32 for the settings prompt for sico pls
Setting prompts (32. a quiet hospital room)
You get sico in the context of problematic sebcedes polyamory:
Sebastian arrives at Lewis’s bedside with a giant, unruly basket of wildflowers that look as though they were plucked directly from a field somewhere in the middle of nowhere. He also brought Roscoe, Nico reflects. Point Sebastian.
Lewis is still unconscious, snoring softly in the hospital bed with a dozen pins surgically inserted up the length of his arm because he foolishly shattered it surfing with one of the handful of friends Nico and Lewis don’t share. Miles, or Milo, or something like that. Nico met him once, and then forgot about it.
“I came as soon as I could,” says Sebastian, cramming the basket of flowers onto Lewis’s beside table. “How is he?”
Nico exhales a short breath and scrapes back the hair that’s fallen in his eyes. He’s the one that Miles called when Lewis broke his arm, and he’s the one that held Lewis’s hand while the surgeons administered the anesthetic, and he’s the one that ran across the street in the rain to buy a plant-based latte for Lewis to drink when he wakes up. Sebastian just waltzed inside with a basket of weeds and Lewis’s dog, like he has just as much right to be here.
“Fine,” says Nico, controlling himself. “His wrist is broken and so is the radial bone, in two places, and his shoulder was dislocated. Surfing accident.”
“My God,” says Sebastian. He stoops down to scoop Roscoe off of the floor, and seats himself in the chair next to Nico, Roscoe on his lap. Roscoe whuffles pitiably until Nico gives him a pat on the head. “That’s a lot of broken bones.”
Nico refuses to roll his eyes. He won’t do it. Instead, he reaches for Lewis’s limp hand atop the blankets and rubs soothing circles with his thumb. He thinks he can see Lewis’s eyelids fluttering, but he might be imagining it. It’s almost hard to look at him, prone and unresponsive beneath the white sheets, a tube stuck in his arm. Nico wishes it was him that was with Lewis when he broke it, and then swallows the thought like a poison capsule. He holds onto Lewis’s hand a little bit tighter and shoots a baleful glance at Sebastian, who is absently rubbing Roscoe’s ears.
“Has he been awake since the surgery?” Sebastian asks.
“No,” says Nico. The latte he bought for Lewis is still sitting on the table, untouched and growing cold. Admittedly, the mess of flowers adds a splash of much needed cheer to the desolate hospital room. Nico had flashed his credit card and demanded the most spacious suite, but a hospital is still a hospital.
“You don’t want to talk to me, do you,” says Sebastian, sighing.
“What gave you that impression?” Nico says.
In the bed, Lewis’s brow furrows.
Sebastian pauses his fondling of Roscoe’s wrinkly head. “You don’t think I should be included in Lewis’s life. You think that because you were here first, you matter more. Guess what? That’s not how it fucking works for regular fucking polyamorous people.” Sebastian finishes his tirade with a neat little quirk of his eyebrow, like he’ll have any luck convincing Nico of anything at all.
Nico opens his mouth to explain how exactly Seb has presumed wrong when Lewis groans softly from the bed, shifting beneath the sheets. His eyes crack open in increments, and both Nico and Sebastian leap from their seats to meet him halfway.
Lewis blinks and yawns sluggishly. He looks at his arm first, encased in plaster, and frowns. Then he looks up at Nico and Seb, and a slow smile spreads across his jaw.
“I was surfing,” says Lewis, a toneless rasp. He coughs, and Nico lunges for the lukewarm latte and helps Lewis raise it to his lips for a sip. “And then…” Lewis trails off, licking his lips. “Where’s Miles?”
Nico scowls.
“I can call him,” Seb says, immediately. Rude, Nico thinks. He doesn’t let it show on his face. He’ll play nice with Sebastian, at least while Lewis is lucid.
Eventually, after more stupid, inane small talk, Sebastian leaves the room with a promise to let Miles know that Lewis is okay. Nico collapses into his chair as soon as he’s gone. Lewis gestures weakly at Roscoe, curled up next to Nico’s feet, drooling slimy saliva onto the tile floor, so Nico scoops him up and deposits him gingerly on Lewis’s lap, where he won’t disturb Lewis’s cast.
“You’re not very good at hiding how you’re feeling,” Lewis remarks, scratching Roscoe between the ears. Nico tries his best not to frown. “You should be nicer to him, even when I’m not around.”
“How do you know I’m not nice when you’re not around?” says Nico, reaching for Lewis’s hand again.
“Because I know you,” says Lewis, smiling.
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Just saw a post about Jester’s Privilege and (link) for those who want a definition and I wanna apply it to Spamvil:
Imagine Spamton and Jevil are thoroughly in the dating/smitten phase but Jevil still cannot stop making jabs and jokes at Spamton’s expense. Cute moment’s inturupted by a riddle mocking Spam’s gushiness or just a jab at his world view. It’s all in good fun, that’s just Jevil’s humor and the way he plays around. But Spamton takes so much of it to heart cuz it’s his partner saying it and it’s already hard enough to decipher what Jevil general means about certain things, let alone if he genuinely respects him in the relationship.
Cue Spamton just straight up having this like break down cause he needs to know if Jevil means the jokes he makes or why he makes them so often and Jevil’s just like “They are just jokes, jokes? Why are you so wound up, up?” cause he’s a jester and the card kingdom’s resident madman, no one has ever taken him seriously because his whole existence is being part of the bit. Then Spamton has to explain that his words mean a lot to him and that in their more intimate moments they aren’t just words or a bit but something he has to take to heart because being part of a relationship require you to take your partner seriously and Spamton needs that part.
So for the first time in a long time Jevil has to reevaluate that some games and jesting should be paused or reserved and it’s important to check when a joke doesn’t land, cause for a first time in a long time or ever his words actually matter/mean something to someone.
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He holds up The Hermit, Reversed. "This card brings a warning. Try not to become too introverted, lest it become isolation. It does more harm than good. Reflection, rumination, and soul-searching can be enlightening in moderation, but be sure to have a sense of balance, allowing yourself to be social as well. You don't want to become frustrated or starved for conversation."
She's squinting at him now.
"What do you think I'm doing right now, Age?" A sweeping gesture of her hand, pointing at the two of them seated within the comforts of his tent. "This interaction alone will feed me for the coming weeks." A cheeky smile, the barest twinkle of light behind her stare.
There's been a gnawing curiosity eating away at her for several days now. Concerning the exact intricacies of his soothsaying abilities, and how they're tied to the divinity that guides him. She hadn't asked any direct questions, of course. That would be too easy. Too obvious. A tattle-tell on her genuine interest in his life and his hobbies.
Could one call this a hobby?
"… tell me. How accurate are these little readings of yours? There are plenty out there who doubt the predictions of something like this. They'd call it a parlor trick." As for Shadowheart? She isn't sure. Stranger truths exist. And she knows just enough about his visions to have confidence in his ties to fate.
And, well, she's been wrong before. But Age'ian just doesn't seem the type to lie. Not to someone's own face.
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