Chapter Text
At some point, it starts to feel like it's more than just a series of one-night stands.
Anders wakes to the quiet weight of another body in his bed, the feeling of it is still unfamiliar despite how often it’s been there of late. Mitchell lies on his side, face relaxed in sleep, one hand tucked beneath his head. The morning light spilling through the blinds catches the angles of his jaw and cheekbones, the faint curve of his mouth. He looks like something out of a god damn museum—a marble statue carved by someone who’d been just a bit too in love with their subject.
Anders swallows hard. His throat itches, something inside him tightens, but he pushes it down.
He rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, hoping the knot in his chest will loosen if he ignores it. It doesn’t.
"For fuck's sake," he mutters under his breath.
“Hmm?” Beside him, Mitchell stirs, his voice scratchy and low from sleep. He shifts closer without opening his eyes, drawn to Anders’ warmth in that unconscious way people are when they feel safe.
Anders' throat burns as he clears it. He sits up and swings his legs off the bed, raking a hand through his hair as if he can comb away whatever this is.
The moment his feet touch the floor, the itch turns into a tickle. His breath catches, and he stifles a cough behind his hand, gripping his knee with the other.
He thinks maybe he's coming down with a cold.
“Fuck,” he mutters again, sharper this time, and rubs his hand across his face.
Behind him, Mitchell murmurs something and stretches, his arm thrown over his brow as he blinks into the light. “You okay?” he asks, voice warm and groggy. His eyes are half-lidded, dark and soft in a way that makes Anders’ stomach twist.
“I’m fine,” Anders snaps, looking away. He grabs his phone from the bedside table, scrolling aimlessly through Dawn’s increasingly colourful reminders about his nine a.m. meeting. Classic Dawn. No faith at all.
He clears his throat. “You need to go.”
Mitchell props himself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down his chest. Anders glances over. There’s dark hair on Mitchell's arms and chest, a narrow trail leading south that Anders refuses to let himself look at for too long.
“What?” Mitchell asks, blinking like he hasn’t heard him right.
“You need to go,” Anders repeats, still scrolling. His fingers tremble slightly, so he grips the phone tighter. “I’ve got shit to do.”
Mitchell doesn’t move. He just watches him, quiet, like he’s waiting for something. It’s unnerving, the way he looks at him, like he’s trying to see inside his head.
Anders’ chest tightens again. His throat feels thick as he forces a dimpled smirk. “Don’t make me drag you out, sunshine. You know the rules.”
Mitchell snorts. “Charming as ever.” He doesn’t argue, but his movements are slow and deliberate as he swings his legs out of bed. Anders doesn’t turn to watch him dress, but he hears every soft rustle of fabric, every scrape of the zipper.
He grips his phone tighter and stares at the screen without reading it.
“See you around,” Mitchell says, his tone light but tinged with something Anders can’t quite place.
Anders doesn’t respond. He hears the front door click shut a moment later, and it feels like something heavy drops into his chest.
He bolts for the bathroom, locking the door behind him. His hands shake as he grips the edge of the sink, staring down at the swirling lines of the porcelain. His breath comes shallow and fast, and for a moment, he thinks he might choke.
When the first cough comes, it’s sharp, scraping the back of his throat. He spits into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Nothing comes up, but his chest feels raw, heavy, like something is rooting itself deeper with every breath.
The last thing he needs is to get sick now. It feels hugely unfair considering how little actual human contact he gets these days.
He grimaces, thinking about Mitchell. Do vampires get sick? Could he have given him some kind of undead plague? Is that even a thing?
Stepping into the shower, the hot water scalds his skin, easing his tense muscles, though it does little to ease the growing tightness in his chest.
When he finally emerges from the bathroom, Mitchell’s scent still lingers in his bedroom, faint and musky, and it sets his teeth on edge. Anders throws on his clothes without looking at the bed and storms out the door, almost like if he moves fast enough he might outrun whatever’s blooming inside him.
Anders’ throat feels scratchy all morning. He drinks his way through two bottles of water during his morning meeting in attempts to keep himself from coughing and sputtering.
When Dawn asks if he's getting sick he snaps at her and then immediately feels bad for it and resolves to treat her to a nice lunch to make up for it.
The lump in his throat is persistent, sharp at the edges. No matter how much Anders swallows, it won’t budge. He clears his throat for what feels like the hundredth time, the sound grating even to his own ears.
“You’re not sick, are you?” Axl squints at him from where he's draped on one of the leather couches in Anders' office, a bottle of beer in hand. On the other couch, Zeb is equally sprawled, both of them drinking Anders’ expensive beer like it’s tap water.
They’d come under the pretense of discussing their latest harebrained scheme to find Frigg. Anders is pretty sure they really just came for the free booze. He thinks he's going to have to start locking the mini-fridge. Free beer is for paying clients and, occasionally, hot people. Family freeloaders do not qualify.
“Maybe,” Anders says, leaning in and coughing, loud and deliberate, directly over Axl’s bottle.
Axl lets out an affronted squawk, jerking the beer away and spilling some of it on his jeans. “Last time I got sick I nearly died bro, keep your germs away from me."
Anders smirks but his throat burns, and when he takes a swig of his own beer, it doesn’t go down easy. He swallows thickly around the lump, grimacing at the effort it takes. “I’m not sick,” he says, his voice rough. “Just a sore throat.”
“A symptom of sickness,” Zeb intones with the authority of someone who once Googled flu symptoms.
Anders shoots him a long, withering look. "Is that your expert opinion, doc?" He leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest in an attempt for nonchalance. The tickling gets worse.
It’s sudden, the way it moves—something shifting inside him, delicate but insistent. Anders freezes, feeling a sharp, visceral discomfort clawing up his throat. He coughs once, hard, and then again, doubling over slightly.
“Uh, you good?” Axl asks, scooting back on the couch like Anders might explode.
Anders raises a hand, waving off the concern as he feels the obstruction dislodge. There’s a flutter, light as air, and then it’s in his palm. He stares at it, wide-eyed and disbelieving, heart pounding in his chest.
Two small, soft pink rose petals.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Zeb’s voice is strangled.
The three of them stare down at Anders’ palm in collective silence.
“Did you just…?” Axl’s jaw hangs open, his eyes comically round.
Anders doesn’t answer. He balls his hand into a fist, crushing the petals until they’re nothing but crumpled, fragrant confetti. His face feels hot, his skin prickling with something uncomfortably close to panic. He stands abruptly and tosses the mess into the trash can, dusting his hands off with a sharp flick.
“Did you just cough up a flower?” Zeb demands, his voice climbing an octave.
“I think it was just petals,” Axl says faintly, as if that’s somehow better.
“That’s got to be some kind of god shit,” Zeb adds, looking between Anders and Axl.
“Either that or Anders has been eating flowers.”
“Obviously it’s god shit, you eggs,” Anders snaps, more annoyed than he should be. His heart is still racing, and his hands haven’t stopped trembling. He hides it by taking a long swig of his beer, the cold liquid grounding him. “Anyway, my throat feels better now.”
“Right,” Axl says slowly, though his gaze lingers on the trash can, like he’s waiting for it to burst into bloom.
Anders plasters on a grin, clinks his bottle against Axl’s, and downs the rest of his beer in one long pull. He needs the burn, the distraction, anything to keep him from thinking about what just happened—or, worse, why.
It’s common knowledge by now: when there’s god shit, you go to Ingrid and Olaf.
It’s also common knowledge that nine times out of ten, if you want either Ingrid or Olaf, you’ll find them at the bar.
Anders pulls into the parking lot, killing the engine with more force than necessary. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to talk about this, but coughing up rose petals isn’t something he can ignore. Not when it feels like he’s inhaling glass every time it happens.
He almost makes it inside without incident but bumps into Olaf on the way. Olaf, freshly returned from a surf session, stands by his car, loose-limbed and blissfully unbothered. His board is strapped haphazardly to the roof, damp patches blooming on his shirt and board shorts from a half-hearted attempt at drying off.
“Grandson!” Olaf calls out with his usual easy grin. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Anders frowns, jerking his head toward the bar. “Inside,” he mutters, already walking away.
The doorway is as far as he gets before it happens again. A sudden tightness in his chest, the now-familiar lump clawing at his throat. He stops short, doubles over, and starts coughing violently, the sound echoing in the narrow entryway.
“Whoa there.” Olaf appears behind him, clapping a hand on his back with more force than necessary. “You’re not choking, are you? Because I don’t know how to do the Heimlich.”
“They’re called abdominal thrusts now,” Ingrid sing-songs from her perch at the bar, her tone light and completely unhelpful. She doesn’t even glance up from where she’s sipping on a glass of pinot grigio. “And I don’t think he’s choking. Probably just swallowed his own spit.”
Anders glares at her through watering eyes, his hands braced on his knees as he coughs and gasps. He’s struck by the thought that it’s a good thing he isn’t choking because he’d be utterly fucked if it was left to these two.
The lump shifts painfully, scraping against his throat, and finally comes loose. Four delicate petals spill from his mouth, spiraling downward to the floor. Three are pink, one is deep red, and all of them look far too soft and perfect to have come from inside him.
“Fuck,” Anders wheezes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His throat burns, and he’s already bracing for the next bout.
Ingrid and Olaf are staring, their expressions varying degrees of bewildered and concerned.
“Oh dear, this isn’t good,” Ingrid says, exchanging a look with Olaf over Anders’ bent form.
"That," Anders snaps, straightening up and gesturing wildly to the petals. “What the hell is that?”
Olaf stoops down, picking up a petal between thumb and forefinger. It glistens faintly with Anders' spit but is otherwise pristine. “Definitely an omen,” he says.
“An omen of what?” Anders growls. He marches behind the bar, ignoring Ingrid’s raised brow, and grabs the nearest bottle of whiskey. His hands are shaking as he pours himself a generous measure, then another.
Ingrid plucks the petal from Olaf’s grasp, holding it up to the light. She squints at it, turning it this way and that. “Could it be an Idun thing? It looks a bit like an apple blossom…”
“It’s a rose petal,” Anders says automatically. The certainty in his voice surprises even him, and his fingers tighten around his glass.
Ingrid sets the petal down on the bar, narrowing her eyes at him. “How long has this been happening?”
“Since this morning.”
“Were you doing anything… unusual this morning?” she asks, leaning forward like a lawyer cornering a witness.
“No,” Anders answers quickly, too quickly, shoving the image of Mitchell naked in his bed to the back of his mind.
“Anders,” Ingrid sighs, giving him the kind of look a parent gives a lying child. “We can’t help you if you’re not honest with us.”
Anders rolls his eyes, knocking back his whiskey in one go. “Well, gee, mum and dad, obviously I fucked someone last night, but that’s hardly unusual for me, is it?”
“Who?” Ingrid asks immediately, her curiosity piqued. Olaf looks equally intrigued, his head tilting like an eager golden retriever.
Anders’ grip on the glass tightens. “It doesn’t matter who it was,” he snaps, pouring himself another drink. “Clearly, you two aren’t any help. Thanks for nothing.”
As he storms out of the bar, whiskey burning his throat in a way the petals didn’t, he hears Olaf sigh, “Children,” in an infuriatingly paternal tone whilst Ingrid coos in sympathetic agreement.
"You made me ill."
"Hello to you too," Mitchell's voice says over the receiver, smooth and Irish and goddamn infuriating. There’s a brief pause before he adds, "And no I didn't." Then, softer, "Why? What's wrong?"
"I'm ill," Anders says miserably. He leans against his kitchen counter and winces at the scratch in his throat. "Or something. I don't know. Something's going on and I'm pretty sure it's your fault."
"How can it be my fault? I haven't done anything."
"You gave me some kind of vampire virus."
Mitchell huffs a laugh. "Vampires don't get ill. It's one of the only perks. Well, that and the brooding mystique.” His tone shifts, quieter, almost tender. “What’s wrong, really?”
Anders sighs heavily, which aggravates the tickle in his throat and triggers a coughing fit. He pulls the phone away and doubles over, the sound of his hacking filling the room. By the time it subsides, his lungs feel raw, and his hand is shaking again.
"That sounds nasty," Mitchell says when Anders finally lifts the phone back to his ear. There’s something warmer in his voice now, and it makes Anders’ skin crawl. "Do you want me to get you something? Cough drops? Tea?
"No, Jesus, I don't need anything," Anders snaps, his voice breaking on the words. He swallows hard, ignoring the coppery taste blooming in his mouth. "I'm fine. Just—stay away from me."
Mitchell doesn't stay away.
Two hours later, there’s a knock on Anders’ door. He considers ignoring it until Mitchell’s voice drifts through. “I know you’re in there, Anders. Open up, or I’ll huff and puff and—”
Anders yanks the door open mid-threat, glaring at Mitchell’s smug expression. “What part of ‘stay away’ was unclear?” he rasps, his voice shredded and weak.
Mitchell, unbothered, holds up a plastic bag full of groceries. “I brought supplies,”
Anders stares blankly at the bag in Mitchell’s grasp, fighting the urge to slam the door shut in his face. How the hell had he even gotten past the main door? Probably that nosy neighbour in 4B.
“I told you to stay away,” Anders says again, but there’s less heat in it this time. He’s too tired to muster a proper fight.
Mitchell shrugs and breezes past Anders into his apartment. He sets the bag on the counter, moving around the kitchenette with infuriating familiarity. Anders watches as he starts unpacking the contents: a jar of honey, two lemons, a tub of ice cream, and an assortment of teas. He slides the ice cream into the freezer, then arranges the lemons and honey on the counter near the kettle.
When Mitchell grabs a knife and a chopping board, Anders groans. “What are you doing?” he asks, the words coming out hoarse.
“Honey and lemon,” Mitchell says without looking up. “Good for colds and sore throats.”
“My throat’s not—” Anders starts, but the lie dies on his lips because, god, his throat is sore. Agony, really. He'd just finished coughing up a handful of petals into his sink before Mitchell arrived. They're still there, an assortment of pinks and reds and whites. “It’s not a cold,” he mutters instead. “Honey and lemon won’t do shit. This is god stuff.”
Mitchell pauses, knife hovering over the lemon. “So it’s not my fault then,” he says, grinning smugly.
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s still your fault somehow.” Anders scowls, then says. "I'm not going to get rid of you, am I?"
“Nope,” Mitchell replies, popping the P.
Anders groans and collapses onto the couch in defeat. He watches as Mitchell bustles around the kitchen, preparing a steaming mug of honey and lemon for Anders and a milky tea for himself.
Mitchell sets the mugs on the coffee table and sits in the armchair beside the couch. He watches Anders with that infuriatingly patient expression.
“So,” Mitchell says, his tone deliberately light. “What’s this god stuff, then?”
Before Anders can respond, his chest seizes, and he’s racked by a violent coughing fit. He grabs a tissue from the box on the table, but it’s too late—pink petals spill from his mouth, fluttering to the floor like damning confetti.
The room is silent.
Mitchell stares at the petals. “Oh,” he says softly, his voice tinged with alarm. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Anders croaks, slumping back into the cushions, closing his burning eyes. He knows he must look a state but he's too tired to care at this point. “Welcome to my nightmare.”
Word has, unsurprisingly, spread of Anders' strange affliction. His apartment has turned into a revolving door of visitors, each more annoying than the last. Some offer half-hearted sympathies; most are just there out of morbid curiosity.
“Do I look like a circus act to you?” Anders snaps at Stacey, who has just finished inspecting the petals in his bathroom sink like they’re fossils from an archaeological dig.
“Well, you’ve got the drama for it,” Stacey says lightly before wandering off to raid his fridge.
No one knows what’s causing it. Olaf and Ingrid are stumped. In their so-called pursuit of the truth, they’ve teamed up with Stacey on a bender involving copious amounts of weed and alcohol, which has effectively written the three of them off as any kind of help.
“This isn’t something the stick can fix,” Michele declares one afternoon with an air of finality. She’s seated across from Anders, staring at him with such clinical intensity that he feels like a bug under a microscope.
“What makes you so sure?” Anders retorts petulantly, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. He scowls at Mike, who’s leaning against the bar with his arms crossed. “She’s just trying to keep the stick from me. My own damn stick.”
“It’s not your stick, Anders,” Mike replies automatically, his tone edged with the weariness of someone who’s had this argument far too many times.
They’re back in Mike’s bar—Anders had driven here. By the time he stumbled through the door, he was wheezing like an asthmatic chain smoker. The pressure in his chest has only grown worse, a constant weight that catches on every inhale.
Mike looks to Michele, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure it won’t help?”
“I’m sure,” Michele says, her voice clipped. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. It’s... a goddess thing, maybe.”
“Jesus, you could at least try,” Anders growls, his temper flaring. He gestures irritably toward her. “It’s not like there’s a limited number of uses on the stick! Stop being a stick hog.”
“Anders,” Mike says, his voice low and warning.
Anders turns his glare on him instead. Mike, ever the controlling big brother, is clearly trying to micromanage the situation, like he can just organise Anders’ illness away.
“The best it can do is fix your sore throat for a while,” Michele snaps. “It won’t do a damn thing about the flowers.”
“Well, do that then, you sadist!” Anders shoots back, his voice breaking on the words. He coughs sharply, a dry, rasping sound that leaves him wincing.
Michele pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s warding off a migraine. “It’s only going to get sore again, and before you ask, no, I’m not going to become your personal throat lozenge.”
“Could you just do it this once?” Mike interjects, his tone exasperated. “It’ll shut him up for an afternoon, at least.”
Michele sighs, long and dramatic, like the weight of the world rests solely on her shoulders. “Fine,” she says, throwing Anders a withering look. She rises from her seat with deliberate slowness, dragging her feet as she goes to retrieve the stick.
Anders watches her go, his jaw tight. “I don’t know why everyone’s being so difficult,” he mutters.
Mike snorts. “Maybe because you’re impossible to deal with.”
Anders opens his mouth to retort, but stops when Michele returns, stick in hand. She holds out a hand that glows faintly and presses it lightly to his throat. Warmth blooms beneath his skin, and the raw, shredded feeling softens almost immediately.
“There,” Michele says, withdrawing her hand. “Happy now?”
Anders clears his throat experimentally, relieved when it doesn’t feel like he’s gargling glass. “Thrilled,” he mutters, not meeting her eyes.
The relief lasts for an entire afternoon—until the evening, when he doubles over on his bathroom floor and coughs up an entire rosebud.
The bud lies in his trembling palm, its petaled dome soft and perfect, dewy with his blood.
Anders stares at it for a long moment before flinging it across the room. It hits the tile with a dull thunk and lands in the sink, pink petals splattered with red.
“Great,” he whispers bitterly to the empty room. “Just fucking great.”
At some point, it was only inevitable that Mitchell and Anders’ family would cross paths. Anders had taken great pains to keep them apart, but of course, it would all come crashing down now, at the absolute worst time.
Anders is curled up in bed when he hears a knock at the door. He groans, muffled into his pillow, and wonders—not for the first time—which of his dickhead neighbours keeps buzzing everyone into the apartment block.
From the kitchenette, he can hear Mitchell clattering around with his pots and pans, likely making some other unnecessary addition to the chaos of Anders’ cupboards.
“I swear to god,” Anders croaks, his voice barely a rasp, “if you even think of answering that—”
Dragging himself out of bed, Anders shuffles sluggishly toward the living room. Every step feels like moving through wet cement. Through the peephole, he spots Ty standing there, decked out in his ridiculous courier’s lycra and helmet, looking like a low-budget superhero.
Anders exhales a wheezy sigh, casting a glance toward Mitchell. “Go in the bedroom,” he mutters.
“Fuck off,” Mitchell replies absently, scrubbing a casserole dish that Anders didn’t even know he owned.
Anders doesn’t have the energy to argue. The ache in his throat has settled into a constant throb, each swallow a fresh stab of pain. He’s been rationing painkillers from an old back injury, breaking them into quarters just to choke them down past the lump in his throat. They barely take the edge off.
“Well, could you at least try and look... less domestic?” Anders waves a weak hand at Mitchell’s rubber-gloved hands. “My brother’s here.”
Mitchell glances at him, amused. “Are you feeling nervous?”
“No,” Anders snaps, his scowl deepening. “I just don’t want to deal with explaining shit right now. You’re just a friend, okay?”
“I thought that’s all we were anyway,” Mitchell says with a shrug. “Friends with benefits.”
“Exactly, and don’t talk about the benefits bit.”
“Anders,” Mitchell says, pulling off the gloves and draping them over the sink in a way that makes Anders twitch. Is it so hard to put them away properly? “Relax. Answer the door.”
Anders sighs, muttering something under his breath and yanks the door open.
“What do you want, Ty?”
“I heard you’re coughing up flowers,” Ty says matter-of-factly, stepping past Anders into the apartment.
“You heard correctly,” Anders mutters, closing the door behind him. He’d known Ty would show up eventually—until now he was the only one of the family who hadn’t 'just popped by'. Ty’s been harder to pin down ever since becoming Not-Hod.
Anders trails after Ty and watches as his brother stops short when he spots Mitchell standing in the middle of the living room.
“I didn’t know you had company,” Ty says, his tone careful.
“Hardly company.” Anders flops onto the couch, waving a limp hand between them. “Ty, Mitchell. Mitchell, Ty. Mitchell’s my housekeeper.”
“I’m a friend,” Mitchell corrects smoothly, extending a hand.
“I didn’t know Anders had friends,” Ty says, shaking Mitchell's hand and glancing at Anders with a smirk.
“Fuck off, I have friends,” Anders retorts, indignant. “I just don’t introduce them to you if I can help it. Anyway, what do you want? If you’re looking for Dawn, she’s holding down the fort at the office while I’m sick. Go stalk her there.”
Ty’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait. “I’m not here for Dawn,” he says evenly. “I came to see you.”
“Lucky me,” Anders mutters, his chin propped heavily in his hand.
Ty gestures vaguely toward Anders’ throat. “Mike doesn’t think you should be alone while... you’re ill. But I guess you’re not alone.”
“Guess not,” Anders replies. Then, narrowing his eyes, “Wait, is there a reason he sent you, the only human one of us? Am I in god quarantine now?”
Ty’s gaze snaps sharply to Mitchell in alarm.
Anders rolls his eyes. “Relax. He knows about all the god stuff. And before you go running to Mike, it’s no big deal. He’s not human either.”
“You’re a god too?” Ty asks, narrowing his eyes at Mitchell.
“Vampire,” Mitchell says simply.
“A what?” Ty starts to say, but is cut off as Anders doubles over, racked by a sudden, violent coughing fit.
“Shit, Anders!” Ty rushes to his side as Anders gasps for breath. Something wet and heavy hits his palm with a sickening squelch.
It’s a rose.
The petals are lush and vivid, but half of them are soaked in blood, the deep crimson staining the delicate pink. The stem is dotted with small, wickedly sharp thorns, slick with bloody smears.
All three of them stare at it.
“Fuck,” Ty breathes. “Is that—? Is that blood?”
“It’s getting worse,” Mitchell says, his voice tight with worry.
Anders doesn’t answer. He’s too busy trying to catch a breath that won’t come, his throat feels raw and constricted, the iron tang of blood thick in his mouth. His stomach churns violently at the sight of the flower.
“What the hell is happening to you?” Ty asks, his voice sharp with alarm.
Anders leans his head back against the couch, the rose slipping from his fingers and landing with a soft thud on the coffee table. “I’d love to know,” he says bitterly, his voice hoarse. “If either of you geniuses figure it out, be sure to let me know.”
That night Anders wakes up choking.
It feels like his lungs are exploding, like something is strangling him from the inside out. He claws at his throat, gasping for air that won’t come, his body jerking violently as if it’s trying to force out whatever has taken root inside him.
He stumbles out of bed, his legs unsteady and trembling. He makes it two steps before they buckle beneath him, and he collapses heavily onto the floor. Panic surges as he tries to crawl to the bathroom, desperate for… something. He doesn’t make it.
His arms give out, and he slams face-first into the carpet. Blood spills from his mouth in dark, viscous streams, pooling on the floor beneath him. It’s thick, sticky, and warm, a deep red against the pale beige.
“Anders!”
Mitchell is there, of course. He always is. His hands grab Anders by the shoulders, pulling him upright with a strength that seems effortless. But Anders fights him, weakly pushing at those hands, his panic boiling into fury. Somehow, in the haze of his desperation, he knows this is Mitchell’s fault.
“Get. Off. Me!” he rasps, the words barely audible over his gagging, strangled breaths. His hands claw at his throat as if he can dig out whatever’s lodged inside.
The door slams open, and Anders hears the sound of hurried footsteps. Ty is standing there, frozen above him, his face pale and eyes wide with shock.
“Get the stick!” Mitchell barks, his voice sharp and furious as he grips Anders tighter.
Ty snaps out of his daze and fumbles for his phone, his trembling hands struggling to unlock it. He’s framed by the dim light spilling in from the hall, a stark figure against the shadows of the bedroom.
Anders lifts his head weakly, blood smeared across his mouth and chin. His eyes flicker to Mitchell, and even now, there’s something sharp and accusatory in his gaze. He tries to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a wet, gurgling cough.
The noise is horrifying, even to him.
Ty stares at him, horror etched across his face as he speaks hurriedly into the phone. But Anders doesn’t register the words. His head falls back, and he collapses onto the carpet. Blood and petals spill around him in a macabre bouquet, glistening and vivid against the neutral fabric.
The rest is a blur, a jumble of fragmented sensations.
Mitchell curses under his breath, his arms slipping under Anders to lift him with shocking ease. Anders is distantly aware of being carried, his body limp and heavy like a ragdoll. Ty is there too, half-dragging, half-lifting him as they move toward the bed. Each step jostles him, sending fresh waves of agony ripping through his chest and throat.
He coughs again, a wet, rattling sound, and more blood dribbles down his chin. His lungs feel thick, clogged with something suffocating and hot. Every breath is a struggle, a desperate fight against his own body.
Then there’s sharpness—something harder and heavier lodged in his throat. His breath catches painfully, and the obstruction refuses to budge. He gags, clutching at his neck with shaking hands, his eyes wild and desperate.
“Hold still, hold still!” Mitchell’s voice cuts through the chaos, firm but laced with panic.
Anders barely registers Mitchell’s hand on his jaw, prying his mouth open. There’s no time to protest before Mitchell’s fingers reach inside, grabbing at the tangle of petals and thorns lodged in his throat. The sensation is excruciating, like razor blades dragging through raw flesh.
Anders screams, a broken, guttural sound as Mitchell gives a final yank. There’s a wet, sickening snap deep in his chest, and the rose comes free, dripping with blood. It’s grotesque, the petals saturated and glistening, the thorns gleaming cruelly in the dim light.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mitchell says, his voice cracking.
Anders barely hears him. His vision blurs, the world tilting dangerously as blood streams from his mouth.
His chest heaves again, another ragged breath forcing its way out. Hands press him down, firm but careful.
“Dammit, Anders, hold still!” Mike’s voice snaps then, sharp and commanding. When did Mike get here?
The familiarity cuts through Anders’ panic, grounding him. He freezes, trembling but compliant, as his brother’s voice anchors him.
Then, golden light.
Warmth spreads through his chest and throat, soothing the jagged, searing pain. He can feel Michele’s power, gentle and steady, knitting together torn flesh and clearing the suffocating weight from his lungs. The flow of blood slows, then stops.
The petals shift inside him, loosening and ready to leave. With a groan, Anders rolls onto his side and retches. Blood, petals, and broken thorns spill out of him in a grisly cascade, the sickly-sweet scent of roses mixing with the metallic scent of blood.
When it’s over, Anders collapses back onto the bed, utterly spent.
His gaze flickers to the faces surrounding him, their expressions a strange mixture of relief and dread. Ty looks pale and shaken, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Mike is stern and grim, his jaw tight with barely contained worry. Michele’s brow is furrowed, her eyes soft with concern.
It feels like a vigil.
It feels like he’s dying.
Anders wants to scream at them that he’s still here, that he’s not gone yet, that it isn’t fair. But he can’t say a word.
Through the haze, he hears Mike muttering something about stubbornness, and Michele’s soft reply: “He’ll be okay. He just needs to rest.”
Fingers stroke his hair—gentle, almost unbearably tender. They belong to Mitchell; he knows they do.
Anders doesn’t have the strength to speak, to push him away, to do anything. He sinks into the mattress, his eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion drags him under.
For now, the pain is gone.