Breakfast was short and sweet. Well, maybe not so sweet. Arthur had a hard time tasting anything, and he could barely keep two bites of his pancakes down without feeling nauseous. Steve, of course, took notice of this before anyone else, what with Grandsanta and Malcolm arguing at the end of the table and Margaret finishing up her own batch in the kitchen. Arthur grabbed his orange juice and started taking tentative sips, not wanting to overdo anything. Still, his throat thanked him for the feeling of smooth liquid for only a moment before returning to its burning agenda once again. His ears were starting to ring, and everything in the room became even louder than it already was. Steve reached over and placed a hand on Arthur's arm, causing the younger Claus to meet his brother's gaze. Steve looked genuinely worried, now, mouthing the words, "Are you okay?"

Arthur simply smiled and nodded, waving off his fret as if it were nothing. The day continued on. Bryony showed up somewhere in the middle of everything, and Arthur couldn't have been more thankful to see her. She noticed, just as Steve had, that Arthur was acting strangely and moving slower than normal. He still had his same clumsy charm, but something about it was no longer amusing, but concerning. There was a point just before everyone took their lunch break whenever Arthur was completely swarmed by chattering elves, and Bryony had to push her way through them in order to stand protectively in front of the young Claus' legs.

He couldn't bring himself to eat anything for lunch, and instead hid away in one of the bathrooms on the ground floor of mission control, sweaty hands clasping the icy surface as his legs began to shake. His eyes were just starting to flutter as his vision was clouded with white dots whenever the door opened, and he had to assume a much more normal position. Arthur started washing his hands as Peter walked in, greeted him, and went about his business, apparently assuming nothing. That was a relief. The last thing Arthur wanted to do was worry anybody, especially with all the work they still had left to do.

Still, for a moment, he found himself unable to move away from the sink. His legs felt like noodles, and he was surprised that he was even still standing on his own. A layer of sweat came out of nowhere, coating his neck and face as cold chills wracked his body. He had to refrain from passing out on the cold bathroom floor whenever his vision started flicking on and off once again. Black was swooning in from all corners of the room, and Arthur had to swallow the bile that was building up in the back of his throat. His stomach screamed out in complete agony, either from the lack of food or from the eating in general. Arthur couldn't tell. He became increasingly nervous whenever his breathing became labored, and it was harder and harder to get to the door from where he was.

Okay, he thought, though the words were sloshed around in his brain. This is... less than favorable. You're okay, Arthur. It's just one foot in front of the other, is all...

Arthur was able to walk out of the bathroom with relative ease, but there was still a long hallway ahead of him that seemed to taunt every wobbly step he took. His jeans, which were usually super comfortable and hung loosely from his form, seemed far too tight. They scratched at his legs and burned his skin, and the same could be said for his sweater. It was one of his favorites; he often wore it in the weeks after Christmas, allowing himself a small disconnect before jumping back in headfirst to the holiday. It was huge and hung around his frame in a cozy way, patterned with deep browns, blues, and whites. Everything about it screamed comfort, and sometimes Arthur even wore it whenever he felt defeated or upset. It was incredibly special to him since Steve was the one who gifted him the sweater a few seasons back, in the first place. Now, however, it was not so comfortable. It was sweltering; met with the constant chill that came with living in the North Pole, Arthur found himself unable to adjust to a more reasonable temperature. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself to the world around him before his body completely shut down.

Even with nobody else around to witness his slow deterioration, Arthur felt embarrassed. Ashamed. Everyone else was stressed out, Steve probably even more so than he was, and no one had complained about their physical states, or even feeling bad. Everyone was moving along as they should be, and the terrifying doubt that Arthur was again being left out, this time by his own design, crept into his mind. Why did he have to be the one to mess things up? Why did he have to be the one to feel sick? To feel tired? Defeated? Why him? Steve was finally learning to trust him with the new task of being Santa, and so were the rest of the elves, and he was already screwing it up.

Arthur pushed through a pair of double doors, sniffling and unconsciously wiping the tears from his eyes. He took one step into mission control and collided with something much bigger than himself. Stumbling back, Arthur noticed that he was face to face with his brother, who was looking Arthur over with a type of eldest concern.

"H-hey, St-eve."

Wow, was that his voice? That didn't sound right.

"Arthur, are you- Arthur!"

Before the young Claus knew it, he was plummeting towards the floor.