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The Lecrouxs do not get headaches.
For Kremy’s entire life, he’s seen this proven time and time again: his mother, his meemaw, even his brother were all adamant deniers of their pain–no matter how furrowed their brows became, no matter how many times they groaned over the course of the hour, no matter how dim they wanted the lights or how quiet they wanted the room, they did not get headaches.
Kremy doesn’t get headaches either. He’s a silver-tongued, quick-witted, tight-lipped conman with a pressed suit, shined shoes, and a studded cane. Getting a headache in his line of work would be like having a warrant out for his arrest–spontaneous, inconvenient, and frustratingly common.
Luckily, he’s found that both those things quickly disappear after enough time spent in the dark.
Unfortunately, it isn’t very easy to find a place to make money with your eyes closed.
So instead he grits through these little spells. A little pain behind the eyes never killed anyone, especially not a Lecroux–and Kremy would not be the first to buckle.
Perhaps he should leave a few more offerings for the good Baron, though, because today it feels like something’s testing him.
Kremy’s tail twitches in aggravation as he massages his temple. Not only does he have the displeasure of travelling with a group of very loud idiots, but he also has to be outside. The sun’s warmth, usually a calming presence in his life, is far outweighed by the fact that someone’s turned her brightness up to eleven. He scowls.
“Afternoon darlin’,” a familiar voice drawls behind him, and he doesn’t move a single muscle as Gideon approaches. “We got any leftovers from lunch? I’m thinkin’ Hootsie stole some of my sausage while I wasn’t lookin’.”
The lizardfolk’s usual soft spot for the gravel at the bottom of his partner’s voice is evidently missing today, as he replies curtly, “Nope, not one thing left.”
Gideon pouts, “Really? Not even the rejects?”
“You ate most of the rejects,” Kremy points out icily. He does still have a few left, but he can't be bothered to take them out again, not when his brain feels like it's pushing against the confines of his skull.
“There's no way I ate all of ‘em, though,” Gideon guesses correctly, peering over Kremy’s shoulders as if the food will magically appear, “I always leave a couple behind in case you or I don't get enough–where’re you hidin’ ‘em?”
Kremy groans in frustration as Gideon starts poking around their bags, looking in all the wrong places. “Fine, Gid, they're in the uh…” he waves his hand around as if the word will appear from thin air, “the little…” he narrows his eyes, “it's next to the bag with the funny lookin’ clasp on it, they're in that… fuckin’...” Gideon grabs the bag next to the one with the funny lookin’ clasp on it, and knocks a few jars around, which is very grating, “Would you stop movin’ for one fuckin’ minute?!”
Gideon freezes, bag in hand and a dumb look on his face. At least he did what he was asked.
It takes another moment of serious concentration and brow-pinching before Kremy remembers the word he’s looking for is pocket, but by this point Gideon’s already put the bag back down, and is crossing his arms with a stern look about him. Typically their roles are reversed here, but Kremy's clearly proven himself to be the fool of the day.
“You feelin’ alright, Krem?” Gideon starts, and the game begins. Kremy breathes deeply.
“I'm fine, Gid, just a little frustrated is all.”
“Why?”
“I dunno, maybe because I'm bein’ hounded by my husband?” Kremy bites.
Gideon snorts, “Hounded? I come to you for extra food no less than 14 times a day! Come up with somethin’ better.”
Kremy sighs, his head throbbing dangerously as his tail flicks once more. “I promise you Gid, I’m fine. Ain't nothin’ I haven't dealt with before.”
The genasi’s face softens for a moment, concern overriding his fire. He's almost there, just a step away from leaving Kremy alone, he just needs one more push.
Kremy gives him a tiny smirk. Well, he tries, but it quickly proves to be a Herculean task as his eyes squint just a little and pain stings through the side of his skull, making him hiss and rub at his temple absentmindedly.
Gideon then looks at him skeptically, the gator’s facade clearly crumbling in an instant as his partner puts all the pieces together, “alright, that’s enough evidence for me, it's naptime babydoll.”
“Babydoll–?” Kremy asks incredulously before he’s being picked up and hauled over the genasi’s shoulder, to which he starts childishly flailing in protest. “Wh–I do not need a nap, Gid, I'm a grown ass man!”
“Well you’re actin’ like a bitch,” Gideon retorts, easily carrying his friend over to their shared tent, “an’ as far as I know, bitches need their beauty sleep.”
“I–what the hell are you on about?” Kremy blurts, bewildered, before shaking himself back into his stubborn stupor, “no, you aren't distractin’ me with your weird quips, I’m not goin’ to bed!”
“Like hell you aren’t!” Gideon barks with a hint of a laugh, dipping into their tent and closing the flap.
Kremy rolls his eyes, not bothering to slither away when Gideon sits him down on their bedroll, “Why can't you just accept that I don't wanna take a nap right now, Mr. Coal-Lecroux?”
“Why can't you just accept that I’m not takin’ no for an answer right now, Mr. Lecroux-Coal?” Gideon mocks, throwing a blanket over the annoyed lizardfolk. “I’m gonna get you nice an’ cozy, an’ you’re gonna fuss an’ whine for like, 10 minutes, an’ then you’re gonna feel my warm, warm hands right around your stubborn little head…”
Kremy huffs at his own predictability.
“... An’ you'll be out like a light,” Gideon finishes as he shrugs his suspenders off, crowding around Kremy and forcing him to lay down. The heat from the genasi's body is instantly soothing, even if it doesn't do much for his current ailment, and he begrudgingly snuggles into it.
He’d complain about still being able to hear Gricko’s shrill voice through the tent, the shenanigans of the rest of the guys being quite possibly the loudest thing on the planet–but Gideon, annoyingly, knows the drill by now, and places his hands over Kremy’s ears, rubbing his thumbs against his temples.
It is, regrettably, very nice. He grumbles his grievances into the tent ceiling, but it inevitably sounds closer to a purr as his eyes slide shut, and the pain immediately dulls to a slightly more manageable level.
While it doesn't go away completely, or even dies down to anything below a three on the stabbing scale, it does feel significantly less dire than it did before. In retrospect, it didn't even feel that bad–most of his aggravation came from just how long it lasted, and where it was situated.
He briefly wonders if he should ask Gideon to push into his eye sockets, but quickly realizes that'd be, for lack of a better descriptor, downright insane. So he settles for having his head sandwiched instead.
“One day,” Gideon mumbles, and between his quiet voice and the hands over Kremy’s ears he almost doesn't hear him, “you’re gonna come to me about yer migraines as soon as they start, an’ we’ll have you back in shape before it hits 12 o'clock.”
As nice as it sounds, “that’ll never happen, cher,” Kremy mumbles, the pain fading further as he starts dozing off.
“It will,” he says, like it's an inarguable truth, “cuz as much as I love your stubbornness and your lies, I think Lecrouxs do get headaches.”