private for Ahren. can we date this august 23?
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The sky rumbled discontentedly, and the first few drops landed heavily on the roof. Glancing up, though he couldn't see anything except wood, Endymion groaned. He'd put off seeing Ahren for a while and now it was raining. Just wonderful. The wolf rose from his chair between his two patients and shuffled to the cupboard, rubbing his pale eyes. He was still very exhausted, even though he'd had a wonderful nap earlier, though it was coupled with a bad dream. He'd already forgotten the dream, but he hadn't forgotten the horrible feeling he had when he woke up; his heart had nearly beat itself out of his chest and his mouth had been dry. Now, though, he was calm and moving almost robotically.
Sighing, (something he did a lot lately) Endymion retrieved a water jug, baster, and a jar of dried herbs from the cupboard and closed the squeaky door quietly. He knew the sound wouldn't wake the men, but he did it out of habit anyway. Besides, it just didn't seem right to make a lot of noise when people could be dying. Dying, he thought. Before he stepped out, the wolf placed a hand on both their foreheads; still burning. Another sigh and he was walking out the door, then sprinting through the rain to the shed. The cool air and moisture felt wonderful in comparison to the stuffy room, but he didn't have time to enjoy it. He yanked the door open and squeezed himself inside, and he was engulfed in darkness and sickness once more.
As his eyes adjusted to the lack of substantial light, Endymion placed his supplies on the floor and then sat, hoping he wasn't sitting in any waste. Soon enough he could make out Ahren's outline and the spasmodic movement of his chest. Reaching out a hand, the wolf lightly brushed the older man's shoulder. "Ahren?" he whispered. "Can you hear me?"
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The dream was always the same. He would be in the city, and speaking to someone else. Usually, it was himself. Though dream-Ahren had red hair, and did not look as old as he did now. They spoke about all sorts of things, and sometimes they manipulated the world around them. Dream-Ahren had shown his companion that he could control the landscape, and set it to burn several times. He had called down the rain and blocked out the stars, and each time, Ahren accepted this as naturally as he had the other visions.
Though the dream was always the same, the variables changed. This time, dream-Ahren was gone. In his place was a dark shadow, a red-eyed wolf that Ahren knew all too well. He bristled and backed against the wall, but the figure kept on coming. It never spoke, but Ahren knew his intent. He had known his intent since the day he had been forced from Chimera, bleeding and terrified that he had nothing left and nowhere else to go. Then the figure reached out and grabbed his shoulder, digging his claws into it, and spoke. Ahren? Can you hear me?
With a jerk, the blonde was awake and scrambling to his feet. He swung out with one hand, claws reaching for something, anything, and the other found the wall behind him. It was there that he managed to get to his feet, however unsteadily, and lock his fever-bright eyes on the stranger (though to Ahren, it was Damian, as clear as day). “Get away from me,” he growled, voice thick and raspy. “Get the fuck away from me!” He screamed, baring his teeth.
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He leapt back, but not fast enough. Endymion caught Ahren's claws right across his mouth and then slammed against the door, but didn't cry out. Despite his wide eyes, accelerated heartbeat, instinctively bared fangs, he felt unnaturally calm. He'd never seen such a thing, though. What a remarkable illness this was. Pressed against the wall like he was on a ledge overlooking a treacherous fall, the wolf marveled at the wrath and deliriousness of the older man. He tried to relax his face and tone. "I'm sorry, Ahren," he choked out, unmoving.
He forgot about the scratch until he taste the blood, felt it dribbling down his chin. He flicked his tongue out and gathered up as much as he could, swallowing it, then slowly wiped his chin with the back of his hand. Would the smell of blood alarm the red-eyed man more? The only thing he could see in the dark was Ahren's teeth, bared against him, and his feverish eyes. He was looking at Endymion but didn't see him. Through his anxiety the wolf was morbidly fascinated and wondered what Ahren was seeing, what could cause him such perturbation and rage. "It's okay," he said, louder now, still pressed against the door. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon. He couldn't just leave the man in such a state. "It's okay, Ahren. I'm sorry."
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Damian kept staring at him, though he had moved back. There was just enough light that his shadowy father was visible, though something was wrong with his eyes. Still, the blood meant he was no ghost. The blood meant he could be hurt, he could be killed, he could be taken away and never come back. Deep in his throat that growl continued, warning, desperate. His father kept on talking, apologizing, but the words meant nothing. His father was lying. His father had always lied.
“No you’re not,” he spat. One stiff legged step took him forward, though he had to keep his hand against the wall. If he didn’t the world would fall apart. The ground would open up and swallow him whole. “Get away from me. Get out of here. Get out of here!” He screamed again, hair standing on end.
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sorry for the wait!
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Endymion flinched as Ahren lurched forward. Pressing his ears against his skull, the wolf whined softly, trying to find some reason in the other man's wild eyes. If he carried on he could hurt himself, and less importantly, Endymion. Blood was beginning to stain the light fur under his chin, but he didn't notice or care. He didn't know what to do for Ahren. He just didn't know. Suddenly feeling very tired, the red wolf slumped slightly against the door. Why had he thought this Apothecary business would be easy? What an idiot he was.
Something cool and wet touched his foot, and he jumped, claws digging into the wood at his back. He recoiled, horrified. Was it blood? Urine? For a few moments he stood there, pressed against the wall, and then he realized what the mystery liquid was; he must have overturned the waterjug when he tried to get away from Ahren. With a sigh of relief, Endymion slowly lowered himself and felt around for the container until he found it, busted open and nearly empty. The wolf brought himself upright with equal caution, all the while watching the man. "It's okay, Ahren. I brought you some water," he said quietly, heart beating heavily in his chest. "Are you thirsty?"
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The ghost, the devil, whatever it was, it just kept on staring at him. Ahren didn’t understand what was so difficult about obeying the command. Of course, Damian had never been that wise, never been rational. Why had he taken him from his mother, if not to kill him? Why hadn’t he simply done that and gotten it over with? Nothing made sense, least of all why the shadow-coated figure was trying to give him water. Except in his eyes, it wasn’t water—it was the color of iron and blood, and smelled like gasoline. “No,” he spat, taking another ragged step forward. “Get out of here.” Two more steps. Two more steps and he would rip his goddamned throat out.
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