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You blink yourself awake slowly, your eyelids sticking together as the familiar speckled ceiling of Bonnie and their sister’s first room came into view. Sunbeams trickle in through drawn curtains, painting the room in a warm glow. This, in theory, sounds like the perfect start to the day; a warm, quiet morning where you wake after a rare dreamless sleep.
In reality, you feel like absolute blinding crab.
Your face feels uncomfortably hot and every bone and muscle in your body aches. The world spins and buckles even as you lie still, and you’re afraid that if you move even just to rub your eye, you might vomit. You run your tongue along the roof of your mouth, wincing at the sour taste.
Groaning, you shut your eye tight, hoping to stave off even some of the nausea wracking your stomach. You can’t help but wonder what exactly happened yesterday that made you so sick? Your memory has always been spotty even at the best of times, with a sharp decline anytime you get sick, so it’s hard to grasp anything concrete.
You don’t think you were out drinking as you’ve been avoiding liquor as often in the months since the loops ended, and hangovers never left your sinuses stuffed up. Were you already sick then? Is that why your memories from yesterday are so foggy? It’s possible, but you can’t think of anyone else in the group who’s been ill recently.
So what happened then? Were you the unlucky one? The poor soul who caught some bug from a random stranger made only worse by the depletion of your immune system since your solo trek through the House?
It’s all that makes sense, you guess. Doesn’t make it any less annoying, however.
Your speculation is interrupted by the creak of hardwood, followed by the sound of Isa calling your name. “Sif?” He sounds worried, which is objectively a bad sign. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, barely getting the word out of your sore throat. You don’t dare risk sitting up, but you do open your eye as the footsteps grow louder. “Never been more awake.” You smile as he peers down at you, his brow furrowed. He presses an uncharacteristically cold hand to your forehead, frowning.
Now, you’ve only been really, actually sick once or twice in the time since Dormont, however, both times have hit you hard. Hard enough that you recognize his actions, that you recognize this feeling. “Don’t tell me it’s another fever.” You whine petulantly, well aware you sound a whole two-decades younger than you actually are.
Isa chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch. “Okay, I won’t say anything.” He holds his hands above you, looking from your face to your torso. Is he trying to touch you? Doesn’t he know he can touch you by now? “Do you want to sit up? I’ve got some water, and Bonnie has some broth in the refrigerator that I can warm up for you?” Oh, that makes more sense actually. You try not to let your relief show on your face.
You don’t want to get up, but you probably should. Without a verbal response, you start pushing yourself upward. You grit your teeth as the world sways, and Isa leans over to steady you for the rest of the way, muttering something you can’t quite hear beneath popped ears. Once you’re upright you let yourself slump against his chest, effectively trapping him on the couch with you.
He places the cool glass in your shaking hands, and you feel the vibration in his chest as he laughs at you immediately pressing it to your forehead. You sigh contentedly as the ice soothes your pulsing headache before slowly bringing the cup to your lips to drink.
“Where’s everyone else?” You ask with less rasp to your voice. Then, you realize now that the blanket has fallen to your waist that your cloak is absent as well. “And my cloak?”
Isa takes the glass from your hand and places it back against your temple, as he responds. “ Your cloak is in the bathroom, I hung it over the tub to dry.” He speaks softly, scratching the facial hair on his chin, as he considers your first question. “Bonbon and Petronille are at the market, working through Bon’s shopping list, and M’dame and Mira are back at the inn. Mira got a pretty nasty cold herself, so she’s resting.”
You sit up, your shoulders tense. Water spills out of the glass before Isa pulls it out of your way. “Did I get her sick?” You ask, frantic, staring at him unblinking.
Wincing, Isa tucks the glass to the side, mopping up some of the water with his sleeve. “Sorta? I guess you could look at it like that?” Isa’s quick to adjust when he sees the way your face falls. “But it wasn't on purpose or anything! How much of yesterday do you remember?”
“Not much?” Or anything at all really, but you'd rather not worry him more than he already is. “But that’s pretty normal when I’m sick, right?” You’ve been trying not to think about it too much, you find that the more you fixate on what you’ve lost, what you will continue to lose, the more that slips through your fingers. It’s just how you are.
Isa holds out his hand for you to take, and you feel the weight of dread sinking into your gut, swirling in with the nausea. You squeeze his hand tightly.
“Yesterday afternoon we were having a picnic on the beach, right? You didn’t really want to, but Bonbon was really excited so we all packed up and went.”
You hum affirmatively, swallowing down a cough. The sightline from the coast this far north is hard to be around even on a good day, but you’d do anything for that kid, so. It adds up so far.
“Honestly, it was uh… kind of obvious that you weren’t doing great yesterday? But I’ve been trying to not make assumptions about how you feel anymore, so I let it slide without even talking to you.” His whole demeanour shifts as his guilt overrides his body, shoulders rising in tension as his gaze slides away from your face to the wall behind you. “Sorry.” He says, sheepishly as you frown.
“Don’t be.” You state, tracing circles into his hand with your thumb. “What else happened?”
Isa thinks for a second, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. “I don’t know what the trigger was, or if there even really was one, but right before we started packing up, you told Mira you wanted to go for a walk.” Isa rests his hand on his neck, sighing. “Before we could even really get another word in, you were gone.”
For a moment, you’re able to remember this, remember sand between your toes with your boots left behind at the picnic spot. You didn’t have a destination or a plan or anything, you’d just needed to get away.
And then the rain started.
At first it had been a drizzle, raindrops cool on your face as the early March winds roared. However, the storm had slowly built in intensity the further you walked, until both your hair and clothing was plastered tightly to your skin, your cloak feeling more like a heavy blanket than the flowing piece of fabric it usually was.
Still, you didn’t turn around.
You realize then, that Isa is still talking, and you’ve now missed part of his retelling. “Mira had some trouble finding you once the fog settled in, but even when she did she-” Isa’s eyes narrow in concern. “She said you were just… standing in the ocean, staring across the shore.”
Grimacing, you slump against the back of the couch. And you’d been so good about not doing that too.
When you first arrived in Bambouche, months ago now, you’d avoided the beach altogether. The temptation to search for your home across the foggy horizon, to commit as much as you could see to memory being too great. It had only really been within the last few months that you’d felt comfortable going at all, that you’d been able to resist the pull.
Isa tugs gently on your hand, pulling your weak form toward him once more. You let yourself fall against his chest, shutting your eye tightly as the room spins from the motion. Wordlessly, he wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you into a hug. “She coaxed you out, and brought you back here where you both could get in dry clothes and curl up in front of the fireplace.”
“But we still both got sick.” You mutter, with a loud sniffle. You hope Mira doesn’t feel as horrible as you do. Isa doesn’t say a thing, he just holds you, rubbing circles into your shoulderblades. It feels nice. “I’m not really hungry, but I should probably eat some of that soup.” You say, voice muffled by his shirt.
His hand slows until it eventually stops, a comforting weight on your upper back. “Sure, but we don’t have to do that right this second, we can take a minute, yeah?” Isa’s tone is soft, his voice kind. “What do you wanna do, Sif?”
You inhale, your stuffed nose catching only the edge of Isa’s strong pomegranate soap. Still, it’s enough to loosen the tension in your shoulders. You could stay here for a while, you think. Before you get a chance to speak, however, your traitorous stomach growls loudly enough that it’s unignorable.
Isa snickers, dropping his hand entirely. “Guess that answers that,” He teases, but notably doesn’t make any move to leave. His eyes watch you carefully, waiting for your final decision.
Nodding, you shift away from him, regretting the motion as the pressure in your head grows more intense. Stifling a grimace, you lean back against the couch until you’re fully sitting up, allowing Isa enough room to stand.
He moves quickly, taking his warmth with him. You hadn’t realized how cold you were without your cloak, with your fever, until he was gone. Wrapping your arms around your body, you lean your head back, pressing your dry lips together. Distantly, you hear him fumbling around the kitchen- it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t burn the place down trying to reheat the soup.
Sometimes it still feels like a dream, being here, in Bambouche with everyone you love so close by. Like a pleasant fog is wrapped around everything good in your life. Only for it to disappear when you wake up alone, sleeping out in the cold like you did before everything, or worse, in Dormont. Having this life, having this family, these people who love you, who want you around and take care of you, it doesn’t feel like the kind of thing that should happen to a person like you.
But it did, and no matter how many times you pinch yourself, stumble into furniture, get sick, you never wake up. This is yours, it’s really, really, really, yours.
You close your eye so tight you see stars, and open it again to see Bonnie’s ceiling once more.
Still yours.
Isa returns then, talking about how the soup is probably not as good as it was when Bonnie first prepared it, and that he did his best. You can tell he’s nervous from the way he’s rambling, from how his words are jumbling together, still you smile.
Accepting the warm bowl from his hands, you spoon some broth into your mouth. He’s probably right, but you don’t really care.
Sitting here, leaned up against the man you love while he talks your ear off, the rest of your family absent, but not for too long. Regardless of the fever, you’re happy.
You feel happy.