lukeoutbelow | (no subject)

Julien had been feeling unwell for a couple of days. He'd spent all of yesterday in, doing nothing much but sleep and eat, feeling hungry almost constantly. Putting away the detritus left behind by that seemed unusually difficult. He had to leave some wrappers where they lay, and couldn't focus to cook, and that thing kept happening, where it was like he couldn't remember how to move his face, and somehow his resting expression was a Mona Lisa look.

He'd wanted to think he was just sick. It didn't happen much at all, his body wasn't used to it. But on some level, he knew. It was in the occasional paralysis of his face, and the thick warm feeling in his sternum, and the way both his hips clicked when he stood up.

So in a way it wasn't a surprise when he woke and that feeling was pressing out, hot and throbbing and painful, getting worse as he pressed his wing against his chest. It was a surprise when he tried to get up, and fell. He'd wanted, when he thought about this day coming, to do it alone, but he couldn't manage to heat water or pick athelas. It hurt. Eventually he couldn't take it. He had to call for help.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

We will assume that Julien leaves his hotel door unlocked. This isn't a normal hotel anymore; the maids come through far more rarely, for one.

He has managed to get to the kitchenette portion of his suite, where he's rolled onto his side. Julien's legs want to be in the fetal position, but his back is straight. One wing lies open along the tiles, touching the far wall. The other is folded but sometimes beats, trembling, trying to cool the burning in his chest, which has... stretched out. A ridge has formed along his sternum and is pressing against his skin, visible through the primitive feathers scattered along his skin.

Around him are the shreds of his shirt and, in the tiles of the floor, the Network flowing and pulsing with life. Julien lies breathing heavily and with great damp heat, eyes closed, feet clenched.