Wax

Seventeen

A/N: It is after eight years of writing that I realize I don't actually know how to spell things. Where I live, we learn British English in English lessons and our vocabulary and spelling in daily life (when it's in English) would therefore be mostly, um, British. Because more than half of you are from the US however, I somehow started spelling things without 'u's and with 'z's instead of 's's. And now after eight years, I am a grand mess of everything.

And now that I have pointed this out, you're all probably going to notice all of it :> E E P.

This chapter came out unexpectedly long and since actually chapter 16, 17 and 18 are supposedly one full chapter split into 3 parts, the full chapter should be about 13-14k words :( I just couldn't get them all out at once so please bear with me! 

See you Sunday :>

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[Vanilla]

"You took my clothes off?"

I had bags of groceries blocking my view—one balanced on my forearm, another pressed against my chest, wedged between both arms that had a bag each dangling from my wrists. Making it past the front door was, already, a miraculous feat. I couldn't quite remember the last time I'd purchased so many items on impulse and checked out with a shopping cart three-quarters full. I'd always been the kind of shopper to leave the baskets alone.

"Leroy? You're awake, I—oh good god you can't possibly think walking around like that would somehow make you immune to a common cold, you should be in bed for goodness sake." I said amidst the chaos of groceries, carefully setting everything down on the kitchen counter.

"Can't find my clothes," he said, turning over a stray cushion on my couch as though he'd, by the fortune of pillow gods, find a shirt under it. I reassured him that his clothes were not kidnapped by producing them from the dyer and placing them on the back of a dining chair.

"There. How are you feeling?" I started sorting out the bags of ingredients, lining up the ones I intended to use for dinner prep. "I had a brand-new set of pyjamas stacked neatly on the corner of the bed, prepared just for you. Were they, um, not... to your liking?"

He slipped on his pants but for some reason, forgot about his dress shirt. "The silk?"

"Yes. Handmade to perfection. Extreme quality!"

He paused, then cursed under his breath. "I ripped a seam in the top."

The drop I felt in my chest was akin to a sinking anchor. Afraid that it'd affect his recovery, I feigned indifference and attempted to appear the least bit fazed. "Ah. Not to worry. It was, um, not one of my favorites—"

"I'm just playing."

"Oh thank god I was about to pass out that set was something I'd ordered months ago waiting for the perfect occasion to wear and and and stop laughing, don't think you'd get away with something like that just because you have a fever." I tossed a fleece throw in his face. They came in handy on colder days. "Use it."

"I'm fine, really."

"Is that so?" I spared him a glance, filling the electric kettle. "Well then you may show yourself out of my apartment right this instant. A pity you'd miss out on dinner made by yours truly."

The words were magic. Instantly, the throw was on him like a cape and I was trying hard not to laugh, musing privately behind the open door of the fridge. "Coming from the person who nearly blew up my kitchen."