There’s no messages from Nikolo. Huh.
At least I’m already ass deep in my pity party. It’s not like heowesme a message or anything, but I’m too sick to pretendit doesn’t hurt. Something else that hurts is my bladder. It’s suddenly making itself known, so I drag myself out of the bed and stumble to the bathroom, using the wall to keep me upright.
After managing to relieve my bladder without falling in the damned toilet, I stand at the sink and let the water wash over my hands while my stomach churns. I look like shit. My hair is a wild mess, my skin looks unnatural, and my eyes are sunken.
Staring into the mirror I try to figure out what I need to no longer feel like I’m dying. How long have I been passed out? How long has it been since I’ve eaten? Am I hungry or is it just nausea? What combination of ingredients will make a tea that will annihilate whatever viruses are currently waging war with my body?
I’m pretty sure that my phone said it was four. I’m assuming that’s p.m., but thinking only makes my head throb so I grab my robe from the hook on the bathroom door and slowly make my way to the kitchen.
In the kitchen that same feeling of wrongness follows me like a general stank. Not that something’swrong, just that I’m missing something. It’s probably the cloud fucking dream throwing me off. Adorable little rabbits playing the harp have no place in sex dreams.
Except… My travel mug is out. Which is strange, because I’ve never used it. I got it as a promotional gift years ago but I hate the handle on it. Eyeing the thermos dubiously, I inch towards it. There is no way Egbert—or anyone with a drop of common sense—would come in here and catch whatever I’m infected with. The only reason I wasn’t put into quarantine is because of our experience with complex magic here at the shop. Most beings are sent to the hospital so they don’t start a plague.
But still, there’s the mug. And the feeling of something. And I’m pretty sure that the building hasn’t developed the ability to make drinks. Though that would be handy.
I pull the mug closer and struggle to unscrew the lid. Whoever left it obviously hates me because it’s lockedtight. The contents are cold now, but it doesn’t stop the smell whacking me in the face through the little drink spout. It’s the cosiest punch to the face I’ve ever received, a scent I haven’t smelled since I was young.
Nikolo’s mum's tea.
He made it. He made it and he left it. In my mug… I feel like the answer is right in front of me but I’m too slow and goopy to put two and two together. With all the regret in the world that I can’t drink it, I stick the spout up to my nose and inhale as deeply as my congested sinuses will let me.
My stomach roars in response, so I turn to the fridge. Which has been filled. With soup.
Nikolo was here.
The thought hits me over the head like a cartoon hammer. I try to rush back to my room to get my phone to check my messages again, but I get dizzy half way back and end up needing to take a breather in the hallway, before setting off again at a more sedate pace.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I search through my phone but I can’t find a single clue about how Nikolo very definitely ended up in my house.
Strange question, but did you come by last night?
I manage to type a clear message with the help of a lot of squinting and auto correct and hit send. A phone buzzes in my room. Not my phone, but definitely a phone.
It couldn’t be… I think through the fog in my head, but then realise, it really could. I stand slowly, so I don’t get any head spins, and scan the room.
Really, the big sheet of white paper on my otherwise entirely drenched in black bedroom should have been more noticeable.
VAMP IN WARDROBE.The words are scrawled in large letters and if it were anyone but him, I’d be really fucking pissed about the sticky tape on my hand laquered furniture. Only Nikolo could make me smile like a dope over such foolery.
I check my phone. There’s still at least two hours until the sun is due to go down. I stare a bit longer at the door, until the fever induced pain makes my body tremble, forcing me to crawl back under my covers.
Smoothing a hand over the other side of the bed, I try to dig through my hazy memories of the night to figure out which parts were real and which weren’t. Thinking hurts too, though, and more than anything, I regret not making a tea or heating up the soup when I was in the kitchen. There’s no way I’m making it back to the kitchen without passing out. The only thing I have energy for is sleeping, so I give in.
Gentle knocking wakes me up, but only after I realise that they aren’t a part of the crazy dream I’m still half stuck in. Once my brain is one-hundred percent convinced that I’m not actually in one of the classrooms downstairs, taking a human chemistry class taught by a very tall, skinny man who insists on throwing marshmallows at me for being wrong, I try to find the source.
The wardrobe. Oh Gods, Nikolo is trapped in the wardrobe. I have to fight the blankets to get out of the bed, but I manage to get to the door before the polite knocking becomes frantic.
“I’m sorry!” I apologise, with a wheeze that turns into a hacking cough that has me doubling over.
“Why are you apologising? Shit, are you okay?” Nikolo must get himself out okay, because he’s there right beside me rubbing my back and shoulders while I try to expel my lungs from my chest. “Let’s get you back into bed. Come on.”
“How—how long—knocking?” My throat is on fire from the coughing fit, making it hard to get the words out, and the oxygen deprivation is making things a little black around the edges. Thankfully, Nikolo can more than easily bear my weight for me, manhandling me into bed in a way that would be sexy if it didn’t feel like toxic sludge had infected my limbs.
He fusses like a mother hen, clucking his tongue, tucking me into the bed and piling up my pillows just perfectly.
“Right, what do you need?” He asks, hands on hips and looking me over with a frown, when reallyhe’sthe one that needs something.
He’s paler than I’ve ever seen him with tired, gaunt bags under his eyes. Not to mention his fangs are so sharp he’s starting to lisp. Before I can point it out, my stomach rumbles loud enough for us both to hear. Nikolo’s eyes cut to my middle, narrowing almost angrily. He snarls back, lip curling up when my hands fly down to cover my complaining abdomen over the blankets.
