Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brian slides on his sunglasses – after the all-consuming greyness of Chicago, the golden light stabs his eyes. The sun presses a large, hot palm against them as soon as they leave the cool of the airport. The air, thick with the scents of the sea and orange groves, feels heavy with the summer ripening within it.

"Welcome to the capital of Catalonia, my Angel…" Brian adjusts the strap of his backpack and admires Night as she squints, taking in the view. The sun dances in her hair, as if illuminating it from within. "And there's our ride, I believe, Lily. Let's go."

Together, they approach a sassy red Volvo SUV. Leaning casually against the door is a girl. Petite, with a delicate build, she stands out even against the riot of color from the sun and greenery. The breeze barely ruffles her hair: bleached and dyed with cool blue tips, her bixie cut always had that "just woke up like this" vibe. If you look closely, you can see a piercing above her right eyebrow.

"Since when do you rock baseball caps?" she snarks instead of saying hello, eyes fixed on Brian.

"Missed you too, sis."

Lily hasn't changed a bit. Tanned, muscular, bold, and feisty. Except for… the scorpion tattooed on her neck – she somehow forgot to mention that. Still, knowing her impulsiveness and wildness, Brian often wondered why Lily hadn't turned her entire body into a walking art installation.

Night offers a somewhat hesitant greeting, and Lily's face immediately lights up. A mischievous spark ignites in her large grey eyes, and her voice is filled with genuine joy:

"Night! Finally, we meet in person. I've heard so much about you from Brian, but I bet he's only mentioned me in passing."

Brian winces as he listens to Night trying to reassure his sister that he's totally talked about her, and only said good things. But Lily's not buying it.

"You can't lie to save your life," she deadpans, "you're gonna have a rough time working in detective. I don't even know whether to congratulate you on dating Bryan, or sympathise".

"If she regrets our relationship, it'll only be from meeting you," Brian retorts good-naturedly. He thinks that Night and Lily already like each other. Even though Night is clearly a little awkward around his sister's unbridled, wild energy, which contrasts so much with her own restraint.

In the rearview mirror, Brian sees Night studying the passing palm trees and bright pink bougainvillea.

"Digging it?" Lily asks, clearly noticing her child-like wonder.

"It's like stepping into a travel agency brochure."

"Oh, trust me, this country goes way deeper once you peel back the glossy tourist veneer. Speaking of which," Lily drums her fingers on the wheel, stopped at a light, and gives Night a curious once over. "Did Brian finally decide to take a vacay?

"We were on Paros a year and a half ago in February," Night says, "there's a village there…Brian, what was it called?"

"Naoussa," Brian prompts. Night wasn't good with names. For her, emotions, events, and impressions mattered. Only sometimes – and only when he was with her – could Brian see the world through her eyes. Then everything seemed simpler and made sense.

"Yes. A fishing village. There are ruins of a Venetian fortress by the harbor. And such atmospheric taverns – we felt like we were in the sixteenth century."

Tenderness fills his heart like a large, soft cloud, making him want to smile. Night is impressionable and enthusiastic, like a child. How much he wants to show her. How many emotions to give her. To share the most vibrant, most unrestrained days of fun and carefree living. Brian catches Night's amused gaze in the rearview mirror and tries to capture it in his memory. Perhaps, very soon, she will have to remember the details of his life for him.

"Couldn't just take her to the Maldives, huh?" Lily ribs. "Gotta be extra, as always."

"You're just jealous."

"Whatever, a vacation's never a bad call. Especially for you, Brian: you look like crap, to be honest."

"It's the Chicago winds."

Just in case, Brian tugs at the sleeves of his shirt. Raising his head, he meets his sister's suddenly serious face. Did she notice that furtive gesture? Did she catch something with her intuitive senses?

"Seriously, you okay? Feels like your perpetually skinny ass is about to go weightless."

"How's Marta doing?" Brian asks suddenly, pretending not to hear her question. "Still obsessed with her raccoon?"

"We broke up," Lily sighs, then dives into the play-by-play, rolling her eyes.

Brian changed her diapers—he knows how to dodge awkward questions. Lily loves talking about herself so much she often can't help but interrupt the people she's talking to, even as an adult.

"She's got major trust issues, and her boundaries are a total mess. I got tired of the third-degree after every night out at the club. Honestly, to see the situation from her point of view, tried talking, but what's the point? I mean, if you're thinking that way, you already think I'm trash. A liar. And if that doesn't change, what can you do? I don't wanna be a cheater just because someone can't love themselves. Even if I really love them."

"Didn't I tell you the same thing six months ago?" Brian chuckles. He only knew Martha from Lily's stories, but despite his sister's enthusiastic talk about her, he knew almost immediately that their infatuation wouldn't last long. Lately, though, relationships between people had stopped fitting into the formulas he'd once devised. For example, him and Night… At the very least, he has major trust issues, and they've been together for over three years.

"You know, Brian," Lily shoots him a frown. "When I tell you about my girlfriends, I need an older brother, not a detective."

The leather seats are hot, and the smell of tobacco is deeply ingrained in the upholstery. Sunlight streams like molten gold through the plane trees on the Rambla. Night and Lily are chatting about something, but their words melt into a monotonous, sleepy hum. Fatigue sweeps in with the breeze through the open window, bringing with it the long-forgotten scent of roasted chestnut. Eyes close by themselves.

Someone nudges him lightly on the shoulder.

"Wakey wakey, Brian! We're here."

To the right, Brian sees an old house with wrought iron balconies and an ivy-covered façade. Lily has cut the engine and now only the chirping of cicadas can be heard in the alley.

He gets out of the car. Takes the suitcases from the trunk, not letting Night beat him to it. She was about to argue, but Lily appeared beside them, and they both tried to hide this little hitch.

Third floor. Lucky for him that it had been two weeks since his last chemo, otherwise such a climb would be torture for him. It's strange that he didn't take this into account when agreeing to the rental. What an omission. However, it is quite possible that he won't be able to get out of bed on his own very soon - what kind of walks will there be then…

"Apartment thirty-six," he says, stopping in front of the door, next to which an oval copper plate with a number is attached unevenly.

The door is opened by a woman with a face etched with wrinkles, but with a lively gaze that her polite smile doesn't reach. Short, with her hair braided and slung over her shoulder. On the yellowish finger of her left hand is a massive ring with agate.

"Bienvenidos (welcome)," she greets hoarsely and Brian suddenly feels an aversion to her. Perhaps because of the quick assessing glance the woman gave all three of them.

"Señora Delagarza," he shakes her hand confidently. Speaking Spanish is unusual. The words roll in his mouth like tapioca balls. "This is my girlfriend Night, and this is Lily - my sister. She just gave us a ride from the airport. The two of us will live here, as we agreed."

"Come in," the landlady says dryly before retreating into the apartment.

Despite the fact that the apartment, judging by its appearance, silently held the stories of more than one generation of the family, it turned out to be spacious and clean. Two bedrooms, a spacious bathroom, high ceilings with moldings, huge windows overlooking a small courtyard. It was unexpectedly pleasant to see that it was well furnished – a washing machine, a dishwasher, air conditioning in each bedroom, and even a television. Switching to English with a strong accent, Señora Delagarza explains the household details to Night in detail – where to turn on the heating, how to use the washing machine, and where the towels and bed linen are kept.

A sweetish smell, reminiscent of jasmine, makes him nauseous. Brian feels uncomfortable. He wants to open the windows wide and air it out properly. His gaze slides over the furniture, over the three seascapes on the wall by the TV in the living room.

"Here are the keys," the landlady interrupts his thoughts. For some reason, when talking to him, she switches back to Spanish. Brian looks at the dancer figurine attached to the bunch. He thanks her belatedly. Unexpected fatigue lays a hot weight on his shoulders.

"I don't get it," Lily says, dropping one of the backpacks in the hallway as the landlady leaves. "You could have just crashed at my place. Why bother renting an apartment?"

"I can't stand your messiness," Brian replies, "and your chaos. But seriously, I think we'll be here longer than two weeks."

"So, you want a proper vacation?"

"Something like that…"

Some vacation this will be. As if to confirm the thought, making it real, the skin under his port system started to itch.

"Maybe we should go somewhere tomorrow? What do you say? Night definitely needs to check this place out."

"I need to recover from the flight first," Night chimes in, giving him a pointed look. "I don't cross the Atlantic that often."

She's covering for him. Like always.

It's like Lily suddenly remembers that not everyone is as hardcore as she is, and that people actually need rest and sleep.

"Then, I'll call you guys?" she says, smiling at Night.

They chat a bit more, laughing. Then Lily says goodbye. Brian and Night are left alone.

"Well, looks like you've got your work cut out for you, turning this place into a cozy love nest," Brian remarks, putting his arm around Night's shoulders and kissing her softly on the temple.

"I hear the local flea markets have the coolest, weirdest stuff."

She turns to him, stands on her tiptoes, and strokes his cheek.

Brian pulls back slightly, looking into her face.

"Night… Lily can't find out."

"How are you going to keep it a secret? You know what's going to happen in…"

He gently touches her lips with his fingertips, silencing her.

"I'll tell her myself. Just… not now. Later. Right now, I… I can't. I just can't."

Night frowns, but nods anyway. "Just don't put it off, please. She's your sister."

Without unpacking, they step out onto the balcony. The sun shines on their faces. Guitar music drifts up from the courtyard. Wisteria vines sway. Its fragrance makes the air thick.

Brian pulls Night close, looking off into the distance, and lights a cigarette.

Chapter Text

"…Basically, I'm sure he's stewing. All bitter, miserable, and alone," Night finished, taking a small sip of hot chocolate from her mug, her voice laced with resentment.

"Well, he kinda brought it on himself." Amelie sighed, tucking her legs beneath her. She was wearing a cozy knit sweater and warm socks with astronaut cats on them. "I would've walked out for a while too. Let him have a reality check. Maybe even packed a bag for added effect."

"I didn't walk out to make a point," Night countered, "I just couldn't be there anymore. At first, he just withdrew, but once the treatment started, he became impossible: all bravado, disappearing at work all the time, ignoring the doctor's orders, and acting like I'd done something wrong to him. If he talks at all, it's just to unleash this barbed sarcasm, and if you try to offer help? Forget it, he just unleashes it all on me."

"So, what's the plan?"

Night shrugged, fell silent for a moment, then said, gripping her mug tighter, "I don't know. The thought of him suffering alone makes me want to drop everything and rush back to fix it. But if he doesn't want that, what's the point of forcing myself on him? I feel like such an idiot with my all-too-childlike, "I'm here, Brian," "I'm here for you", "I'm right here." Maybe I've just built up some fantasy in my head and fallen for that, not for the actual person, not for the real Brian Kinney."

"You fell for the guy who never tried to be someone better than he was, but also the one who is better when you're around. Remember when he came through on the dance floor out of nowhere, when that jerk, your partner, didn't show up? Or how he secretly helped pay for your cousin's tuition? Ultimately, you fell for the guy who showed you the earth from a bird's-eye view on Valentine's Day, giving you both a tandem skydive and giving you the sense that he'd always have your back no matter what. Kinney's a piece of work, for sure, and his behavior can be appalling at times, but I think the one you love is not an illusion at all."

Ameli shrugged off her blanket and stretched. "Now get up! Enough moping. We are going to have a blast tonight, and not another word about Kinney."

Night resisted half-heartedly for a while, but eventually gave in, deciding that maybe she really did need a distraction.

The taxi halted at a traffic light five blocks from the bar when Amelie noticed that her friend was looking at her smartphone screen with a very worried expression on her face.

"Just don't tell me this has something to do with Kinney, we had an agree…," she wanted to protest, but Night interrupted:

"I have to go to him, Ami. Something's happened."

After hurriedly paying the taxi driver, Night headed to the parking lot near the clinic. A sharp, insistent snow pelted her bare head, and the wind tried to sneak its cold fingers under her coat, stealing what little warmth remained. Her eyes searched among the many cars for the right one. Night was angry. Brian's stubbornness, his antics, the hurtful words he picked so skillfully to hit her most vulnerable spots—she wasn't ready to forgive any of it. Yet a nagging anxiety forced her to come when Brian asked.

"That's just it," she fumed, wrapping her coat tighter to keep warm, "first he acts like a pig, and then he just sends a text with his location and one word—'come'. And what do I do? I drop everything and go, of course! God, how stupid…"

Night lifted her head and continued walking, mentally conjuring the most negatively-tinged adjectives for the name Brian Kinney.

But her anxiety intensified with each second. It sounded in the crunch of snow under her boots, hammered in her temples, lingered in the cloudy puff of her breath. If Kinney had asked her to come to the clinic (and he insisted that they even live apart until his chemotherapy was over), it could mean only one thing…

Something had happened.

And her imagination—unusually obliging this time—painted her pictures, each more terrifying than the last.

Night quickened her pace. Finally saw Brian's car. For some reason, her heart pounded in her chest like a trapped thing as she opened the driver's-side door.

Questions burst from her lips, crashing into Kinney in a hot torrent, mingling with the wails of the wind tearing into the car.

Brian only said, "Take me home."

And she wasn't angry anymore. Couldn't be. No more than she could refuse his request by reminding him that she didn't even have a license yet, that she was afraid to drive on busy roads. Brian sat in the passenger seat, slumped against the door and hunched over in an unnatural way. A wave of pity washed over Night—gone was Kinney's famous confidence, his strength that shone through in every movement, every gesture. They hadn't seen each other in two weeks, but how much he had changed. He'd lost weight, his features were gaunt, his skin pale, almost blue. Night tried unconsciously to notice every detail. His eyes were sunken, his gaze dull. She became so frightened that she wanted to get out of the car, but it only lasted for a few moments. Then she almost gave in to the urge to touch Brian. Her anxiety seemed to seek rest in feeling that familiar warmth. But Night forbade herself that, too. No, she couldn't violate personal boundaries so treacherously now. Besides, if she touched him—she might not be able to hold it together. Waves of anxiety would break their banks, fear would paralyze her, and the lump stuck in her throat would turn into shameful tears.

Night turned the ignition key with trembling fingers and focused on the road. For the first time, Brian made no comment on her driving.

***

Each of Brian's legs felt like it carried a giant, stone weight. He tripped, crossing the apartment threshold, saved from falling only by a desperate lunge against the wall. Night appeared instantly, her perfume too close, an offer of support he fiercely rejected. He pushed himself towards the couch, trying to shut out the spreading dark smudges that swam towards the center of his vision. A thin, annoying whine buzzed in his ears.

His only concern was not to lose face. It was humiliation enough that he'd called her in the first place. He could manage this. He didn't need her pity. What had made him call her? The chemo, probably, frying his brain along with the tumor. He’d always been alone.

He felt Night beside him again, still in her coat – understanding, maybe, that he didn't want her here.

"Do you need anything?"

Her words were muffled, as though from a distance. The dark spots resolved into expanding red rings edged with light.

He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

The motion triggered a surge of dizziness, unlike anything he’d experienced, even during his wildest, alcohol-fueled nights. The room swam, the ceiling dropped, a predatory plunge. He closed his eyes tight.

No. He didn't need her help. It would be a cruel spectacle if she stayed to witness this. He needed to endure it alone. Perhaps, at some future point, he could explain. When his thoughts weren’t following the red circles into the abyss.

"Just leave me."

The voice was foreign, unfamiliar, a stranger’s. The ceiling remained threatening, its looming presence triggering nausea. A cold sweat soaked his back.

Then, Night was gone.

***

Hating her own spinelessness, Night leaves. Brian looked seconds away from passing out, yet she'd given in to his foolish pride.

"What if he deteriorates further?" she berated herself. "What if he can't call for help this time around?"

But then, how could she assist someone so determined not to be assisted?

The stairwell delivers her into the biting cold of liberation. A place free from the sight of Kinney, pale and splayed on the sofa, free from the dread of the illness, the empty, resonant void of the unknown.

"But maybe help is needed most by those who refuse to accept it?"

Night stops dead. Drawing a sharp breath of the frigid air, and facing the fear and uncertainty and illness that loomed before her, she wheels around and strides purposefully back up the staircase.

***

Night had no clue how to nurse someone back to health. In the two years they'd been together, Brian had never been sick enough to warrant caretaking. He always battled his morning hangovers alone. In fact, on those days, Night steered clear, unable to cope with her own disappointment and irritation.

Now, she stood framed in the bathroom doorway, lost and scared, like a child. She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, burrow under a pillow, anything to block out the retching sounds. She longed to bolt back down the stairs. But resisting those urges, Night worried the edge of her sweater, hoping a solution might just materialize.

Finally, when the silence stretched, she released a slow breath and stepped cautiously inside.

Brian was slumped on the floor, his forehead pressed against the wall. So unfamiliar. So utterly drained. Night ran the cold tap, soaked a towel, and knelt beside him, draping it across the back of his neck.

"I don't want you here."

"And I don't want you to be alone like this."

"Night…"

"I want to help."

"If you want to help," Kinney said, his voice tight, "leave."

From his tone, the frantic jump of his Adam's apple, Night knew what he meant.

The door hadn’t even clicked shut when the merciless wave of nausea gripped Brian again.

Fighting down a wave of disgust that she instantly loathed herself for, Night forced herself back into the bathroom a few moments later, her heart hammering against her ribs. Avoiding his gaze, she wet a fresh towel and carefully, fearing to exacerbate his suffering, dabbed at his bloodless face.

Brian caught her wrist. His palm was ice-cold.

"I asked you to go."

"We'll discuss it later, Brian. Save your strength."

More than anything, Night feared she'd start to cry. Her hands trembled minutely, her mouth was parched, and the pounding in her temples seemed to drown out everything – Brian's voice, the sound of the running water, her own thoughts. It was like watching the scene in the bathroom from somewhere else, as if she wasn’t really there. An odd sense of levity filled her head. Fighting the feeling, Night mechanically did what she thought might be helpful: wiping the sweat from Kinney's face, holding a glass of water to his lips. Her efforts were futile. If anything, Brian seemed to worsen.

It became truly frightening when he stopped telling her to leave.

Now, in the lulls between bouts of vomiting, Brian lay curled on the floor in the fetal position, his head resting on Night's lap. She fetched a blanket and spread it on the tile, but her knees still throbbed. She could only imagine how much misery this added to Brian's already wretched state. Night was afraid to breathe deeply. Since childhood, she had been seized by panic if someone got sick. Anxiety arose, should others just mention it. Then she wanted to run away as far as possible. Not to hear, not to see, not to think. Tears welled up on their own, and it was very offensive to hear loved ones laugh at this her "sensitivity."

Now she was twenty-one, and trying to occupy her mind with something else, she tries to remove a puddle of bile from the light gray tile. Anxiety turns into an unbearable desire to wash her hands with soap at least three times, but she is afraid to move, because Brian seems to have fallen asleep. She so desperately wants to hide from the feelings she cannot bear that, at some point, tears begin to run down her cheeks. She prays to the God she believes in only vaguely that Brian will sleep longer, that they both will have at least an hour of calm.

***

Was he hot, or cold? Or had time simply begun to fray? If heat meant summer, then how…? After summer, winter?

His throat burned. A strange, slick taste coated his mouth. Bad, but it would pass. He was Brian Kinney. He could handle it.

The mantra hammered in his head as he choked, wracked with thick vomit, barely able to cough. He clung to the cool porcelain of the toilet, sweat blinding him, soaking his shirt. His lips were cracked, but he couldn't drink. Even the thought of water sliding down his esophagus triggered another spasm.

"This is bad," Brian thought. "Bad that the fluid isn't replenishing. But it will pass." He would handle it.

"If only it weren't so damn cold."

When he opened his eyes again, something had shifted. His cheek didn't meet the biting chill of the tile. Nearby, hands fluttered like birds, their touch cooling his burning forehead and temples.

Though it had been so cold.

Suddenly, the cold became soft, a welcome gloom. Brian couldn't make out familiar shapes, everything tilted, rushing in and out of focus. It churned his stomach, birthing another foul wave. His mouth filled with bitter saliva, and Brian swallowed, trying to wrestle his body into submission with his mind. After minutes of resisting nature, he finally coughed and gagged.

The hands, the warm scent were there again. The spasms gripping his stomach were strained and fruitless. A tremor seized his body. He wanted to sink back into the soft warmth, but the constricting contractions in his throat choked him until tears came. Brian spat only saliva into the offered towel, again and again, until it seemed it would never end.

Red circles blazed before his eyes. A wave of cold sweat washed over him. His ears rang, as if a bell were struck inside his head:

"Night…" he called, barely a whisper.

Arms encircled his shoulders, gently easing him back into the warmth:

"I'm here. Try to sleep."

If he slept, the spots would win. The sea would succumb to the storm once more.

"What sea in winter? Why did he think of the sea?"

"Hot inside, but cold outside," Brian was sure he only thought it, but the halo of light answered with Night's voice:

"It will be better soon."

"Why does light have her voice?" the thought flashed before the bell tolled in his temples again.

Everything tilted. Faded.

***

The wave, roaring, shattered against the low, jutting rocks, its brief, violent life extinguished on their jagged edges. Reality slammed back, a jolt mirrored by the sharp inhale that filled his chest. Barely there, barely conscious, he heard the anxious voice:

"Brian, are you okay?"

He shook his head, his voice a long time coming. His tongue felt like a dry, clumsy rag in his mouth.

"Fine…"

A cool, soft hand settled on his forehead, lingered on his cheek, then slid down his neck.

"Still burning up, but at least you're back with us."

"Was I… somewhere else?" The attempt at humor sounded pathetic, even to him.

"You were saying the ceiling was falling, that circles were attacking you, and that no ship could sail the ocean in this kind of freeze."

"I'm starting to suspect that drug wasn't entirely legal. The compounds definitely have impurities."

The pale light of the still-slumbering morning revealed a bottomless worry in her eyes. Catching his gaze, Night rubbed her face, chasing away the fatigue, and glanced at her phone screen.

"You haven't thrown up in three hours. That's gotta be a good sign." He didn't see the glass of water appear in her hand. "Just take a couple sips. We don't want to end up at the hospital. Easy now. Slow."

The glass was blessedly cold against his lips, but each swallow scraped mercilessly at his throat. Collapsing back onto the pillow, Brian finally noticed he was in bed. A gray t-shirt replaced his button-down. A white cashmere throw was spread over their lightweight duvet.

"I think… I was in the bathroom?" The memory came with a hesitant uncertainty.

"Yeah, till around nine. We were both in there. Then you got delirious from the fever, scared me half to death – I almost called an ambulance, but even then you kept insisting you were fine, before you finally passed out. I couldn't just leave you on the tile floor until morning."

Brian tried to piece together the night before, to grasp the details. A wave of shame washed over him, tightening in his chest. Night, his fragile girl, had hauled him around and witnessed such an awful spectacle. What a mistake to call her!

"Is it always like that for you?" Night's question cut through his bleak thoughts.

"Bad, yeah, always bad, but that kind of hell night was a first. I'm sorry. I don't know why I called. You shouldn't have seen that."

"Were you planning on avoiding me for the whole course of treatment?"

Brian shrugged, noncommittal.

"I couldn't drag you into this."

Night's heart clenched – the words sounded like the only possible truth. She imagined Brian's last ten days, the days they hadn't talked, and she felt sick herself. Suffocating shame, a creeping, shrinking revulsion… She had only been angry and scared, but Brian didn't even have a theoretical assumption in his head that he could rely on her in a difficult moment. He had decided everything for both of them in advance.

It wasn't fair. As many times before, Night felt like she needed to prove the seriousness of her intentions.

Brian will never know this. They remained silent for a long time, and then Night asks again:

"Do you feel like you can't trust me?"

Brian sat up slightly. Her face looked so sad, so exhausted.

"No," Brian had never liked talking about feelings, he didn't like understanding that Night was sad because of his indirect fault, and irritation seeped into his tone, "that's a stupid question. Why would you ask that?"

"Because I want to understand you, but you never tell me what's on your mind. You just push me away."

"How could she think I didn't trust her?" Brian thought grimly, "Trust, don't trust", what did she want to know?

"It's not about that," he tried to explain, "it's just something I need to deal with on my own. I don't want you wasting your time, babysitting me like I'm helpless. I don't want you to see me like that. I don't want your pity." The more he spoke, the more irritated he became, though he tried to stay calm. "I just can't feel like a normal person if you have to see all this…"

"Brian, I love you," Night interrupted, unable to listen. "I know you love me. If you can't analyze with feelings, analyze with logic - your cancer is my problem now, too. It's natural. If it had happened to me, would you have agreed with those words and just left?"

"That's different, how can you compare…"

"I can. Because it's the same thing. I'm sure you wouldn't go anywhere, whatever happened, just like I'm sure there are five fingers on my hand. So I'm not going anywhere either. You're just wasting your energy, trying to test my steadfastness."

"Looks like last night was the last circle of Dante among the tests," Brian grumbled grimly.

"Fifth for you," Night joked, latching onto the chance to defuse the tension.

"Second! The souls languishing in the second circle are lustful in life - fornicators, adulterers, just passionate lovers. The fifth is for Grimbridge. According to Dante's Divine Comedy, the souls in the fifth circle of Hell are very angry, lazy or despondent. By the way, about him… We have to go to work in four hours anyway."

"We'll take a day off. I'll tell him you have the flu. With his fear of germs, he'll tell us to stay a kilometer away from the office for a week. We'll stay in bed all day. You especially."

"That phrase has a double meaning, but I doubt you planned anything fun for me today."

"It will be very fun for you to sleep and recover, Brian," Night teased.

And although Brian protested and complained that he couldn't just lie around doing nothing, sleep overcame him before Night brought him a cup of ginger tea. The tea was left to cool on the bedside table, and Night lay down next to Brian, resting her head on his chest.

Brian won't know that she won't be able to fall asleep for a long time.

He won't know that tears are streaming down her cheeks.

He won't know that last night she really thought he would die right in her arms.

He won't know how scared she was.