Killian’s standing by the window like some kind of brooding Victorian ghost, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at nothing. He does that a lot lately.
And Micah is pretending to read on his phone next to Regina, and Rowan is probably actually reading, but he still looks miserable.
We all are.
Yeah, I know. Killian’s sick. Possibly dying.
Definitelyturning into something none of us want to think about.
The whole situation is a giant steaming pile of shit and there’s nothing any of us can do except wait for Vyse to maybefind something or watch Killian slowly lose himself to the virus eating his brain.
But at some point, waiting stops being productive and starts being just... sad. And right now, we’ve crossed that line by about a zillion miles.
Killian’s shoulder looks worse than it did this morning. I noticed when he reached for his coffee earlier. The dark veins have spread past his collarbone now, branching up toward his neck. He caught me looking and turned away.
He keeps doing that. Turning away. Putting distance between himself and the rest of us, especially Regina.
Like he’s already started the process of letting go.
Fuck that.
I stand up from my corner of the couch, where I’ve been doing my own version of moping, and clap my hands together loud enough to make everyone jump.
“Alright,” I announce. “This is pathetic.”
Regina looks up from her book. “What?”
“This.” I gesture broadly at the room. “All of us sitting around being sad. It’s depressing as shit.”
“Sean,” Micah says carefully, “we kind of have reason to be depressed.”
“Yeah, I know. But sitting here staring at walls isn’t going to fix anything, is it?” I walk over to the fancy wooden cabinet in the corner that I’m pretty sure Villeneuve uses for storing his booze. The man has good taste, I’ll give him that. “What we need is a distraction.”
“A distraction?” Killian asks flatly.
“Yep!” I find what I’m looking for, a bottle of something expensive and amber-colored. Probably older than all of us combined. Perfect. “We’re throwing a rager.”
“A rager.” Regina’s tone is skeptical. “There are five of us.”
“A mini rager. A ragelet. The point is we’re doing shit other than being sad.” I take the bottle and a handful of glasses, carrying them back to the center of the room. “Everyone on the floor. Now.”
No one moves.
“That wasn’t a request.” I drop down onto the expensive rug from some underworld monster Villeneuve probably hunted and skinned for not studying hard enough and start pouring drinks, filling each glass to the brim. “Come on. I will literally drag each of you down here if I have to.”
“You could try,” Killian mutters, but there’s amusement in his voice. I’ll take it.
Regina sighs and closes her book. “Fine. But if Villeneuve comes home and murders us for getting alcohol on his antique rug, I’m blaming you.”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent my fault. I accept full responsibility.” I pat the spot next to me. “Come sit, Storm.”
One by one, they join me on the floor. Micah first, because he’s the most likely to go along with my bullshit even if he pretends like he’s above it. Regina takes the spot I patted, close enough that our shoulders brush. Killian and Rowan eventually settle in to her right.
Good. We’re all here.
“Okay.” I place the empty bottle in the center of our little circle. “We’re playing truth or dare.”
Regina eyes the bottle. “Truth or dare doesn’t usually involve a bottle.”
