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Steam:
half-full
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Franky isn't very observant when he's running five degrees hotter than normal.
He doesn't remember much about being sick, even though the getting sick part kinda plays over in his head, foggy and with big chunks of time missing, spots blurring together. Kokoro telling him, "For goodness' sake, put some clothes on before you catch your death out here, Franky...!" Iceberg calling him a moron and knocking him in the head. Sneezing for the first time as the rain rushes in his ears, snot running down his face; how hard it was to breath being all chugged up, his muscles gross and wobbly, trying to keep up with Iceberg and Tom. Dropping a valve pipe and busting his toes, sliding on the slick concrete. He remembers being warm and soft, too hot, trying to cover up the nasty taste of cough syrup with Kokoro's mushroom soup.
The next thing Franky really knows, he's lifting his head out of his pillow, groaning. Sweat sticks his hair up, cold on his arms and the back of his neck. The back of the pillow's cool against his face when he flips it and hugs it in his arms. His eyes are heavy and sore, so Franky sinks right back down. It takes him a while to get his eyes open, get his bearings. The room is dark, but he can make everything out just fine, though he doesn't really look around. He stares across the floor at the base of the book shelves and the crate in the corner; guesses from the slight, steady wheezing noise behind him that Tom is asleep on his back instead of on his side again.
Franky's whole body aches. He still has that gross wet feeling in the back of his throat, but he's cold now that the fever's broke. He feels rested, at least - less like he's been beaten with a stick and more like normal - and Franky doesn't really notice he's fallen asleep until he jolts awake again. On the pallet next to him, Iceberg moves. He shoves off the blanket like it weighs a ton, leans heavily on one of his hands when he finally manages to sit up.
Franky sees him drop his face into his palm, hears the harsh sound of his breathing, and lifts his head a little.
"'S matter?" Franky mumbles.
His throat's wrecked from coughing, and the words taste like sand on his tongue.
"You're sick because you're a moron," he hears Iceberg mutter, his voice weak and stuffy-sounding, "How the hell did I get sick, too...?"
"Cause you're an idiot, Idiotberg." Iceberg swats Franky in the side. Franky puffs a laugh into his pillow, thinks about kicking back, but doesn't bother. His throat's dry and it's hard to swallow, and he's not moving if he doesn't have to. He hears Iceberg moving, though, and peels his eyes open; he's just drawn his knees up, laying against them with his hands cupping his forehead. Franky drags his arm out from under the pillow. It doesn't get far, palm flat against the floorboards. "Floor's nice 'n cold 'f you're burnin' up."
Iceberg snorts and that starts him coughing wetly, inhales wheezing.
Once the fit subsides, Iceberg groans into his palm, "How're we gonna work tomorrow...?"
Franky hums into the pillow, his eyes closed again.
He knows he's been sick - in-bed-sick, anyway - a full day. Hell, maybe two, he isn't sure what night this is. This thing kicked his ass and then took his name. Makes him wonder how long Iceberg's been fighting it off, just so he could keep helping Tom with the Sea Train, and Franky remembers, hazily, something Tom has told them before, pending broken bones and severe weather. Franky turns his face out of the pillow so Iceberg will hear him mumble, "The work'll still be there in the mornin'."
Iceberg makes another noise, and a little bit later Franky hears the blankets rustling, the floor creaking softly in the dark as Iceberg gets up and leaves. Franky doesn't hear him come back, is drooling on the pillow when he feels a warm hand pick his up off the floor and turn it over, something cool pressing into his palm. He jerks his head up with a grunt, fingers closing around the glass and pulling it in against the pillow. It's only half-full and the water sloshes around, a drop beading down the outside and pooling in the dip below his thumb. Iceberg is pulling his blankets up, laying back down and curling an arm over the pillow resting on his chest.
"You need to stay hydrated, Franky," Iceberg murmurs, raising a hand to lay across his eyes, like it's somehow too bright in here.
Franky remembers his head was killing him by the time he finally gave up and crawled into bed. He stares at the water, doesn't realize how thirsty he had been until he sits up enough to take a drink and empties the glass. His throat doesn't scratch so much when he breathes, and Franky lets out a deep sigh, face buried in the pillow again, tipping the glass a little so the bottom of it rolls against the floor. He switches the hand that it's in and drags the other back enough to swat Iceberg in the shoulder, suddenly thinking of something.
"You're stupid," he mutters.
"Give me that glass - "
"No, I mean - " Franky laughs, cracking a grin and glad the pillow mostly hides it. "You're body must not know what it's name is. Icebergs're supposed to be cold, right?"
The pillow hits him across the back, a foot sliding his way underneath the blankets in what is obviously supposed to be a kick, but falls short. Franky laughs, raises a hand to block it the second time the pillow comes lazily down on the back of his head, but he's sure he sees a grin on Iceberg's face before he turns over, muttering, "Moron."
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-BobTAC