21st Ashan, 721
.
“...”
Kotton turned over in his sleep and brought the warm blanket covering him up to his chin.
“..”
His mind was dreaming of a banana split. It was the perfect consistency, the perfect texture. He could almost feel the soft, cold delicacy on his salivating tongue. It reminded him of his childhood- the good parts- not the bad parts.
“...”
Wait… Or was it a strawberry milkshake? The strawberry was so fresh, so red and plump that it was almost unable to contain its own juices-
WHACK!
His eyes snapped open as fast as his brain could register the slap to his cheek. What the fu-
Worrick stood over him with eyebrows drawn so tightly together there could have been another set of eyebrows above them- they were that thick. A look of confusion on Worick’s face matched Kotton’s, but he should have been the one perplexed, not Worick.
Kotton’s hands came out from under the blanket, signing exactly what he had just been thinking. What the hell?
Worrick rolled his eyes and grumbled, “you passed out on my couch again, asshole. How much did you have to drink last night anyway?”
Kotton yawned and pulled himself into a sitting position. His head pounded, but it was no match for the stinging sensation that had graciously been gifted to his cheek. Why had Worrick felt the need to hit him? Had he been that enamoured by the dream world?
“I was trying to tell you to wake up for the last ten minutes, but then I remembered you can’t hear worth shit.”
Haha, Kotton grumbled internally, trying to ignore the jest made by his friend. If his eyes could roll any further up into his skulls, they would have. There was no way Worick would have forgotten the fact that he couldn’t hear. Any reason to get a good whack in and he’d take it, he supposed.
“Too many dweams,” Kotton responded sheepishly, with the notorious lisp he had as someone who couldn’t hear his own words. He could hear a little, of course, but that was only if there was an enormous clank from a wooden rod slamming into a metal pipe or the sonic boom of someone throwing a barrel against a brick wall. He didn’t hate the inability to hear, but he only truly felt comfortable speaking in front of Worick due to his odd way of communication. Anyone else was a toss up- he had to test the waters before showing the reality under his carefully measured facade.
Worrick sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. Several long locks of golden hair fell from their hold of his ponytail. “When are you gonna give that a rest, man? It’s been five solid days. Ain’t your head feeling like a thunderstorm right now?”
Kotton watched his friend’s lips move, picking up any and all enunciation that could be observed. Worick had always been great about speaking clearly. This was something Kotton had always cherished about their friendship. That, and he had grown accustomed to the movement of his lips and the slang he used. He was able to read most of what was being said to him.
He shrugged. I’ve just had a bad week, he signed slowly. He was still a bit groggy from the night before, although he couldn’t remember most of it.
Worrick popped a squat on the floor in front of Kotton. He scrunched his nose with thought- or was it distaste? Remorse? Embarrassment? He threw his head back and expelled a tense, hot breath of air.
“No, I’ve had a bad week. I’ve had two patients come to see me a second time saying they’re still in pain. When I asked one of them if they had taken the analgesic I’d prescribed, they told me no. Like, how are you gonna get better if you don’t accept the help I give you? Are people dumb?”
Kotton chuckled softly, feeling the pain but not quite understanding the scenario. He laughed not at the demise of his friend, but at the sense of relatability. It was such a ridiculous and imposterous scenario. He recognized the frustration and was able to attribute it to his own dealings.
He had known Worrick since they were both children. They had grown up together; they had gone to school together. Kotton had even been there when Worrick fell in love and got dumped multiple times in a row by the same girl. But eventually there came a point, many, many years ago, when the two had parted ways. Worrick had gone off to study medicine, leaving Kotton stuck lingering and transitioning from job to dead end job.
However, when Kotton’s father had announced that Worrick had taken up his father’s practice right here in town, Kotton’s sombre mood blossomed into one of unlimited enthusiasm. He would finally get to see his best friend again and as a bonus- work alongside him.
Things hadn’t changed all that much between them- thank the gods. Kotton had known too many cases where a long term relationship of a similar relationship had turned sour because of lack of interaction. Sure, Worrick had gotten a little older, a little wrinkly in the corners of his eyes; there was even a grey strand of hair here and there undoubtedly from all the stress he was exposed to. Kotton had grown a tad more confident and had learned how to read lips with more efficiency; he had even taken up the hobby of writing. But otherwise everything had stayed the exact same. It had been a blessing to the half-blood, a gift he wouldn’t have changed if he had a lantern with magic wishes.
It was almost as if the two men had simply picked up right where they had left off. Kotton, though- he couldn't help but feel as though Worrick had resonated with a higher version of himself. He was incredibly more mature, extraneously more serious, and a lot more swallowed by the kilograms of grief that unquestionably came pre-packaged with the profession of medical practitioner.
“I’m sowwy, Wowick,” Kotton murmured. He raked his fingers through his honey-brown hair.
Worrick looked up toward Kotton and stared deeply into his dark hazel eyes. Worick’s unreasonably green orbs shimmered in the candlelight.
“It’s fine. I’m just… under a lot of stress lately-” Anyone would have understood that the hesitation and the abnormal posture of a long time friend gave off an unconvincing plea.
Kotton was about to suggest something before his friend cut him off. “-and no, drinking is not gonna fix things.”
Kotton found unnecessary intrigue in the laminate flooring of his friends’ home. He felt mollified that that was the thoughtless attribution given to him. Was he really all about alcohol? Was he a drunkard? Kotton reprised his role as a person not completely having been dejected by sprouting a playful grin at the behest of his sombre friend.
Suddenly a heavy leather bound journal was thrown onto the young man’s lap.
“Here,” Worrick announced. “I need to step out and head to the office for a second. Would you mind transcribing these diagrams for me since that’s your job?”
Since Kotton had started working with Worick, he had been inscribed with the title of scribe. He was good at writing in addition to legible penmanship. Worrick? Not so much. He was better at drawing and regrettably terrible at spelling. This suggested a wondrous team out of the two of them, and one they had employed without a moment’s hesitation.
Kotton nodded his head slowly before picking up the journal and flipping through some of the first few pages. The book smelled old, like a hand-me-down or some arbitrary heirloom from years prior.
[/i]Good,[/i] Worrick signed, catching Kotton’s attention since had been quickly engrossed in the journal. At least his gesticulation could be captured in the peripheral vision of a deaf man. He was able to see the hand gestures at the last moment, barely catching on to what he had been instructed.
“I’ll be back.” And with that, Worrick stood up and left, locking the front door behind him.
Kotton widened his eyes, attempting to administer devoted focus to whatever the day required of him. He tried to rid himself of the remaining crustiness in the corners of his eyes. He frowned. He was in no mood to do this right now. At least not before a proper meal and a whole hell of a lot of water. Alcohol, man, it syphoned anyone of proper hydration.
His head banged like the beat of a drum. KONG. KONG. He stood up slowly and made way for the kitchen. After searching the various cabinets and drawers, he prospered with a generous helping of a hearty breakfast. He was lucky to say the least.
The man didn’t even have any beverages in his cooler, Kotton griped. Hopefully Worick was planning on picking up some groceries on his way back from the office or else the both of them were going to succumb to starvation tonight.
Reluctantly, Kotton sat back down on the couch and begrudgingly opened his friend's journal a second time. He started at the first available page, examining the diagram Worrick had drawn. It was of a female body. There was a small abrasion on her left forearm, as was denoted by a certain symbol he and Worrick had come to mean ‘abrasion’. A key at the top left corner was always conveniently present in case either of them forgot what certain symbols meant.
Kotton marked the page with one hand and rummaged around in his knapsack for his own journal (and pencil) with the other. Upon finding the items, he withdrew them from the bag and set about flipping to an arbitrary, but blank, page. There, he began to write exactly what he had observed from the diagram.
Female. Left forearm. Abrasion. He took his time scrawling the words. He genuinely took pride in his work, finding Worrick’s uncommonly offered praise as a reward in itself.
Once he was finished with the first diagram of the journal, he flipped to the next. This one was of a male body. It was obvious because of the little extra ‘something or ‘nother’ that protruded from between the legs.
He chuckled to himself. Penis. He thought, his inner child emerging from within.
In his journal he wrote, Male. Head. Contusion.
He stopped. The symbol for contusion was there, but there was also another symbol he hadn’t yet seen perpendicularly placed beside it.
Concussion? He continued, taking a wild guess. He knew what the word meant from the countless times he had received mild concussions. It was all a consequence of his reckless actions, if anyone were to ask.
He proceeded to flip through additional pages, examining previous diagrams, and documenting what each and every depiction meant. He did this for several hours, with the intention of awaiting Worrick’s return. Soon, the sun had started to set, and Kotton’s eyelids surrendered their strength to the weight of heaviness due to boredom and hangover-induced fatigue.
His friend would return soon enough, but for now, a short nap was warranted. He was allowed that much, right? He had managed to translate several diagrams that had been drawn in his friends’ atrocious line-work. Worrick couldn’t be mad. And his couch was oh, so comfortable.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have any time to contemplate whether his friend would be infuriated upon finding drool all over his fancy journal, because Kotton’s eyes fell without opposition, sleep rapidly enveloping him just as the warm blanket had only hours ago.
Kotton turned over in his sleep and brought the warm blanket covering him up to his chin.
“..”
His mind was dreaming of a banana split. It was the perfect consistency, the perfect texture. He could almost feel the soft, cold delicacy on his salivating tongue. It reminded him of his childhood- the good parts- not the bad parts.
“...”
Wait… Or was it a strawberry milkshake? The strawberry was so fresh, so red and plump that it was almost unable to contain its own juices-
WHACK!
His eyes snapped open as fast as his brain could register the slap to his cheek. What the fu-
Worrick stood over him with eyebrows drawn so tightly together there could have been another set of eyebrows above them- they were that thick. A look of confusion on Worick’s face matched Kotton’s, but he should have been the one perplexed, not Worick.
Kotton’s hands came out from under the blanket, signing exactly what he had just been thinking. What the hell?
Worrick rolled his eyes and grumbled, “you passed out on my couch again, asshole. How much did you have to drink last night anyway?”
Kotton yawned and pulled himself into a sitting position. His head pounded, but it was no match for the stinging sensation that had graciously been gifted to his cheek. Why had Worrick felt the need to hit him? Had he been that enamoured by the dream world?
“I was trying to tell you to wake up for the last ten minutes, but then I remembered you can’t hear worth shit.”
Haha, Kotton grumbled internally, trying to ignore the jest made by his friend. If his eyes could roll any further up into his skulls, they would have. There was no way Worick would have forgotten the fact that he couldn’t hear. Any reason to get a good whack in and he’d take it, he supposed.
“Too many dweams,” Kotton responded sheepishly, with the notorious lisp he had as someone who couldn’t hear his own words. He could hear a little, of course, but that was only if there was an enormous clank from a wooden rod slamming into a metal pipe or the sonic boom of someone throwing a barrel against a brick wall. He didn’t hate the inability to hear, but he only truly felt comfortable speaking in front of Worick due to his odd way of communication. Anyone else was a toss up- he had to test the waters before showing the reality under his carefully measured facade.
Worrick sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. Several long locks of golden hair fell from their hold of his ponytail. “When are you gonna give that a rest, man? It’s been five solid days. Ain’t your head feeling like a thunderstorm right now?”
Kotton watched his friend’s lips move, picking up any and all enunciation that could be observed. Worick had always been great about speaking clearly. This was something Kotton had always cherished about their friendship. That, and he had grown accustomed to the movement of his lips and the slang he used. He was able to read most of what was being said to him.
He shrugged. I’ve just had a bad week, he signed slowly. He was still a bit groggy from the night before, although he couldn’t remember most of it.
Worrick popped a squat on the floor in front of Kotton. He scrunched his nose with thought- or was it distaste? Remorse? Embarrassment? He threw his head back and expelled a tense, hot breath of air.
“No, I’ve had a bad week. I’ve had two patients come to see me a second time saying they’re still in pain. When I asked one of them if they had taken the analgesic I’d prescribed, they told me no. Like, how are you gonna get better if you don’t accept the help I give you? Are people dumb?”
Kotton chuckled softly, feeling the pain but not quite understanding the scenario. He laughed not at the demise of his friend, but at the sense of relatability. It was such a ridiculous and imposterous scenario. He recognized the frustration and was able to attribute it to his own dealings.
He had known Worrick since they were both children. They had grown up together; they had gone to school together. Kotton had even been there when Worrick fell in love and got dumped multiple times in a row by the same girl. But eventually there came a point, many, many years ago, when the two had parted ways. Worrick had gone off to study medicine, leaving Kotton stuck lingering and transitioning from job to dead end job.
However, when Kotton’s father had announced that Worrick had taken up his father’s practice right here in town, Kotton’s sombre mood blossomed into one of unlimited enthusiasm. He would finally get to see his best friend again and as a bonus- work alongside him.
Things hadn’t changed all that much between them- thank the gods. Kotton had known too many cases where a long term relationship of a similar relationship had turned sour because of lack of interaction. Sure, Worrick had gotten a little older, a little wrinkly in the corners of his eyes; there was even a grey strand of hair here and there undoubtedly from all the stress he was exposed to. Kotton had grown a tad more confident and had learned how to read lips with more efficiency; he had even taken up the hobby of writing. But otherwise everything had stayed the exact same. It had been a blessing to the half-blood, a gift he wouldn’t have changed if he had a lantern with magic wishes.
It was almost as if the two men had simply picked up right where they had left off. Kotton, though- he couldn't help but feel as though Worrick had resonated with a higher version of himself. He was incredibly more mature, extraneously more serious, and a lot more swallowed by the kilograms of grief that unquestionably came pre-packaged with the profession of medical practitioner.
“I’m sowwy, Wowick,” Kotton murmured. He raked his fingers through his honey-brown hair.
Worrick looked up toward Kotton and stared deeply into his dark hazel eyes. Worick’s unreasonably green orbs shimmered in the candlelight.
“It’s fine. I’m just… under a lot of stress lately-” Anyone would have understood that the hesitation and the abnormal posture of a long time friend gave off an unconvincing plea.
Kotton was about to suggest something before his friend cut him off. “-and no, drinking is not gonna fix things.”
Kotton found unnecessary intrigue in the laminate flooring of his friends’ home. He felt mollified that that was the thoughtless attribution given to him. Was he really all about alcohol? Was he a drunkard? Kotton reprised his role as a person not completely having been dejected by sprouting a playful grin at the behest of his sombre friend.
Suddenly a heavy leather bound journal was thrown onto the young man’s lap.
“Here,” Worrick announced. “I need to step out and head to the office for a second. Would you mind transcribing these diagrams for me since that’s your job?”
Since Kotton had started working with Worick, he had been inscribed with the title of scribe. He was good at writing in addition to legible penmanship. Worrick? Not so much. He was better at drawing and regrettably terrible at spelling. This suggested a wondrous team out of the two of them, and one they had employed without a moment’s hesitation.
Kotton nodded his head slowly before picking up the journal and flipping through some of the first few pages. The book smelled old, like a hand-me-down or some arbitrary heirloom from years prior.
[/i]Good,[/i] Worrick signed, catching Kotton’s attention since had been quickly engrossed in the journal. At least his gesticulation could be captured in the peripheral vision of a deaf man. He was able to see the hand gestures at the last moment, barely catching on to what he had been instructed.
“I’ll be back.” And with that, Worrick stood up and left, locking the front door behind him.
Kotton widened his eyes, attempting to administer devoted focus to whatever the day required of him. He tried to rid himself of the remaining crustiness in the corners of his eyes. He frowned. He was in no mood to do this right now. At least not before a proper meal and a whole hell of a lot of water. Alcohol, man, it syphoned anyone of proper hydration.
His head banged like the beat of a drum. KONG. KONG. He stood up slowly and made way for the kitchen. After searching the various cabinets and drawers, he prospered with a generous helping of a hearty breakfast. He was lucky to say the least.
The man didn’t even have any beverages in his cooler, Kotton griped. Hopefully Worick was planning on picking up some groceries on his way back from the office or else the both of them were going to succumb to starvation tonight.
Reluctantly, Kotton sat back down on the couch and begrudgingly opened his friend's journal a second time. He started at the first available page, examining the diagram Worrick had drawn. It was of a female body. There was a small abrasion on her left forearm, as was denoted by a certain symbol he and Worrick had come to mean ‘abrasion’. A key at the top left corner was always conveniently present in case either of them forgot what certain symbols meant.
Kotton marked the page with one hand and rummaged around in his knapsack for his own journal (and pencil) with the other. Upon finding the items, he withdrew them from the bag and set about flipping to an arbitrary, but blank, page. There, he began to write exactly what he had observed from the diagram.
Female. Left forearm. Abrasion. He took his time scrawling the words. He genuinely took pride in his work, finding Worrick’s uncommonly offered praise as a reward in itself.
Once he was finished with the first diagram of the journal, he flipped to the next. This one was of a male body. It was obvious because of the little extra ‘something or ‘nother’ that protruded from between the legs.
He chuckled to himself. Penis. He thought, his inner child emerging from within.
In his journal he wrote, Male. Head. Contusion.
He stopped. The symbol for contusion was there, but there was also another symbol he hadn’t yet seen perpendicularly placed beside it.
Concussion? He continued, taking a wild guess. He knew what the word meant from the countless times he had received mild concussions. It was all a consequence of his reckless actions, if anyone were to ask.
He proceeded to flip through additional pages, examining previous diagrams, and documenting what each and every depiction meant. He did this for several hours, with the intention of awaiting Worrick’s return. Soon, the sun had started to set, and Kotton’s eyelids surrendered their strength to the weight of heaviness due to boredom and hangover-induced fatigue.
His friend would return soon enough, but for now, a short nap was warranted. He was allowed that much, right? He had managed to translate several diagrams that had been drawn in his friends’ atrocious line-work. Worrick couldn’t be mad. And his couch was oh, so comfortable.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have any time to contemplate whether his friend would be infuriated upon finding drool all over his fancy journal, because Kotton’s eyes fell without opposition, sleep rapidly enveloping him just as the warm blanket had only hours ago.
