Chapter Text
Friday, 8:30 PM
“Would you like to move in?”
Illario’s low, smooth voice seemed to hang in the air, and his blue eyes darted back and forth between Aydenne’s face and the key in the ring box on the table between them.
Aydenne knew he was bright red but he couldn’t help it; he swallowed the lump in his throat and hoped he didn’t have any food in his teeth.
“Y—”
The fire alarm went off with a deafening sound, and Aydenne jumped up, nervous energy giving him an extra spring as he surged out of his—
“Guh?!”
He awoke with a jump, heart racing. The fire alarm was actually his phone, alarm now interrupted by a ringtone, beeping shrilly before the speaker blasted the opening bars of Ironbull’s Fireball with tinny, accusatory bass.
Aydenne slapped at the nightstand, trying to silence the noise. His elbow caught the table’s edge instead.
“OW—Maker—why—”
The phone kept going, cheerfully oblivious.
He finally managed to grab it, nearly flinging it across the room in the process. The "fire alarm" was his ringtone. A blurry, overexposed picture of Viago in the world’s saddest snake hoodie glared down at him like a disappointed parent. The red glare of flash in his eyes enhanced the snakiness and general expression of anger Viago wore.
It was Friday, 8:41 AM
He thumbed the answer button and dragged the phone to his ear.
“Mmmghrrrho,” he managed. It came out hoarse, thick, and a little phlegmy.
There was a pause. A long one.
“Aydenne,” Viago said, with the urgency of a man whose sweater was unraveling and leaving him naked in the center of the office. “It is eight forty‑two.”
Aydenne blinked at the ceiling. The room swayed gently, like it was on a boat he had not consented to board. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Viago said. “It is. And you were scheduled to be here at eight. If you hurry you might make it for our ten o’clock.”
Aydenne attempted to sit up. His body immediately filed a formal complaint. He sank back down, breath wheezing from lungs that felt achy. “I’m on my way.”
“You are not on your way,” Viago said sharply. “You sound like you’re calling from inside a bag of clothespins.”
“I’m fine,” Aydenne lied, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Just—overslept.”
There was another pause, this one colder.
“Aydenne,” Viago said, “you do not oversleep.”
Aydenne opened his mouth to deny it. Then he coughed so violently the phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
From the speaker, Viago’s voice rose an octave. “Aydenne? AYDENNE. Did you just die?”
Aydenne groaned, groping around for his phone with all the enthusiasm of a man retrieving a cursed artifact. “Still here,” he croaked.
“Not reassuring,” Viago snapped. “Stay where you are. Do not drive. Do not walk. Do not attempt anything requiring coordination. I’m sending someone.”
Aydenne’s stomach dropped. “Viago, don’t—”
But the line had already gone dead.
Aydenne left his phone on the floor this time. Annoyed, guilty and hurting, he yanked the sheet up to cover his face, but missed his grab and bonked himself in the face instead.
It was definitely Friday the 13th.