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There’s a weird feeling as he wakes up, something a bit more than just a hangover. He can feel it in the way his body is just a little too warm. And his throat is starting to itch suspiciously. Damn.
Roland’s predicament is confirmed with an involuntary cough shaking him awake. Where could he possibly even catch something, in the library of all places? It’s just his luck that some new pathogen can apparently get through his 30 years worth of defenses. Oh well.
“Sounds pretty bad.” And there’s a level voice further into the room, accompanied by the signature green lighting hitting his eyes. They probably drank yesterday. Which might make this a bit more embarrassing, catching a bug on someone else’s floor. The chances of him getting back to his own place are significantly lowered as the headache sets in. Yeah that’s not just a cold.. ughh.
The floor is actually pretty comfortable now. Cooling his face nicely as his eyes still struggle to adjust to the world. There’s some movement. A head of green hair hovering just out of reach. Well, at least he gets to study their Patron Librarian of Art while he’s here.
The man in question is.. interesting, rarely showing any emotion other than vague sadness. The way he moves and talks are always a little bit off. Not in a malicious way, though. More like the guy is not quite sure how to exist, so he’s trying to imitate what he thinks are “normal people”. Somehow, Roland finds himself endeared by that.
Said man pushes a glass into his hand. It takes a few seconds too long for the Fixer to even look at the liquid inside. It’s dark and viscous. And there’s only a few drops of it.
“Cough syrup” Netzach says simply, then adds when his buddy just keeps staring at the glass: “The normal kind.”
That gets Roland a little more awake, blinking at him.
“..Is there.. a non-normal kind?”
“If you want to hear colours, yeah. But I doubt that would help right now.” The artist is as calm as ever when he says it, like that’s a totally normal thing to know. Maybe for him it is. Roland can’t resist a comment.
“Guess you know your stuff” he murmurs, doing his best to sit up straight. Everything feels a little woozy, but it’s nothing a bit more sleep can’t fix. Probably. The syrup tastes sweet and herbal as it goes down.
It does soothe his throat a bit, but not much else. So Roland buries his head in his arms and waits for sleep to retake him.
He does not feel any better when he wakes up. Worse, actually. Now there’s a prominent ache under his skin, and he barely feels like moving at all. Every bit of light along the floor is starting to feel way too bright, outright stabbing through his eyelids. The only saving grace is an unusual softness supporting his head.
Huh. Doesn’t feel like the floor at all. He risks a glance through heavy eyes.
The usual neutral expression on Netzach’s face has morphed into something new, brows furrowed as the man seems to study him in return. Several strands of green hair are now escaping his bun in a way that’s.. uh… his brain is too slow to catch up to his mouth.
“You’re kinda.. pretty..” he feels himself mumble, staring up at a face of distress.
The artist only seems more perturbed, and the last thing he remembers is an echo of Your vision’s getting worse—
It’s dark for a while. Quiet. He prepares himself for the telltale burst of light whisking the remains of his body away.
It never comes.
Instead, there is an odd feeling in his gut. Along with the signature smell of antiseptic. He doesn’t remember opening his eyes when at once, there is a figure.
Long, messy hair that seems to fade into nothing at the edges. Brown eyes staring through him. An oddly familiar stranger stopping by to greet him. Or it feels like a sort of greeting, but the figure says nothing. Simply looking at him.
They tip their head curiously, letting a few strands of verdant slip onto their face. He tries to say something, maybe ask their name. Nothing comes out. Only a long beeping noise rings through the space.
Before it suddenly picks up into a steady rhythm, and he’s back. Eyes flying open with a gasp, gulping every bit of air hungrily as if he just drowned. The world crashes back into him, the burning green light of the Floor of Art, the dissipating smell of flowers, and a disheveled artist clutching at his shoulders. His body feels odd. Still a little warmer than usual, but stable. Like he was abruptly torn from the depths of fever.
“You’re back.” There’s a pause long enough to process more of his surroundings. He could swear there were pink accents? petals? something in Netzach’s hair a moment ago. But now there’s only a flow of green. “How’re you feeling?”
Roland blinks a few times, trying to remember words. He ends up settling on “..Better.”
“Good.” His companion replies just as flatly, though not without placing a gentle hand to his forehead. It stays there for a solid few seconds. Measuring his temperature. Right. Why else.
Once he’s done, the man switches his focus to give him a pointed look, “Scared the hell outta me.” He feels a little like whining sadly when the hand is removed. for no reason at all. Roland clears his throat, trying to think of anything else.
“Right. Well. Waitt—“ it somehow only now occurs to him, “You could’ve just let me be.” Being a book for a while isn’t that bad. And he’d later come back fully anyway, so none of this was really necessary. None of the evident fussing he can see from just how tired the artist looks, hair flown astray along with stress lines clear above his eyes. But maybe there’s one thing his recovering mind didn’t consider.
“And watch you die?”
..There is a gravity in his voice Roland’s never heard from him before. As if all the weight in the world rests on that one sentence. The most horrible thing Netzach can imagine. His face is contorted into such a clear expression of anger it makes the Fixer stare. It rapidly cools down into more of a distaste, the other man looking away as he continues.
“It’s fine if you don’t remember, you’re still sick. But if it were up to me.. no one would have to die.” There’s an undercurrent of simmering rage, the kind where you can tell its existence predates any hint of the present situation. The man before him has despised the sight of death for as long as he’s been alive. It just took a very specific set of circumstances to fully draw out said rage.
Roland feels.. some sort of way about this. Hands now consciously drawn towards the warm presence near him. People like this, still caring enough to feel despaired at the loss of life.. they’re an incredibly rare sight in the City. Especially where he’s been. It’s a wonder Netzach has stayed alive this long with such a conviction… even if he didn’t particularly want to.
His fingers find themselves around a noticeably thinner wrist, squeezing a little. Maybe for his own comfort as much as Netzach’s. The aforementioned man stares for a solid few seconds, before angling his hand to hold Roland’s wrist in return. It’s a long, oddly intimate moment.
Then, with little to no fanfare his brain kicks in again. Pulling away quickly with an awkward laugh. “Uh. Thanks for the help but I should probablyy get back to my floor. Yeah.” He tries to gesture something or other before bringing his hand to fidget with his tie. Or where his tie should be. Only to discover that he’s only in his dress shirt and pants.
Which. Makes sense if he was burning up that bad. Wouldn’t even be a surprise if he ended up less dressed. And the fever-ridden memory of a pretty guy removing Roland’s suit will totally not haunt him later. Yup. Not at all.
“..Yeah. You’re free to go.” The embarrassment seems to catch up with Netzach at a similar pace, the tiniest hint of red crawling up his expression. “Just um.. take care.”
He doesn’t stare at the weirdly beautiful dude who just dragged him back from dead. And he doesn’t think about it when he leaves the Floor of Art suitless and sweaty. Nope. No need to unpack that now.
Not yet, anyway. Roland leaves those trains of thought to be explored in the solitary of his room. Along with the possibility of asking about the ‘other’ cough syrup.
Which they could try together. As a way to thank his friend, of course.