experiences. I have done my best to include diverse voices; however if you have concerns or critiques, I am open to hearing them.

If you show up to debate in favor of AI image generators, you will be automatically blocked.

Credits:

Editors, Meme Experts, and Annotators: @starbeans-bags, @b4kuch1n, @cecilioque.

Tutorial Examples: @sabertoothwalrus, @ash-and-starlight, @miyuliart, @hometownrockstar, @deoidesign, @cinnamonrollbakery

If you have read this far, thank you very much. I hope that you have found a constructive lens for approaching the war with AI image generators, as well as a new tool for shutting down debate and reclaiming the narrative.

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janekfan · 6 months

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Israel has just bombed a hospital where hundreds of wounded and refugees were taking solace. Journalists in Gaza have reported there was hardly a single body whole in the aftermath (If you can stomach it, there's a video of a father holding what remains of his child). At least 500 people killed by IOF soldiers, who planned this action, got into an airplane and dropped that bomb willingly. The deadliest attack in five wars, according to the Ministry of Health.

Israel has denied ownership of the attack and said it was a misfired Hamas rocket. Originally, they celebrated it on their social media, saying they had destroyed a Hamas target, treating the deaths like an unfortunate collateral. After international backlash, they posted videos to their social media claiming it was a Hamas rocket. The video, though, shows a second explosion 40 minutes after the airstrike, and they edited it our of their tweet in a pathetic attempt at covering up.

Israel has said multiple times that they were going to bomb hospitals. They told doctors to evacuate and leave their patients to death because they were going to bomb, namely: Al Shifa, Shuhada Al Aqsa and the Quwaiti Hospital. Al Shifa housed at least 10.000 refugees and wounded, and worked as a hub for the press because it was one of the only hospitals that still had working generators. Medical crew worked with sirens blaring to signal the hospitals were not empty. This was a purposeful massacre. These people died hungry, thirsty and in pain because of the Israeli government's cruelty.

CNN and other media outlets already tried to pin the blame on Hamas, parroting back the pathetic propaganda being sold by the IOF. Even in death, Palestinians can't be respected and are used to further their own oppression. These people's deaths are not going to be in vain. Within our lifetimes, Palestine will be free.

Take action. The Labour Party in the UK had an emergency meeting today after several councilors threatened to resign if they didn't condemn Israeli war crimes. Calling to show your complaints works.

FOR PEOPLE IN THE USA: USCPR has developed this toolkit for calls

FOR PEOPLE IN THE UK: Friends of Al-Aqsa UK and Palestine Solidarity UK have made toolkits for calls and emails

FOR PEOPLE IN GERMANY: Here's a toolkit to contact your representatives by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN IRELAND: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN POLAND: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN DENMARK: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

FOR PEOPLE IN SWEDEN: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace

Protests in support have already erupted in Beirut, Madrid and Rabat in response to the shelling of the hospital. Join your local protest and raise your voices. For people in the US, Israel has just asked for additional $10bi in aid on top of the annual $3.8bi already given to them. Palestinians are asking that you refuse this loudly, with their every breath.

Here's a constantly updating list of protests:

Global calendar

USA calendar

Here are upcoming events:

WASHINGTON, DC: Outside Congress on 18/10 at 12 PM

WASHINGTON, DC: NATIONAL MARCH in front of the White House on 4/11 at 12 PM

SAN DIEGO: 2125 Pan American E Rd. (Spreckles Organ Pavillion) on 18/10 at 7 PM

NEW YORK: 72nd st. And 5th ave., Brooklyn on 21/10 at 2 PM

NEW YORK: CUNY Grad Building on 18/10 at 2 PM

NEW YORK: Oct 18, 5pm, Steinway & Astoria Blvd.

DALLAS: 1954 Commerce Street (Dallas Morning News Building) on 19/10 at 3 PM

[CAR RALLY] KITCHENER-WATERLOO: Fairview Park, 2960 Kingsway Dr. on 18/10 at 6 PM

KITCHENER-WATERLOO: CBC Building, 117 King St. W on 19/10 at 5 PM

HOUSTON: Zionist Consulate, 24 Greenway Plaza on 18/10 at 4 PM

OMAHA: 72nd St & Dodge St on 18/10 at 6 PM

SAINT PAUL, MN: Oct. 18, 5:30pm. State Capitol, 75 Rev Dr Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.

BALTIMORE: Oct 20, 6pm. Baltimore City Hall

DUBLIN: Leinster House, Kildare Street, Dublin 1 on 18/10 at 5 PM

THURLES: Liberty Square on 19/10 at 7 PM

LURGAN: Market Street on 21/10 at 3 PM

PORTO ALEGRE: Rua João Alfredo, 61 on 18/10 at 19h

RIO DE JANEIRO: Cinelândia on 19/10 at 17h

RECIFE: Parque Treze de Maio on 19/10 at 17h

MANAUS: Teatro Amazonas, Largo de São Sebastião on 19/10 at 17h

SÃO PAULO: Praça Oswaldo Cruz on 22/10 at 11h

FOZ DO IGUAÇU: Praça da Paz on 22/10 at 9h

TSHWANE: Belgrade Square Park, Jan Shoba Street on 20/10 at 10 AM

VEREENIGING: Roshnee Sports Grounds on 21/10 at 14h30

Feel free to add more resources

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janekfan · 6 months

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It has been hard for me to talk about how what is going on with Israel and Palestine is affecting me personally, but I grew up in Gaza and most of my family still lives there. My father did not survive the bombings last week and I have not been able to contact my younger sister in days. I am try to being understanding that most people do not have personal connections to what is happening and therefore are justifying their silence, but is heartbreaking to see this misinformation being spread. What’s happening there is a genocide, not a war. It is not antisemitic to support Palestine, it’s not even antiemetic to criticise Israel. There is no grey area or neutrality regarding this, and it is so easy to find resources that will educate you on the subject. It is my people and my home being destroyed so I will never be silent about this, but I please urge everyone to get informed and start speaking up and finding ways they can help.

decolonizepalestine has tons of information on Palestine’s history/propaganda that has been spread throughout the years

UK citizens can email their MP asking for a ceasefire

US citizens can call/email their local government officials asking for a ceasefire

Jewish Voice for Peace also has many resources for ways for US citizens to get involved, including protests

Donate to Palestine Children’s Relief Fund

Donate to Medical Aid for Palestine

Donate to help get food and hygiene kits to Gaza

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janekfan · 6 months

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IV/Cannula

hehe this is for day 1 of mediwhumpmay, which I am now posting in October

tw: emeto, hospital setting

“Hey, there you are. Keep those eyes open for me, Blackwood.”

“Mmm…wh?”

Everything feels so, so heavy—god, he can barely see. His eyes must drift closed again, because before he knows it, the voice is back, this time pinching the skin on the inside of his arm.

“Eyes open, Martin, come on.” Pinching again.

Gauging his responsiveness, he knows. The thought floats above the whirling pool of all the others. His eyes flutter open, an effort to reassure the voice he slowly comes to recognize as the voice of his junior partner, Ben.

“Ff…fuck,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut as soon as he opens them. The vertigo was too much to bear—and with an awful rising feeling in his gut, he curls further onto his side and vomits.

The effort of this exhausts him, and he must lose time, for the next thing he is aware of is the earth rumbling beneath him. He prepares mentally for the end of the world, again—but upon fluttering his eyes open again, he discovers that the ambulance had just hit a bump in the road.

Ambulance. I’m at…work.

He snaps his eyes open again at the thought, attempting to sit up, only to find himself strapped into something.

The stretcher.

“Lie back, Martin, just relax—“

Darkness.

—

Jon hates the hospital. Hates it.

He would do just about anything to avoid coming here, especially to A&E. The crowding, the noise, the smell of antiseptic…the desperation of all the people waiting for hours upon hours to be seen.

He doesn’t understand how Martin can cope with this every day.

It’s already been a long walk from the train station, and Jon’s heart is pounding—from this as well as the call that he’d received from Ben, telling him that his husband collapsed on the job and is being cared for here.

Jon knew he shouldn’t have gone into work that day. And he’d told him as much, many times. Martin had been ill over the holidays, but due to the nature of his work, had needed to go in anyway. Especially with the increased number of accidents, injuries, and illnesses that tend to make themselves known during this season. Added to that, a bug had been working its way through their ranks, taking down one medic after the next. Martin had assured Jon that he felt alright enough to cover for his indisposed coworkers, but…

Obviously, that had not been the case.

With a sigh, Jon leans a little heavier upon his cane, still in the triage queue. He needs to calm down, not let this frustration get the better of him. As much as an “I told you so” might be warranted here…god knows Martin had spared him many such conversations that Jon himself had certainly deserved.

At last, the person behind the desk waves him forward.

“I’m here to see my husband, please.”

“Name?”

“Martin Blackwood-Sims. I was told he’s in bay thirty-three.”

“Hmm…” They click around on their computer a few times before looking back up at him. “Looks like he’s on respiratory precautions. Please take a mask to protect yourself.”

Jon sighs, the anger bubbling up in his chest again.

I told you, Martin. I told you.

Not helpful.

He swallows it the best that he can, fitting the loops of the mask over his ears before following the nurse through the double doors.

“Straight back this way, and you should see him,” the nurse says, and turns back to their post.

Jon hadn’t needed the directions. From where he entered, he saw him—his husband, pale faced, propped up on several pillows and getting an IV placed.

Be calm. Breathe. Breathe.

Jon hates this; god he hates it here—and he’s absolutely livid that Martin never listens to him, and now look where it’s gotten him. Now they both have to be here, with all the people and the noise and the memories—

He feels suddenly quite weightless in the relentless onslaught of emotions, and wishes desperately for somewhere to sit. Not by Martin, not quite yet. Everything is all tangled up in itself, in the past, in the fear of this place. And his husband needs him calm. Calm and supportive, just as Martin has done so many times for him.

Braced against the wall of the corridor and his cane, Jon allows his eyes to fall closed, to focus on his breath for a moment. It’s just this breath. And the next. And the next.

Bless Martin for teaching him this technique.

When he opens his eyes, he feels a gentle wave of calm. Not perfect, but it will get him through and allow him to be there for Martin, who is now alone in his bay, eyes closed and exhausted.

That is, until they reopen and alight on Jon, walking toward him. Immediately, Martin’s hands reach up to cover his face—the tips of his ears reddening with shame, even as the rest of him retains that unnerving pallor.

“Oh God, Jon, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Martin…”

“I swear I didn’t mean to—to cause such a fuss, I didn’t—“

”Martin,” Jon pleads, more forcefully this. Time as he eyes his oxygen saturation on the monitor. “Breathe, habibi. You’re alright.”

As the monitor starts to alarm, Martin seems to realize that he’s gasping for air—and that sets him into a coughing fit, worse even than he’d been showing at home. Jon’s stomach drops just listening. And even more so when a nurse comes in to silence the alarm, reaching for the plastic tubing of the nasal cannula that Jon knows all too well.

“That’s quite the nasty cough there, Mr. Blackwood.”

Jon is hit with another sudden wave of irritation—obviously, its a bad cough, obviously, that’s why he’s in the damn A&E.

He needs to calm down before he snaps at someone and makes the whole damned situation even worse.

“Sorry,” Martin croaks, the fit ending. “I’m alright, I—sorry.”

“No need to apologize love. Just keep that oxygen on, alright?”

Saying this, the nurse leaves, and Martin sinks further into his bed, exhausted. Jon’s heart twinges painfully, and he extends his hand to Martin’s—and just as he’d hoped, Martin opens his eyes at the contact, smile weary but warm as he takes his hand in turn.

“What happened, Martin?” Jon asks, desperately. “Ben called me, you know. Told me you collapsed.”

“Oh no—no, love, I’m alright, really, I’m okay. Just took a bit of a tumble.”

Martin gives him another embarrassed smile, trying to sit up straighter, and Jon can’t take it anymore.

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine,” he snaps.

He regrets it immediately. Martin’s face is stricken, smile disappearing, eyes wide.

“I-I’m sorry, Jon—“

“No, Martin, I—“

“Are you okay?”

Martin leans closer, putting his other hand over Jon’s, the one with the IV. Still so pale, clammy. And concerned. Martin is worrying over him, even here while he’s the one in the hospital bed.

Jon takes a deeper breath than he has since he received the phone call, closing his eyes as Martin gently squeezes his hand between both of his own.

Oh, Martin.

“Thank you,” says Martin softly, “for being here with me, habibi. I know this is…a difficult place for you to be. So thank you.”

That is too much, far too much.

“Don’t thank me,” Jon chokes around a lump in his throat he can’t quite swallow. “Don’t. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped, it’s just...”

“Memories.”

“Yes.”

Martin squeezes his hand again, and Jon opens his eyes. Still there, still Martin, despite everything. Jon moves closer, using his free hand to brush Martin’s sweat soaked hair back from his forehead.

“I’m here for you, habibi. I’m sorry.”

“And I’m here for you,” Martin replies earnestly, breaking off momentarily to muffle a chest-rattling cough into his elbow. “We can…we can b—ha, both...”

“Shh, hush now,” Jon whispers lowly, reaching for the call light on Martin’s bed.

“We…we’ve got…each other,” Martin pants, letting Jon anxiously fuss over his blankets and his nasal cannula.

“I know, darling.” He rests a gentle hand on Martin’s laboring chest, a reminder that he’s here, he’s here.

“I know.”

#A BLESSING #This was a joy to read #I've missed them so much!!!!

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janekfan · 6 months

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janekfan · 7 months

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janekfan · 7 months

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Oh dang

@taylortut @coramatus @celosiaa @captaincravatthecapricious @sukurarose92 @willoftitanium @waywardstation and everyone else I've forgotten!

i am so curious about what ao3 tag my friends are

heres the link

sobbing at this

no pressure tags <3: @fushigurro @glitchtricks94 @vampcubus @starrierknight-main @v4mp-wife @laraleafs @desi-the-blue-eyed-kakushi @peachdues @gingerspicelattemix @hopelessbluebird @zorosdimples @witchy-scribblings

and anyone else who wants to <333

#Thanks for the tag!#Yeah #This fits

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janekfan · 7 months

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Fugue Chapter 27!

It's here! We're finally doing it, folks!

Emmet took Ingo’s hands gently, carefully, for the hundredth time as he signed home, home, home, again, again, again, threatening to dislodge the nasal cannula, blinking away tears even as his older brother’s slipped down gaunt cheeks to soak into the uncomfortable fabric of the hospital gown.

“I am Emmet. I know.” He soothed, thumbing away the moisture collecting on cheeks heated like a lugged engine. Burning up. Burning away. There wouldn’t be anything left. “Soon.” The lie was bitter on his tongue and he drew no comfort from the knowledge that Ingo wouldn’t remember it.

“Nngh…” Ingo coughed, too weak to clear any space but for the shallowest of breaths, and swallowed with a heavy click in his sore throat, turning away from the straw Emmet proffered to pant open mouthed for air.

“Please?” But his pleading fell on deaf ears as Ingo shuddered and shook, fever dragging his older brother away from him with teeth and claws.

Weeks of this. Weeks. Of listening to Ingo call out the names of people long dead, weep for them and question why they’d left him here with strangers. Weeks. With no improvement. Only test after test yielding no answers. Countless arguments with doctors, nurses. Elesa wanted him to stay here. Their uncle wanted to try another hospital. Emmet did not know which one was the correct decision. Which one would–

Save him.

Perform the miracle he needed because that’s what it would take if they didn’t find answers soon. There were more tests today. More blood to take. Emmet didn’t deign to believe any would yield results.

Signature smile weak and shaky, Emmet pressed a kiss into the fiery skin of Ingo’s brow and with it strength and health and peace before tucking his white coat over his arm. Gear Station needed her Bosses. Emmet would keep things in place until Ingo’s return.

Ingo burned.

Everything darkness and agony. The tremors rolling through him like the aftershocks of an Earthquake threatening to tear him limb from limb. He was trapped in Quicksand and done up in String Shot. Threaded together with the thinnest gossamer threads of a Galvantula’s web and so afraid they wouldn’t be enough to keep him together. Soft and low, a familiar voice sunk through the deep, trickled into his ears to lift him up and out. He tried to answer, the strangled attempt involuntarily drawn from him like water from a well.

A sandpaper tongue swept over his cheek.

Soothed. Safe.

Ingo drifted.

Consciousness slipped through his fingers like the surf, his own breath like the coals of an old steam engine banked beneath his ribs and time skipped and slid from one moment to the next between infinite stretches of vast nothing.

“You can’t go on like this.”

“Elesa. I am Emmet. I do not want to have this conversation.” He refused to look at her. Worried if he did whatever was left of him would shatter completely. Instead, he replaced the cool cloth over Ingo’s forehead to give his trembling hands something to do.

“Please.”

“No.” He was already at the very reaches of his limit. Stretched thin between spending every spare moment and more within the four walls of Ingo’s sparse hospital room and pretending to be invested in the Station. Their Agents insisted he could take time off but Emmet could not bring himself to do it. He needed something else or he would disappear. Needed to cling to anything beyond this sterility to remind himself that Ingo wasn’t gone. Not.

Not yet.

“Emmy–”

“Please. Elesa.” His voice cracked like thunder in the silence. “I need–” He inhaled, sharp and short, on a sob.

“Okay.” She draped herself over his back even as he hid beneath his cap. “Okay, Emmet.” Tightly, Elesa seemed to engulf him, holding him together as he let go, feeling small and helpless and so unused to it. He wanted his brother. He wanted Ingo.

“W’want–” He couldn’t see for the tears in his eyes, couldn’t wipe them away fast enough, couldn’t explain what he needed in this moment because it didn’t matter.

He couldn’t have it.

Ingo’s namesign fell from his fingers. Over and over and over and he couldn’t breathe for the weight crushing him into the floor.

It was late evening when Emmet blinked awake though he did not remember falling asleep. He was laid out on a gurney, body heavy, mind detached. Blinking, sluggish and slow, Emmet slid his gaze towards his twin. No changes near as he could tell.

“Emmet? Sweetheart?” Elesa’s small hand cupped his cheek. Drew his focus. The shadows beneath her eyes were like bruises but he didn’t have the energy to feel about it. There was a yellow bag of fluid hanging just over her shoulder and when he followed the line it disappeared into the crook of his elbow. “Don’t worry about that right now. Everything is okay.” WIthout the energy to argue, Emmet just closed his eyes in escape.

The following day, Ingo’s condition worsened dramatically.

Even if they had decided to move him, in his unstable condition it would likely be a tipping point and with no guarantee the other facility would have better luck…

Emmet knew the staff were trying their best, consulting with the best, delving into more radical and experimental treatments. But he was angry. It wasn’t enough. He gripped Ingo’s hand, bruised from the catheter, worrying gently the fragile bones he could feel below thin skin but his older brother had stopped responding to even painful stimuli hours ago. Emmet wondered if he should request Ingo’s team be allowed to visit. Give them some closure to all this. Let Elesa. Let, let them.

Dragons.

Let them say good bye.

At his side, Lady Sneasler growled, tugging at Emmet’s sleeve insistently.

“Not now, not when–” she hissed, furious, eyes burning in a close approximation to a Seviper’s Glare and effectively cutting off even the thought. Bodily, she yanked him out of his seat with enough force to tear holes in his button down.

Emmet didn’t know why Lady Sneasler was dragging him out of the hospital and down the street but he certainly did not appreciate it. Abandoning Ingo at his most vulnerable rankled him. She steered him into a bodega, down the narrow aisle to the back, to a wall of cold drinks and now was definitely the wrong time to quench her thirst. Emmet felt a flare of furious anger.

“Lady–!”

“Snea!!” Bordering on frantic, her tone was high and tight, and something in it stopped him in his tracks. Choked. Emmet forced himself to pay attention. It wasn’t fair to her. In such an unfamiliar place, the only being she truly knew so, so sick. She must feel so isolated, so scared. Her unflappable nature was the perfect cover for whatever she was feeling below. The sound of glass shattering expedited that train of thought straight back to the station at speed.

“Hey!” The store owner shouted at them. She broke another bottle, sniffing the liquid remains before tossing it aside in frustration. “That’s it, I’m calling the police!”

“Stop! Please. It.” Another bottle exploded under her claws. “I am Emmet! I can cover any damages.” He slapped all the cash in his wallet onto the counter before hurrying back to her side. “What are you doing? What do you need?” Obviously she was looking for something and Emmet risked putting a hand on her deadly claws to stop another mess and the potential of spending a night they couldn't afford to spend in jail. “Let me, okay? Let me help.” He twisted off the cap, offering it up for her to smell. A shake of her massive head. He capped it, set it aside. Another bottle. Another shake. And so on, so forth, until Emmet wasn’t sure they’d find it, whatever it was. What did she want?

“Sler! Sler!” Large eyes bright and wide, shining in the fluorescence, she gestured happily to the bottle in his hand, overjoyed with their find.

“Aquav berry…this is a health drink.” Emmet capped it, head tilted, willing himself to understand. “A gross one.” She shook her head, ear feather catching the bright light with a flash, forcing him and all the unbroken bottles he’d paid for out of the door. Before it closed behind him he shouted, “Gear Station will cover anything else, thank you, I am Emmet, good bye!”

She hustled him back the way they came, any slower and he was afraid she’d scruff him like an infant Skitty if he didn’t keep up. They burst back into the room and for Emmet’s absence Ingo looked somehow worse, small and washed out against the white sheets. Elesa was there beside him, his lax, thin hand held gently in her own, mascara smudged. The wheeze on his breath and sickness in the air was more pronounced now that Emmet had stepped away.

“Emmet.” On the cusp of a sob and before he could answer, Lady Sneasler pushed between them, expertly cradling Ingo’s head gently in her claws, mindful of the mask, the leads, the wires, the lines, and motioned Emmet closer.

“Lady, we, we cannot.” Her eyes flashed and she pointed angrily at the bottle in his hands, daring him to ignore her orders. They should call for a doctor, a nurse. This could make things worse.

But could it really?

At this point?

When he was–

When there was nothing–

Gently, he removed the mask supplying a mixture of almost 100 percent oxygen. If this didn’t work, that alone would cause serious repercussions to his already overworked lungs if there was no improvement in a few hours.

“Okay. Ingo will not like this.” Emmet dripped the strange tea blend onto his tongue, part of him disappointed when there was no reaction. “My brother does not like bitter things.” She wouldn’t let him stop until the bottle was half empty and it was slow going considering Ingo wasn’t awake. Only then did she look him over, nod. Sensing something they could not. She licked his still face and nuzzled the side of his head, purring hard enough Emmer could feel it through where he now held Ingo’s other hand.

Doctor’s came and went. Nurses conducted their checks.

Nothing changed.

And they waited.

“...L’Lady…” Before anyone could do anything, Sneasler was urging Emmet to bring the tea again. This time, with his feverish body cradled against Emmet’s, Ingo slugged it back as quick as he could with his brother’s help, scrunching up his face at the taste, running his tongue over cracked lips. “S’better h’hot…” he sounded wrecked, exhausted and weak, words slurred and too soft in his mouth.

“Brother.” Tears poured down Emmet’s face as he buried it in Ingo’s shoulder, taking comfort in the strong thrum echoing from beneath his breastbone.

“S’alrigh…m’ere…” Ingo’s trembling hand, clumsy but persistent, swept over his head before settling over his neck. Protective. Calloused fingertips chilled despite the fever-heat beneath Emmet’s cheek.

He’d almost lost him again.

While the answer had been so simple.

Ingo drifted beneath the heavy tide of sleep too soon for either Elesa and Emmet, but they understood. And needed to see the doctors.

They were both surprised when the Sinnoh Historians became involved.

“This hasn’t been seen in hundreds of years. We have texts and writings from Healer Calaba, from the ancient Pearl Clan that detail its treatment. That Sneasler was exactly right. Aguav Berry Tea. It’s a recurring disease with a tolerance built up over time in one’s youth. Due to Boss Ingo’s unfortunate circumstances he never had any to begin with.”

“What does that mean?” Emmet wrung his hands in worry, body humming with anxiety and a doctor chimed in.

“He carried it back here from the past. We’ve isolated the cause, a parasite hiding out in his liver.” Emmet’s knees almost gave out and abruptly he wished he were sitting down. That sounded impossibly bad. So bad. So bad– “We’re confident now that we know how to treat it, we can prevent this from happening again by eradicating it.”

“Oh.” He knew he sounded unsure, confused. Something so small had nearly cost him everything and the cure was this disgusting tea? It didn’t seem real.

“We’ll keep him on a regimen of this tea until we narrow down the medication we need to purge it from his body entirely. A healthy immune system can keep the infection at bay which is how Boss Ingo's became overwhelmed. Until we isolate the cure, know that relapses are caused by stress, exhaustion, illness, etcetera, so your brother should take some time before jumping back into the deep end.”

Of course. Ingo was always good at hiding how he was feeling. Seemed he’d only become better at it during his time away.

“In all of our testing, no one thought to look for a parasitic infection. It is. Well, nearly unheard of. On behalf of everyone, we’d like to apologize and thank you for continuing to trust Boss Ingo’s care to us.” Emmet didn’t know what to think. Couldn’t really, if you asked him, and before they could continue he made his fumbling acceptances, nearly running from the conference room with their scans of Ingo’s insides and blood smears.

When Ingo finally woke again nearly three full days later, it was with a calculated breath and barely perceptible twitch of his fingers that Emmet only noticed because he had his older brother’s hot, still too hot, hand clasped tightly in his own. Emmet pushed away the rising concern that Ingo wouldn’t remember where he was.

Again.

Time was. Fluid. For Ingo. And while he seemed to calm quickly enough with Lady Sneasler near, the stress on his body and mind was worrisome.

Emmet swept his thumb over the back of Ingo’s hand. Waiting. Patient. He could be patient. For Ingo he could be anything. Ingo blinked. Slow. Weary. Slid searching, half lidded eyes over Emmet’s face as his head listed to the side on his pillow.

“Em…y’look.” There was worry there, in his exhausted gaze and his grip tightened. “Tired.”

“I am Emmet.” It left his throat with a sob. “And I am verrry tired.” Ingo’s eyes slipped shut against his considerable will.

“Shou’sleep.” Slurred and soft, his vibrant and larger than life big brother was a shadow, no louder than his next exhale as he slipped away along the tracks.

The soft, familiar sounds of a body breathing beside Ingo woke him. It was warm. He was warm for the first time in a long time. He recognized the neutral colors of hospital walls, the sterile, acrid smell of antiseptic. More than anything else he recognized the distinct and comforting scent of engine oil wrapped pleasantly around him, his own unwashed skin still sticky with remnant sweat from a fever breaking.

Recollection was nigh impossible, peppered with freezing chills and bouts of paralyzing fear, and it was only Emmet sleeping peacefully next to him that kept Ingo from panic. He didn’t remember how he got here. How long he’d been here. But he could just glimpse purple fur and flames over his softly snoring brother’s white-clad shoulder so he assumed all must be well. Emmet’s bare arm was smudged with grease, Boss’ coat hung haphazardly over the chair nearest the bed. There must’ve been maintenance to do on one of the engines and Ingo was disappointed to have missed it.

Hard work.

No wonder his little brother was so tired.

“How much do you remember?” Emmet didn’t open his eyes, but his hand sought his in the twilight dark of the room. Truthfully, not much, but Ingo supposed he could guess if pressed.

“Not much.” Heavy, his lashes fluttered shut and he sighed, enjoying the sensation of a full breath rather than making the attempt at recall. There would be time for that later, thanks to his family’s efforts. “Fear. For you. Myself. Before.” He chose not to continue for his little brother’s sake, wanting to protect him at least from this small thing. For now, he was comfortable, kept, and he let that carry him further away from remembering on gentle waves surrounded by Emmet’s blustery chuff. “The station is alright?”

“Miss you.” Ingo felt the curve of Emmet’s smile from where his face was pressed into his chest. “Want you back.” He let the silence exist uninterrupted for a long moment before,

“and you? You are alright?” Cool tears seeped into his hospital gown.

“I am Emmet.” Insistent, though shaky, and Ingo let him gather himself, embracing him as tightly as he was able until he’d calmed with a sigh. “I will be.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He stroked a palm down his younger twin’s back, up and down, until Emmet’s tears ceased and even after his breathing slowed to a gentle rise and fall. “So glad.”

Thank you everybody! I couldn't have finished this without your support! Y'all are the very best! Like no one ever was <3 <3 <3

#submas #ingo #emmet #subway bosses #subway boss emmet #subway boss ingo #pla #pokemon legends arceus #legends arceus #hospital #fever #illness #thank you for your support #angst #angst with a happy ending #sick #sickness #sickfic

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janekfan · 7 months

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Fugue Chapter 27!

It's here! We're finally doing it, folks!

“Please?” But his pleading fell on deaf ears as Ingo shuddered and shook, fever dragging his older brother away from him with teeth and claws.

Save him.

Ingo burned.

A sandpaper tongue swept over his cheek.

Soothed. Safe.

Ingo drifted.

“You can’t go on like this.”

“Please.”

Not yet.

“Emmy–”

“Please. Elesa.” His voice cracked like thunder in the silence. “I need–” He inhaled, sharp and short, on a sob.

“W’want–” He couldn’t see for the tears in his eyes, couldn’t wipe them away fast enough, couldn’t explain what he needed in this moment because it didn’t matter.

He couldn’t have it.

Ingo’s namesign fell from his fingers. Over and over and over and he couldn’t breathe for the weight crushing him into the floor.

The following day, Ingo’s condition worsened dramatically.

Even if they had decided to move him, in his unstable condition it would likely be a tipping point and with no guarantee the other facility would have better luck…

Dragons.

Let them say good bye.

At his side, Lady Sneasler growled, tugging at Emmet’s sleeve insistently.

“Lady–!”

“Hey!” The store owner shouted at them. She broke another bottle, sniffing the liquid remains before tossing it aside in frustration. “That’s it, I’m calling the police!”

“Sler! Sler!” Large eyes bright and wide, shining in the fluorescence, she gestured happily to the bottle in his hand, overjoyed with their find.

“Lady, we, we cannot.” Her eyes flashed and she pointed angrily at the bottle in his hands, daring him to ignore her orders. They should call for a doctor, a nurse. This could make things worse.

But could it really?

At this point?

When he was–

When there was nothing–

Doctor’s came and went. Nurses conducted their checks.

Nothing changed.

And they waited.

“Brother.” Tears poured down Emmet’s face as he buried it in Ingo’s shoulder, taking comfort in the strong thrum echoing from beneath his breastbone.

He’d almost lost him again.

While the answer had been so simple.

Ingo drifted beneath the heavy tide of sleep too soon for either Elesa and Emmet, but they understood. And needed to see the doctors.

They were both surprised when the Sinnoh Historians became involved.

“What does that mean?” Emmet wrung his hands in worry, body humming with anxiety and a doctor chimed in.

“Oh.” He knew he sounded unsure, confused. Something so small had nearly cost him everything and the cure was this disgusting tea? It didn’t seem real.

Of course. Ingo was always good at hiding how he was feeling. Seemed he’d only become better at it during his time away.

Again.

Time was. Fluid. For Ingo. And while he seemed to calm quickly enough with Lady Sneasler near, the stress on his body and mind was worrisome.

“Em…y’look.” There was worry there, in his exhausted gaze and his grip tightened. “Tired.”

“I am Emmet.” It left his throat with a sob. “And I am verrry tired.” Ingo’s eyes slipped shut against his considerable will.

“Shou’sleep.” Slurred and soft, his vibrant and larger than life big brother was a shadow, no louder than his next exhale as he slipped away along the tracks.

Hard work.

No wonder his little brother was so tired.

“How much do you remember?” Emmet didn’t open his eyes, but his hand sought his in the twilight dark of the room. Truthfully, not much, but Ingo supposed he could guess if pressed.

“Miss you.” Ingo felt the curve of Emmet’s smile from where his face was pressed into his chest. “Want you back.” He let the silence exist uninterrupted for a long moment before,

“and you? You are alright?” Cool tears seeped into his hospital gown.

“I am Emmet.” Insistent, though shaky, and Ingo let him gather himself, embracing him as tightly as he was able until he’d calmed with a sigh. “I will be.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He stroked a palm down his younger twin’s back, up and down, until Emmet’s tears ceased and even after his breathing slowed to a gentle rise and fall. “So glad.”

Thank you everybody! I couldn't have finished this without your support! Y'all are the very best! Like no one ever was <3 <3 <3

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