Scrawled on the Walls

 “Hey.”

Dray glanced up and flipped a salute with his scratch-pen as Stov dropped through the open window, bringing the dusk breeze with him. “Hey.”

A surprisingly clean MIP—new mag-strap and all—clattered casually onto his desk. “Found you a souvenir in the underground. Who would have thought people threw these things away.”

“You cleaned it and everything.” He picked it up, detaching the actual device from its strap and turning it over. “...Almost doesn’t feel safe having it.”

“It wasn’t on you when they took you. No one knows the guy who was bitten is Draykan Mellcorner, and unless you go around messaging everyone, they won’t until they figure it out for themselves.”

His fingers curled around it. “They’ll be sifting through profiles to find a match. Even if they don’t have my MIP, they still have my face.”

“And luckily for us, you have a pretty plain one. You were also scratched up and bruised from here to Lish." The bed creaked as Stov dropped onto it. "No matter how good their people are, it'll still take them a while. And since you're still here, all the loops through the nose-freeze threw off the trackers, too.”

“Scratched up and bruised?” He twisted in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Stov, who’d flopped over to relax with his hands behind his head.

“Let’s just say when I found you in the hospital, the bruises and scratches were the most colourful parts of your face.” Stov craned his head up to look at him. “You missed my insult, by the way.”

He ignored that, touching at a scab on his cheek. It wasn't that bad. “Are you just exaggerating?”

“Dray.” The other propped himself up on his elbows, giving him a look. “It’s the healing factor. Of course it's almost gone.”

Healing factor—? He stared at Stov. “But it— hold on, it hasn’t even been a day since I was bitten. How soon is that supposed to kick in?”

“First stage. Coming in during the first twenty-four hours isn’t that unusual, it just means you might have more like a week or two instead of three or four.” Stov opened his hands in a shrug. “It's only bad if you're insta-healing from everything. That’s more third-stage level.”

I.... “Only one or two weeks?”

“Well, after Dragon’s Crown passes, it’ll be four until the next Drelf’s Tines, after Light’s Rain.” His friend flipped his hands back and forth. “Thanks to Light’s Rain, you might make it until the first Drelf’s Tines of the new war, but I wouldn’t stack all my stip on that.”

“Great,” he sighed, turning back to his coursework. “Just great.”

“You'll be fine.” Stov sat up, his eyes intense. “And let me know how you feel—if anything’s off. If you even think anything’s off, I want to hear about it.”

Dray leaned his head on his fist, regarding him for a moment. Now that he bothered to notice, there were dark circles under Stov’s eyes. “Did you go through this stuff all last night?”

The other snorted, levering himself to his feet like a hundred-war-old with knee issues and grimacing faintly. “I wanted to check a few things, and go back down into the tunnels. You should too. I can give you the files if you want them.”

He blew out a breath. “Hand it over. Might as well get all the details. It’s better than doing coursework I can’t hand in, anyway.”

Stov peered over, frowning. “I don’t know why you’d torture yourself like that.”

Dray leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head and dropping them on the back of his neck, shivering at the chill drifting in through the window. “I already watched five episodes of Open Lure with 'Tia. The reboot, by the way. If I don’t do something I’m going crazy and throwing myself out that window.”

“The old show was better,” Stov grunted in agreement, stepping back to the window and straddling the sill. “Could always check out the nook's damage while your MIP's charging, but your parents might kill us.”

Dray quirked a smile. “They wouldn’t kill me, but you’re fair game.”

“Thanks,” came the dry response as Stov pulled himself up, and paused to glance back down again. “Remember, anything off, send me a casual message.”

He smiled, arms still folded behind his head. “Aw, worried about me?”

The look morphed into a glare.

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “I will. Eyah, you’re a brood-hen. I'm not 'Tia.”

“Don’t be kritzed, you can't pull off her puppy-eyes,” Stov grunted, and left.

꘠

Speaking of scratches....

Seastone-coloured eyes stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, standing out against ashen skin, the white patch on his neck almost blending in. Hints of bruises and scabbing still marked his face, but they looked days old.

Niff. He wasn’t kidding.

Dray fingered the faint line of an almost-healed scratch next to the small cleft in his chin, shivering. It wasn’t exactly a bad thing to heal so quickly.

Still....

He closed his eyes. ...Is it just me, or am I getting a fever? Goosebumps prickled at his skin, despite the warmth he could feel radiating off it. Shouldn't be this cold.

Gingerly, he peeled off the patches over his stomach and ribs. Those ones still had a red edge around the stitches, which itched, but they didn't seem infected. Don’t think I need the patches anymore. He stuffed them into the little compaction bin next to the sink, moving to pull his shirt and hood back on before he could really start shivering.

Which was when his little brother shoved in.

Dray found himself with his arm halfway into the sleeve, Erold frozen with his hand still on the doorknob. His eyes visibly flicked down, scraping across the stitches and bouncing up to the shoulder.

“'Hey Dray, nice abs’,” Dray said sarcastically, tugging the fabric over his head and firmly blocking any view of his injuries.

“Eugh. Yeah, nice six-pack, you perv.” Erold curled his lip, a flicker of worry in his eyes. “Weren’t those bleeding last night? It looks almost healed—”

“Yes,” he said shortly, shucking the hoodie on. “I know.”

Pulling it over his head, he did his best to ignore the silence, and covertly half-turned to work off the bandage on his right arm.

“It’s starting already?”

He glanced back at Erold’s ghost-pale face. “It’s one of the first things that happens. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? How am I supposed to not—” Erold cut himself off before the annoyance building in Dray’s chest could flare up, his eyes switching targets, narrowing. “Wait, are you cold?”

He shrugged. “I might be running a mild fever. It’s probably a side effect of the accelerated healing, something like that. Don't know for sure, though.”

“Yeah well, you’re never cold, and even I don’t think it’s that cold, so it’s definitely a fever.” His little brother analysed his face, suspicious. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Dray sighed. “Erold, I’ve been beaten up, bitten, and I ‘obviously’ have a fever. Define okay.”

“I don’t know—not weird?”

“...No, I don’t feel ‘weird’.” He stared at him flatly. “Did Stov tell you to keep an eye on me?”

Erold glanced away. “Maybe.”

“Of course he doesn’t trust me,” he growled, stripping the patch off the rest of the way with a flick. At least that one didn’t look as close to healed. Still red, vaguely crusty. And itchy as fever-pelt.

“He— I—” Erold visibly flailed for an answer to that as Dray turned and dumped the patch with the others. “Okay, why’re you so grumpy? We’re just watching out for you—we’re trying to help.”

“By asking me every other minute if I feel okay?” He turned and gave Erold a hard stare. “If I feel anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Sure.” Erold glared back, folding his arms and jutting his jaw out. “Like you let us know you’ve got a fever?”

“I only just noticed it a minute ago, Erold.” He raised his arms in exasperation and let them slap down again, leaning back against the sink. “Did you expect me to run and tell you the second I felt a little chilly? Did you want me to shout it across the house?”

“No! But I want you to let us know! What if you don’t think something’s important, and then next thing you know you’re... you’re— you know—”

Okay, that’s enough.

“You—” he took one long stride, punctuating each word with a stab of his finger into Erold’s chest, “Are. Overreacting.”

“I’m trying to help you!” Erold glared up at him, refusing to back down.

“Playing brood-hen is not helping,” he growled low, pressing his lips together, because showing his teeth would probably be too animalistic for Erold’s nerves to handle, no matter how human the gesture really was, and he was not at that stage yet. “I don’t need you sitting on my shoulder, playing countdown in my ear, reminding me every other moment that I am going to turn into a kritzing thyre.”

“I—” Erold stepped back with his hands curled stiffly into fists, his voice cracking, eyes abruptly too bright.

Dray paused.

His little brother looked like he was about to cry. Slowly, Dray's hand fell. That... was not how Erold usually reacted in an argument like this. “Erold?”

“Fine, I get it. I’ll shut up.” Erold turned away, lips pressed tight, the words too husky for the acid to hit.

Dray ran a hand through his hair, abruptly lost. “Hey, Ero, look....”

Erold slipped into the hallway, not waiting for him to try and sort through whatever tripwire he’d just set off. And... he honestly had no clue. Trying to guilt-trip him, maybe? Erold wasn't like that, though. Didn't make any sense.

I don’t... I can’t.... He rubbed at his forehead, the dull fog filling it throbbing dizzyingly behind his eyelids. A sigh slipped past his lips, hand sliding to the back of his neck. His own reflection glanced back at him, somehow looking worse than it had two minutes ago.

Kritz. I’ve messed up.