Chapter 13: UNGEDULD (Impatience)
Running.
Pound pound pound of boots. White grey brown buildings streak past fast like the questions in his head.
Running faster, swerve quick to avoid a stagnant passerby, sweat pricktrickling down his neck... Sudden stop at a road, pant pant pant. Cough ripped out of his throat.
Ugh. Damn cigarettes.
Heave in air, blown out through the nose. He whipped out his cellphone again and checked the address.
Right across town.
Annoyance flared at the fact. He'd never been there before.
Wonder what it's like. That place, away from -
Clenched teeth. Irritably, he pushed rank hair back from throbbing temple. Air rushed out of him. He caught his breath hurriedly, snatching it back, clenched fists everything clenched, and took off again at a run.
----
Waking came gently. Really, he didn't feel as if he was awake, even though his eyes were open; the stingy spiderweb strains of dreams still clung to him. He felt strange. He'd been dreaming about her - the thin and dark woman - Rietje. About what she'd said.
He sat up - attempting to detach the rainbow streaks and swaths of feeling from his prism skin.
They still hung there. Like the tangled sheets wound around him, hanging with the silence suspended in the shivering air. Binding like her words that he tried to forget, that he couldn't look in the eyes. Bound to him like Nadir's burning fingertips, that moved and left brands in his skin.
There were so many strands to be erased and forgotten.
She'd said… She'd said… There were others… Empathy… She named me. Named… us.
There was a sudden erratic knocking and… yes, that must have woken him. He sighed, lightly; his head and self feeling as weighted lead but flimsy enough to be displaced by a solitary breath.
"I'm coming," he called. He pushed off the comforter, and pulled on a pair of loose trousers draped over the foot of the bed. Raising himself shakily upright, he made his way to the door.
Sparkling orangegold.
Despite the proximity, the clarity which made this particular colour shine among all the others… It must be someone he knew, which was… surprising, to say the least. He put out one hand to lean on the wall, and turned the doorknob.
----
She wondered whether she was doing the right thing by coming here. Artemis thought she wasn't, Artemis thought he should be left alone, and maybe Artemis knew better because the two of them were as thick as thieves, oh - but what did Artemis know, no one should be left alone in a state like that. Especially not Asahel - lovely, poor Asahel who had a secret sitting on his heart. If he was left to indulge in his hermitty habits, it might turn into something permanent, and then where would they all be?
She took a deep breath and stopped in front of Asahel's doorstep.
Alright, I'm knocking now. Everything will be alright.
Pause.
Asahel needs to know… he's cared about. Even if he doesn't need us
She studied his front door. It was an attractive little piece of upholstery.
Alright, then.
She knocked politely. Then waited. And waited and waited.
What is he doing in there?!
Maybe he isn't there. Maybe he's out! Maybe he's settling his differences with that dark scary pale man…
She squinted at the door, wondering if she did it long enough she'd be able to see through it…She concluded that she wouldn't, and knocked again loudly and longly.
A muffled reply. Adair was considering knocking again when the door nudged open a smidgen.
"Mmm... Adair...?"
Disheveled blond hair, sleepy eyes, wearing forest green drawstring pyjama pants, white self upright but leaning, like a tree that had got its colouring the wrong way round.
"Asahel - I woke you? I'm terribly sorry! I probably should have called first to make sure it was alright... but I just had to see you, I've been worrying about you - and the writing. Yes, I thought I'd see how the writing is coming along, too. And I have pie!"
She showed off a cardboard bakery box triumphantly, mouth curved up in a smile. Asahel rubbed his hair again and made another odd little groaning noise. The smile faltered.
"Asahel...? You're not ill, are you? You should go and lay down. Don't worry. I'll look after you." She calmed somewhat, letting the box fall back to her side, reaching out a hand - firm but undemanding - towards him.
Asahel gave his head a little shake as if to clear it, and offered up a smile of his own, a tumultuous one attempting valiantly to be wholehearted.
"No, Adair, I... I'm not ill... I just..."
She rested the hand on his bare shoulder, her head tilted slightly to one side.
"You seem flushed, are you sure you aren't..."
He met her gaze with his of pale blue. It was reassuring.
"No... I'm just so tired... I would like to sit down. Come in then, Adair..."
The smile returned.
"Oh, good - you scared me. Where should I put this? Let me cut a piece for you."
He was so, so thin. Even more so than before. She went into the flat and shut the door behind her, everywhere suddenly rendered dim. Asahel was whitely and greenly striking in the dark: slantly, like a sculpture. His shoulderblades leapt out from his back like the bases of wings. Had he always been this angular? Perhaps it was less obvious when he was wearing a shirt. Or maybe he hadn't been eating enough. Just as she'd suspected! With his distress over that awful dark man, and his passionate writing, he probably couldn't help forgetting to eat for a couple of days.
"Really, Asahel. Writers need to eat, too. Um. Where's the light? I can't seem to remember where it - oh." There was a sudden whitewash of gentle light. "There we go!" she went into the deceptfully spacious kitchen and set the box on the smooth-topped table and took down a white dish - with an edge that curved up and down - and a knife that made a perfect pie-knife. Then she lifted the cardboard lid, smelling the mouthwatering smell of pastry crust. Trying to be quick and careful at the same time, she cut a thick slice and put it on the plate. Finally she grabbed a fork and went to present it to Asahel in the next room.
Asahel was perched in the middle of the sheets on his bed, knees tucked up, looking at her with fade blue eyes that for some reason seemed a little larger than usual.
"Apple?" his voice sounded different too, but she didn't know quite how...
"Of course. I know your weakness for sweet things. You haven't got a sore throat, have you? I know you said you weren't ill, but... if your throat is sore, just eat the apple and leave the pastry."
He nodded like an obedient child and started eating.
Adair slumped into Asahel's grey swivel chair and put her elbows on her knees - her ginger hair falling in her face - and looked.
"Asahel. I've been wondering," she began quietly.
Asahel looked up, fork halfway to his mouth. This wasn't... dangerous. It was alright. Her faint reverberating concern, almost choked among all the others, was comforting. Familiar shining excitement and rosy fondness.
Almost made the others duller. Almost. He was still teetering. Right on the edge but maybe it will be alright. He inhaled deeply.
"Yes?" He put the piece of pastry in his mouth.
"It's about... well. Your secret I suppose?" She looked at him, hazel eyes serious.
Greybrowngreen... sh i mme rrrring.
He glanced at her again.
She can't know. This is. No. Something else. Has to be.
Orangered FEAR.
"What are you talking about, Adair...?" he asked slowly, carefully.
"Umm... Him. The dark pale-skinned, scarred man who you saw the other day..."
His pulse slowed, his breathing a relief. He was usually loath to describe Nadir to other people save Artemis, but now, oddly, he wanted to. Nadir was the wire twisting in his mind and he needed to tell him to someone. Someone who could help, like Adair.
He put the plate on his desk, the fork still in his mouth, and nibbled on it, wondering how he should begin.
Adair could hear the second-hand of the clock ticking by, and with each loud (to her) tick her anticipation inflated like a big red balloon. Asahel trusted her enough that he was going to tell her – tell her the history of their families, of the incident that would spark off two decades of desperate conflict…
"Nadir and I…" he leaned forward, all white and spectral grey spiderweb shadows – a spindly tree.
That was when he felt it. Chasing itself through his psyche, the last drop that made him spill. It was an animal… a rapidly changing vacant dark blackness, a starving, snuffling hunger that couldn't have been human. Monstrous…
Blind panic. Asahel felt it surrounding him. His painfully won calm overtipped itself and vanished.
----
Rush across the street, almost knocking over a pedestrian, ignoring his indignant yells – shouldn't have been standing there in the first place, asshole – reaching the clean, prissily decorated old building, pounding into the foyer, past the surprised security guard, into the glass elevator that arrived with a ping.
11th floor. You'd better be there, Llewellyn, he thought grimly.
----
"Asahel? …ASAHEL!"
She rushed forward as Asahel fell to one side, death white. The fork clattered against the floor. A strangled, muffled cry left his lips as his limbs locked, head tossing like he was having a nightmare, back arching, arching, as if he was going to break in two.
Adair drew back, looking in horror as the pained cries increased.
----
He stood hunched over, desperately sucking in air and cursing his smoker's lungs. He'd been running around for roughly over an hour looking for Asahel's thrice-damned hellhole, and getting lost in the process had not improved his mood. In fact he felt more like making the blond suffer now than he had when he'd started out.
The annoying elevator pinged again. It had reached the eleventh floor. He stumbled out onto the landing.
----
A traumatic disease? Asahel, you have your secrets, but this has gone too far! Adair was rummaging for the cordless phone, a mental anxious and annoyed tirade directed at Asahel playing out in the background of her frenzied thoughts.
A quick glance showed her that his cheeks and lips were rapidly turning blue, and she made a high-pitched, frustrated sound.
Asahel, you idiot..!
A loud, bossy knock interrupted her searching, and she ran for the front door.
Who would that be at this time…? Whoever it is, I hope they can help!
She wrenched the door open, dragging the shocked visitor in by the front of his shirt.
"Thank goodness! Something's happened to Asahel…"
Her hand was impatiently slapped away and she looked back at him in the semidarkness.
That man..!
"You! Well, you'd better put aside whatever competition there is between you two and…"
He was looking at her, blue eyes flashing dangerously, but with a hint of worry plucking at his eyebrows.
"What are you babbling about?"
He pushed past her and opened the door to Asahel's bedroom.
Swallowing, he felt his hands grow cold at the sight of the skewed, sprawled blond.
Shit.
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A/N: …And finally, an update No I'm not dead… just graduated from high school, is all confetti I've a lot planned, fic-wise, for this long summer… chapter 14 will be on its way soon.
Thanks so much to Sporkess and Maggie. Reading your reviews during the dry phase, knowing MUSE was still actually being read, was encouraging beyond belief!
Chapter soundtrack: Love is Blindness – U2
Notes:Psychogenic nonepileptic seizures seem to be caused by stressful psychological experiences or emotional trauma. Psychogenic nonepileptic seizures are one way that the body indicates excessive stress.
Generalized tonic-clonic seizures, also known as a grand mal seizures, can be preceded by a sense of general malaise. The tonic phase involves vocalization, severe hyperextension (opisthotonos, arcing of the back), possible respiratory arrest, cyanosis (turning blue). The clonic phase involves rhythmic generalised jerking, followed by prolonged unconsciousness. After a seizure, aches, pains, headache, lethargy, and a bitten tongue are common after effects.