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Pyro hangs up for the third time. He shunts his phone away from him.
With a groan, he pushes himself off his bed. Throwing his phone charger into his open suitcase, he snaps it shut. Pressure tightens in his stomach, the distance between his bed and the door to his bedroom stretching outwards. He falls face-first back onto his pillow.
What was he doing? Apo and him had been roommates, but showing up unannounced on a random Tuesday and asking to stay at her parents' house for who knows how long would leave her likely to just shut the door in his face.
Either way, his current theory of events is hazy. Sure, Scott's constant derision towards Apo both before and after her leaving was telling, not to mention the way her face had shifted when he had offhandedly mentioned him a few weekends ago while he was bringing Truffle over to her, and yeah, seeing his fangs over Drift's unconscious body didn't exactly dispel those persistent rumours of blood-drinking vampires in the area, but he knows the way his mind works — knows the way he's been told how his mind works — well enough to doubt his recollections and imagine himself deceived by his own paranoia.
The same way they said he had been with Czesław.
Muttering profanities into the air, he gets up for a second time. Whatever. Even if vampirism turns out to be an exaggeration of his mind, he was already due to bring Truffle to Apo that weekend.
He drags the suitcase out of his room, setting it beside the dining table. On it, a textbook anchors his notes into place, a mess of scrawled ink and unhelpful diagrams. A cup of pot noodles, empty save for the broth, sits teetering on the edge. He nudges it further onto the table.
He glances at what was Apo's room. The piece of scrap paper is still taped to the door, her name hastily scribbled on it from the first day when they were both moving in. He finds his hand hovering over the doorknob as if it would open to reveal anything but an empty room, abandoned months ago. With a sigh, he turns back.
A squeak returns his thoughts to the room he's in. From her enclosure, Truffle looks up at him. Kneeling down, he scoops the guinea pig up, sliding her into the travel cage. "C'mon," he whispers, more for himself than her, "let's go see Apo." A wan smile poses itself clumsily on his face.
His phone buzzes. Brushing his hand across his trousers, he reaches into his pocket. The smile fades.
Scott: heyyy
Scott: where are you??
He swipes the notifications away.
He looks around himself. The dorm is quiet. Through the windows, his room overlooks an empty street. The darkness of a late-winter evening creeps across the city, Pyro's eyes turning to silently regard electric lights reflecting off puddles left by the rain earlier that day. A lamp on the street flickers, the overcast sky pressing itself onto the earth.
A figure on the street corner reveals itself, turning to leisurely walk down the street. It turns at the back entrance to the building, disappearing as it makes its way inside. Paranoia drags itself onto the walls of the room.
Scott wouldn't be so bold as to come and confront him in his own home, would he? Definitely not. He tries to push the thought out of his mind.
With the scraping of metal on metal, Pyro closes the curtains.
As far as he knows, he is currently alone in his own dorm.
This provides little comfort to him. Apo's warmth is long gone, what he has now decided is Scott's work leaving a frigid trail from his lonely room to her house in the suburbs.
Dragging himself to the front corridor, he grabs his trenchcoat from its rack, awkwardly shuffling it on.
He hears footsteps echoing from the corridors. He tenses, pushing himself against the wall the door would swing into. They pass, followed by the noises of keys unlocking a door a few rooms down. He checks his phone. 6PM. He should be going. Lugging his suitcase to the front door, he looks at Apo's door again. He whispers an apology. He doesn't know who it's for.
Looking through the peephole, he scans the corridor. It's clear.
He's still alone as he steps out, the carpeted floor muting the sound of the suitcase's wheels and Truffle's occasional squeak the only sign of mortal life past his own breathing. Not that Scott would have many signs of mortal life about him, he rues.
Passing by the entrance of the building, he nods to the receptionist. They're the first person he's actually seen since the party a few days ago.
The streets are largely empty. The overcast evening leaves the lampposts the only source of light in the alleyway he emerges into. He unravels his scarf, folding it over the top of Truffle's cage.
The station is ten minutes' walk away, the cold wind and the beginning of a light drizzle pressing a need for urgency into him that distracts him well enough from the way every side street seems to hide itself in shadows. The entrance reveals itself in due time, a fenced-off stairway jutting onto the sidewalk, separating the city proper from the haphazard maze of tunnels that constitute public transport.
Taking his suitcase in one hand and the cage in the other, he carefully makes his way down the rain-damp stairs. A metallic hum grows as each step sends him deeper into the earth, the subterranean heat a respite from the wintry chill aboveground.
Naturally, the station disobeys the seeming order of emptiness on the streets, commuters crowding through the ticket barriers headed downwards into the bowels of the city. Downwards and outwards, he suspects, the same way he's headed. He scans the map on the station wall, tracing his path from the city centre to the suburbs with an intensity that seems unnecessary for a journey he's taken every two weeks for the past three months.
He continues forth, wrangling his baggage through the barriers and onto the next outbound train. There's less people than he would've expected from the crowd upstairs. Half of the seats are empty, a few people engaged in quiet conversation on the other side of the carriage that barely registers over the speaker crackling out safety messages.
He sits down. He pushes in his headphones, rock music drowning out the screeching and grinding of the subway as it sets off.
He looks at Truffle, who seems to be engaged in a one-sided staring contest with the well-dressed young man sat across him. His head turned down as he writes in a small notebook, Pyro only barely notices the light glinting off a cross ear piercing.
The train pulls to a stop, speakers announcing their arrival at a station. Pyro jolts. It's the one nearest Scott's. While he knows the man would be loath to use public transport, what with him having his own personal driver, he would rather avoid any awkward conversations with him after what had happened at that party.
The man across him stands up, a blank look on his face as he tucks the notebook into a suit pocket, revealing hands carefully covered in white gloves, and stands waiting at the train doors. Truffle flops dejectedly, whining at him. He pouts back, trying his best to communicate an apology to the guinea pig.
His forehead nearly leaning on the cage, he whispers to Truffle. "I know, I know. It'll only be a few more stops." She seems to calm down slightly, which he takes as her accepting his apology.
The doors open. A blast of cold air enters the carriage. Reflexively, he pulls his trenchcoat over his shirt. Looking across the carriage, he catches a glimpse of blue hair and a needlessly extravagant cloak on the stairs leaving the platform. He flinches back, trying to obscure his face from the window. With what he imagines is a reasonable amount of stealth, he takes a short look back outside. No sign of Scott.
The conjured spectre of an overactive mind, he hopes. He tries, mostly in vain, to collect himself as the train sets off again. The seats next to him are empty enough for him to shuffle the suitcase between his legs, carefully resting Truffle's cage on his lap. He instinctually hunches over it, the weight bringing him some comfort as he looks down at the guinea pig.
Another ding. The doors open smoothly as a few more people trickle in.
Pyro glances up at the line map. He counts three more stops until the one nearest Apo's.
As the train pulls upwards onto the overground lines, he checks his phone. No new notifications, his messages to Apo still left unread.
The last few stops go by faster, the closed darkness of unlit tunnels transitioning into the open darkness of the suburbs, moonlight illuminating sleepy outer boroughs. Finally arriving, he emerges from the station into the night, the evening chill having solidified into a painful cold.
Luckily for him, Apo's house is close enough to the station for him to not have to bear the full force of winter for long. He counts the house numbers as he walks past, suitcase wheels rattling on the pavement.
Turning left into an alleyway, he arrives at the Kuna house. The lights inside are on, precluding the worst possibilities his mind had dreamt up. Balancing Truffle's cage again on the suitcase, he knocks on the front door.
Heavy footsteps come from inside the house, the door opening to reveal Apo's dad. He waves Pyro in, greeting him with a familial warmth that he finds utterly alien. "What brings you here, buddy?"
He gestures to Truffle's cage. Apo's dad nods at him as he takes it from him into the living room. He looks up at the stairs from the entrance as he unties his shoes.
"How's Apo?"
Her dad stops to think. "Well, we've just had dinner, so she'd be upstairs if you'd like to go see her."
Pyro nods, Apo's dad shouting to her up the stairwell about his presence.
Turning back to Pyro, he asks. "How have you been faring? Apo's told me that it's exam season for you."
Pyro shrugs, warbling noncommittaly. From his position in the entryway, he looks around the house. Truffle has taken pride of place on the living room table, warming up under the lights. Past Truffle's cage, one of Apo's sweaters lies draped across the armrest of the couch. The TV is muted, a rerun of some sitcom playing on it.
Apo calls down the stairs for him to come up. He takes Truffle's cage, bringing her with him on the last leg of their journey to Apo. The door to her room is ajar. He pushes it open with his shoulder, kicking it closed behind him.
"Hey." Pyro stretches out the vowel. "I brought Truffle."
Her room is a mess. Clothes pile up on a chair beside her closet, the black-and-red dress that she had mentioned to Pyro was her favourite months ago thrown half-folded over the back. Papers cover her desk, covered by her old architecture notebook, open to some hastily scribbled diagram.
The notebook itself is largely covered by what looked like a medieval romance comic, a princess and her knight positioned together on the cover. Bannerfall: The Story of Soluna? Pyro had never heard of it.
Apo is in her pyjamas, sitting on the side of her bed. Near the pillows, the Sylveon plush he had bought for her on a shopping trip months ago is accompanied by a visibly newer Numel plush.
Pyro coos, pointing at it. "Who's that?"
She blushes, her voice turning to a whisper. "His name is Sport. Cherri gave him to me."
Cherri. Apo mentions her often — the older sister of that kid she's been babysitting — with a mix of admiration and infatuation in her voice that Pyro finds cute.
"I'm sure." He drawls.
Apo throws the Sylveon plush at Pyro's face.
He staggers back a step and pouts at her. "You could have hit Truffle!"
She rolls her eyes at him, shuffling back onto the bed.
He navigates carefully around the blankets and clothes strewn across the carpet. He puts Truffle's cage on an empty chair. She squeaks at Apo.
Half-collapsing, Pyro slumps against the wardrobe, picking up the plush and holding it in his arms. He watches Apo in the same position against the bed's headboard. Her hair falls around her shoulders, still wet from showering and just barely swept away from her eyes that continue to regard Pyro suspiciously.
"Didn't you say you would bring her this weekend? It's, like, Tuesday."
"I."
He clears his throat.
"Sorry. I tried calling."
She reaches to her bedstand, picking up her phone. It dangles from her hand. The screen is a spiderweb of cracks, a click of the power button showing only speckles of her background behind a mess of colours.
She croaks out. "You look like shit."
He feigns offence. She's not wrong. His hair is matted with grease, the rain only making it look worse. The effects on his sleep of exam-related stress are clear, his eyes sunken.
She questions him, more confused than accusatory. "So, why are you here?"
He shrugs off his trenchcoat, draping it over his lap as a blanket. Putting on a fake smile, he asks. "Can't I miss my wonderful roommate?"
Apo continues to stare at him blankly.
He sighs. He might as well ask.
"What do you know about vampires?"
She flinches back, a response locking in her throat as she makes a face at him that he couldn't possibly decipher.
Her voice breaks, shock mixing with betrayal as a word finds its way out of her mouth. "What?"
He feels confused. He shrinks back against the wardrobe. He presses the Sylveon plush to his chest. Panic courses through him, thoughts and memories blurring as he tries to sort through them. He stumbles through words, finding himself suddenly overwhelmed. "I– Scott–"
He is interrupted. Apo's voice nears a shriek. "Did he turn you?" Her eyes bore into him, her hands — looking awfully like claws — gripping the sheets.
He waves a hand in front of him frantically. "No!"
Taking a deep breath, he composes himself. "I saw, a few days ago, he bit Drift. I don't know. I thought– There was blood everywhere. I don't–"
His voice tapers off. Apo's eyes are an uncanny red in the warm lights of her bedroom. She looks sickly, her skin paler than he remembers. His eyes dart downwards to the pile of clothes at the foot of her bed, avoiding her face. Apo shifts, legs dangling from the edge of the bed as she turns away from him.
She sighs, her voice tired as she speaks. "During October, during a party, Scott cornered me."
Her eyes are fixed on the wall. A sharp coldness creeps at the edges of his head. He remembers. He had asked her to come with him — he hadn't really known anyone else that was going that well, and he had thought she would enjoy the respite after her exams. He recalls coming home that night, having never found Apo at the party, to find her not in their dorm either. Had he left her there to die?
He chokes. He can't find the power to say anything as Apo continues.
"He didn't say anything. He just put his fangs in my throat, and–"
Her hand brushes her hair past her neck, revealing two dots of inflamed red.
"There was nothing I could do."
He shuts his eyes, trying to stop the tears welling up from bursting out. "Apo, I'm sorry, I should have– shouldn't have asked you to go– should've done something."
She exhales, a bitter tone. "What, and die with me?"
His head bangs against the wardrobe as he leans back, staring straight into the ceiling light.
His eyes burn with tears. Apo gets off the bed, moving next to him on the floor.
They sit in silence.
He sniffles. "I'm scared. What if Scott– he knows where our dorm is, knows where I live–"
She turns towards him, putting her hand on his shoulder. It's cold. Pyro doesn't really care. He leans into it. She breathes in and out, the lengths exaggerated compared to his own rattling.
He closes his eyes, trying to match his own breathing with hers.
She whispers towards him, softly. "We'll figure it out."
He can't tell if Apo is lying. He believes her regardless.
He nods, whimpering.
Tired, he shifts closer to her, his head laying on her shoulder.
Her voice suddenly light-hearted, she pokes him. "You're gross, dude. Go change."
He chokes on his own spit, turning towards her with a betrayed pout.
His hand chafes against dried eyes as he wipes his face. He gets up, closing Apo's door behind him as he creeps downstairs. Apo's parents are still awake, their eyes turning to him. They wave, her dad motioning towards the clock. "It's getting late. You're always welcome to stay the night."
He continues, in a more hushed tone. "Are you and Apo alright?"
Pyro grabs his suitcase from the entrance. He responds, whispering. "I think so."
He opens the door to Apo's bedroom. She's moved Truffle from the cage to her enclosure at the side of her bed, the area of the room best taken care of. The guinea pig is eating a stalk of celery from Apo's hands. Opening the luggage onto the carpet with a light thud, he grabs his pyjamas.
The cold lighting of the bathroom stuns him for a second. He looks at his face in the mirror, splashing water into it. He pulls out his phone. It's nearly 10PM. There's a missed call from Scott. He ignores it, powering the phone off.
Apo is already in bed by the time he's done changing, her face covered by the Numel plush. He slides in awkwardly. Her arms wrap around him. Despite the supernaturally-imposed paleness to her skin that forces a frigidity through it, he feels a calming warmth.
He shifts further into her grip. Apo is already still with sleep. Pyro follows her, a comforting sense of safety enveloping him as he falls into a peaceful slumber.