So, this was actually a drabble meant for my roleplaying blog on Tumblr, but instead, I decided to post it both here and on my AO3 accounts. The relationship between these two breaks my heart in the best of ways, and I truly wish we'd gotten to see a little more backstory for them. ALAS. Instead we're stuck to speculating, but I suppose that's alright.
Focus. Focus, you can do this.
The notion settles firmly in his mind, and still remains a lingering doubt. Since the early morning he'd felt it, the telltale burn in his joints, the steady throb behind his eyes, the distance he felt from himself that signal the start of another bad day. The sharpened mind for which he's known is dull, hazy at best, scarcely able to stay on topic before it's drawn to the ailments plaguing the rest of him. In two days time he's not touched the food placed before him, despite a hunger he cannot sate for the mere thought of food is nauseating, nor has he, in his sheer exhaustion, slept beneath the mound of pillows he covets so. Too much pain, too many distant whispers in his ears and fleeting shadows darting through the corners of his vision.
But all this, no one knows. No one needs to know, as it gains him nothing more than their pity, and that he does not need. It's nothing new, this daily struggle with which he has learned to cope. Some days are worse than others – and it's those days that find him locked away in his chambers, hidden from troubled eyes with a ruse in place to keep them at bay. It's those days where agony finds victory – and still he tries. Perhaps he should have realized how bad things would come to be. In a way he did, and still he chose to forsake the safety and solitude of his room in favor of accompanying his current companion in the library. As usual. The quiet would be alright, he'd told himself. It would soothe the brewing sickness with the promised calm, ease the pounding in his head and allow a moment's peace on a particularly trying day. No such luck, as he should have assumed. In times like this, no relief came, no matter what he tried – and he was a fool to think otherwise.
Before him Dorian stood, speaking about – ah, he'd forgotten. His train of thought had fallen upon a different course all together, with little hope of dragging it back on track. When their eyes meet, it is a weak smile he offers as encouragement, paling in comparison to the grin of excitement he'd usually offer in response to Dorian's ramblings. It's heavy eyes, the faintest flash of teeth, a waver in his stance…Maker, he can't do this. The final thread snaps, and he has to escape, has to get away and hide before his pain is forced on display for the mage before him. He can't allow that. Dorian cannot see him that way; sick, his mind reeling in agony and feeling every bit the dying man he is. But the vow comes a moment too late.
A choked breath escapes. He nearly doubles over in his seat, the throb behind his eyes growing worse by the second. It spreads in a mere heartbeat, trailing downward with agonizing vigor that his stomach pitches in protest. It's a losing battle he's fighting here – but with that realization comes another; that he is not fighting it alone. There is warmth on his cheeks, a warmth he hadn't noticed lacking until then. Close, so close now comes a voice, low in tone and crackling with worry. Fear, perhaps; that is one thing they shared. He's afraid this time. Terrified. The mask he's crafted so carefully is cracking at the seams, and he's powerless to stop it.
All he can muster is lifting both trembling hands, fingers finding a weak grip on heavy fabric and curling as tight as he can manage. Eyes squeeze shut; he shakes his head, his defeat admitted in a mere murmur under his hitched breath – but the gentle hold on his face never falters, nor does the string spoken to him in a voice that breaks his heart. Dorian was never meant to see this; he shouldn't see this, shouldn't worry over him any more than he has to…yet here he remains. And finally, with far more effort than the action should require, he hears a portion of the words spilling from his friend's lips, gradually drawing his frantic mind back where it belonged. Grounding him, as Dorian's mere presence was often prone to doing.
" — eyes on me, Felix. Keep your eyes on me."