Phantom Drafts

The sun wavered over the block across the street, a heat haze wobbling in the air. Or maybe that was just him.

He shivered on the roof, leaning against Dad’s herb garden, flexing his hands against the maddening itches that refused to go away. It wasn’t even night hours yet, and he already felt like he was slipping into the murky twilight of a fever. He'd only come up here to clear his head, but it didn't seem any clearer than it had before. Worse, maybe.

Maybe it was everything from the talk and the worry Mum and Dad tried to hide churning in the pit of his stomach. Or maybe it was the miasma crawling deeper, closer....

He curled tighter, resting his chin on his knees.

"Dray?"

Dad's voice floated across the roof, and he turned to look over his shoulder. "Here."

Squinting against the light, Dad moved to sit next to him, studying his face. "How are you?"

He shrugged, biting back a shiver as the breeze wound through the neck of his jacket.

“I’m doing my best to get us to Cradle before the end of the week.” Dad’s hand squeezed at his good shoulder. “It will work out.”

...Yeah. He closed his eyes, hazy red lighting the inside of his lids.

The hand patted his shoulder and slipped away. “Let’s go inside. Evenaste is ready.”

Probably should. He picked himself up and followed wordlessly. There was so much they didn’t know, so much that just hinged on getting out and worrying about the rest later. But no matter what they did, they couldn’t manage that before Dragon’s Crown.

He gripped the crook of his neck, closing the roof door behind them and blocking out the cool breeze. I don't want this. I don't want this. Squeezing his eyes shut, he let out a slow breath, a dizzy whirl in the back of his head. If only there was something—

He stumbled briefly on the stairs, hitting the bottom just a little harder than he should've.

Dad's hand caught him. "Are you okay?"

He dragged in a shaky breath, desperately resisting the urge to dig fingernails into his neck or drag his wrists across his sleeves until they rubbed raw. The chill had followed him inside, creeping up to catch him.

"Dray?" Dad's hand squeezed, his voice turning worried, and Dray blinked.

"I'm fine." He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the rasp. "Just a little dizzy."

Something changed in Dad's expression, his slight smile not quite right as he patted him on the shoulder, keeping his hand there to gently move him along. "Try to get some sleep tonight. Whatever happens tomorrow, you'll be better able to face it with some good rest."

Maybe. He managed to sit down at the table, staring at a plateful of food he couldn't imagine shoving past the tight block in his throat, throwing the world's limpest smile at Mum as she watched him, worried. Even 'Tia had gone quiet, flicking little glances at him as their parents kept a gentle conversation going.

Just wasn't hungry. It felt like he'd throw up with every second he poked at a string-grain, his throat tying up in knots and his gut churning. At least it wasn't the stitches. He'd cleaned those up already, and it barely hurt anymore. It wasn't that.

He closed his eyes, dragging in a quiet, faintly shuddering breath.

"You don't have to eat it, Dray." Mum smiled at him as he opened his eyes. "If you're not hungry we can save it until later."

"Sorry," he croaked. Didn't know what else to say.

"It's alright." She rose, slipping the plate off the table, and he watched it go, carried off to the warmer, sharpsticks still in his hand.

"Do you feel sick?" 'Tia asked him hesitantly, her voice hushed.

He shook his head, the twist in his stomach turning it into a lie. Did a therrolf's diet change too? There were a lot of things the info packets hadn't covered in what he'd glanced over, because people didn't care about those details. No one knew what it was like to live as one. Nobody bothered to ask the therrolves, because no one cared—

"May I be excused?" He flattened his hand on the table to stop it shaking, hyper-aware of Erold watching him sideways, and 'Tia's wide-eyed stare.

"Of course."

He scooted back and fled. They didn't call him back.

Dropping back onto his bed, he pressed his hands into his face. Should've tried to smile, should've tried to make the most of his last evenaste as a human—

He let out a long breath, trying to ignore his heart beating softly in his temples. Niff this. Fold everything. Fold it and damn it all to Hahll. Clenching fingers in his scalp, he ground his teeth, baring them at the blank ceiling. "Sluhk this!"

His voice didn't come out right, a growl twisting the end, and he froze, heart thudding in his ears. A normal one. It had to be a normal one.

Except he didn't know if he knew what was normal anymore. Was anything he did normal anymore? What was a normal human reaction and what was something else? What was him and what wasn't?

A thump nearly jolted him out of his crawling skin. It took him a moment of staring at the window with his fingers dug in the edge of his mattress to realise he was looking at a backpack swinging in front of the glass.

...Did Stov have some kind of psychic brood-hen sense or something?

Wait, he'd said something about coming over, hadn't he? For the plants. The nose-freeze. Stumbling up, a dull almost-headache flickering black spots across his vision, Dray threw up the window and dodged a bag to the face, leaning out to glare up at Stov clinging to the ledge above. "You mind?"

In answer, Stov tossed the bag past him and dropped down. "You didn't answer my messages."

He belatedly unfolded his MIP as the other climbed in. A short stack of messages he'd missed blinked in his face, a <Dray?> followed by a <Hey> and then a <I'll be there soon. Got the plants>, plus a couple of irritated pokes for him to open the window. "Forgot you were coming by."

Stov grunted and side-eyed him as he pulled out a couple of battered pots. "You look like jrahk."

He grunted back, slamming the window shut to keep out the breeze sending prickling waves of cold over his shoulders.

"Cold?"

"Think the fever's getting in early." He turned to lean back against the wall, locking his wrists lightly against his neck and eyeing the bag as yet more small pots came out. "How many of those things do you have?"

"Just six. Should be enough." Stov balanced three, jerking his chin towards the others. "Help me set them up."

He sighed, but picked them up anyway, trying to ignore the vague whirl in the back of his head as he followed. Predictably, Stov didn't even swing by to say hi to Mum and Dad first and let them know he was prowling around their house leaving gifts. Like a felid that came in when he wanted and left when you weren't looking.

Dray didn't have the brainpower to drag him out to the living room and interrupt evenaste again, anyway. He just trailed along silently, putting them where Stov indicated and valiantly trying not to sneeze as the not-smell pinched his nose.

They did finally make it out to the living room, Stov throwing an over-shoulder wave to the greetings and plonking a pot in the corner, leaving Dray to give them a longsuffering look. Atia giggled at that, at least, and he smiled at her. Maybe he should go back to the table and try to eat after this—drag Stov along with him.

When they dropped the last pot, he finally broke the silence. "Hey, thanks. For the plants."

Stov snorted, moving down the hallway. "I have plenty. Anyway, I should get back—"

"Hey." The other paused as Dray smiled at him, tilting his head back towards the living room, hands in his pockets. "You could have evenaste with us. Pretty sure Mum made too much, anyway."

Stov hesitated, and Dray could've sworn he heard his stomach rumble. "You sure?"

"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't." Dray peered suspiciously at him. "Do you even have anything to eat back there?"

"Yain actually cooked yesterday, so leftovers." He shrugged. "But your parents' cooking is a thousand times better."

"Eyah." He made a face, grabbing Stov's shoulder and punting him towards the living room. "Get out here, drelf. We've got spiced stir-pan, not bland half-baked foschia that'll taste like chiller."

"You're wrong, it isn't foschia this time. It's blach-stew that tastes like genuine-ass gruel because it's got no kritzing salt."

This was why Stov had failed the cooking course. Dray shook his head, pushing him past the table into the kitchen and tossing out, "Hey Mum, is it okay if Stov eats here, and takes the leftovers with him?"

"He's always welcome to anything," she replied, giving him a warm smile.

"Thank you, Mellcorner-deme."

It'd only been, what, almost eight wars? And he was still stiff as a post. Wasn't like they were gonna bite him. They weren't therrolves.

Retrieving his plate from the warmer, he wedged a spare chair in at the end, taking back his spot between Erold and Atia, Ero radiating a suspicious level of smugness. Yeah, psychic brood-hen powers my ass. He knuckled his head. Manipulative little miffer had probably messaged Stov.

"Hey!"

"If this is what you want, you've gotta be prepared." He smiled, dodging the sharpened stick aimed for his neck and twisting up a bite of long-grain, ruffling Atia's head as he chewed.

Maybe tomorrow things would get worse, but he was still here today. He was still Dray, and he'd never let go of that.

He'd never let go of them.