A/N: A fun one-shot I wrote. Or well, maybe not so fun after all... I'll let you, the reader, decide for yourself.

It's that day again.

He wakes up, impossibly tired, completely drained, and already hating the universe and everything in it. His head pounds, throbbing with a crashing headache, a thousand needles piercing his skull. It feels like he's the rope in a tug-of-war match, and his head is ever-so-slowly being split open from the top.

God, he hates days like these. He wants nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep. No, roll over and die, more like it.

Too-bright sunlight streams into the room, driving daggers into his eyes and robbing him of whatever sleep he has left, leaving him only with his mind-bending exhaustion. The alarm's still ringing, a shrill, recurring beep that reminds him of a starving cat's tortured shriek. Groggily he rolls over, eyes still closed, pins and needles running up his arm as he fumbles around for the alarm. God, why did she have to make it so freaking annoying? By some miracle he finds her phone, and shuts off her alarm. The beeping stops, replaced with blessed silence, but it does nothing to help his pounding head.

His whole body hurts, as if he's been tossing and turning about all night on a hard stone floor. His stomach feels painfully bloated, like an overinflated balloon, barely holding it in, perpetually about to burst. Beneath which burns a slow, cramping pain that feels like his insides are being slowly grinded into mush. He wants nothing more than to rip out his innards and burn them to ashes – anything to stop the pain.

The door to the room suddenly swings open, and a shrill, too-loud voice screams something at him. He mumbles something back and pulls the covers back over his head. Stupid sister with her stupid voice.

He lies in bed, there, for a while, head pounding, body aching all over, while increasingly foul and murderous thoughts float through his head. He'd have stayed there forever, but then he realises he needs the toilet. Urgently. And as miserable as he is, he will not be reduced to wetting himself in bed.

So, groaning and complaining all the way, he fights the headache, the fatigue, the cramps, the grouchiness, the swollen breasts, the fire in his muscles, his body staging a full rebellion as he tries to assert control over his physical faculties. Every little movement takes a humongous effort, and only adds to his exhaustion.

Somehow, he fights it all off, and gets to his feet.

For a moment he blinks, revelling in his accomplishment. He did something! And all of a sudden his headache doesn't seem so bad, and the cramps seem to die down a bit, and the burning in his muscles seems more manageable. Maybe things will be alright. Maybe the universe isn't out to get him today. Maybe today won't be so bad after all.

And just as he's done giving himself a mental pep-talk, the whole goddamn mess in his – in her uterus – splashes out onto her legs.

Yotsuha's just about done with breakfast when she hears a muffled scream from somewhere inside Mitsuha's room. Poor thing, she thinks to herself, as she finishes the last of her green tea. After all, she can relate.

Periods are the worst.