VAIN | Inside the Universe

Chapter Thirty • Cold War

I've contracted an intimacy.

It's parasitic, disgusting, and escalating with every second I'm not absolutely inebriated. That's been proved true in the most brutal way since I woke up this morning sober for the first time in about a week.

As if all the suppressed pain over the dazed days gathered in rebellion from their cruel neglect, they charged, with no consideration for the fact that I'm one: unguarded and two: haven't even brushed my teeth yet.

Yet, undoubtedly fulfilling my quota of one small victory a day, their strategy backfired, overwhelming my head with all of their concerns to the point of incoherence. Thus, now I lie with my eyes still closed, gladly bearing the throbbing pain over hearing anything they have to say, besides the one consensual thought elbowing its way to the front yelling amongst the red that I need a fucking drink.

Half the battle is getting out of bed, I suppose. That's normal. Nothing new. This isn't some kind of side effect to a disease that is hell bent persistent on consuming me whole. And if I kept my eyes closed I could pretend that, yes, even though I remember basically nothing from the last few days, I did find my way to a bed last night. I had a great sleep, and now I'm cured.

But the coldness under my cheek quickly sobered me to the brief memories of sparring with Sif yesterday, and then blacking out on her bedroom floor.

I stared at the floor ahead of me for a while, not wanting to move until I caught Sif's legs in the corner of my eye, dangling off her bed in a pleasant, drunken induced R.E.M. It was then — a minute after a long groan from a stiff back — that I decided to get the fuck out of there before she realized I had consequences.

After quickly stealing a pair of boots and a heavy coat, the heel of my foot didn't meet the floor until I was on the other end of the door. Rarely did it meet the hallways as I snuck to one of the open kitchens, quietly making two cups of tea and hurrying out of the palace, relaxing tremendously as my feet hit cobblestone without being noticed once.

Ironically, it was outside of the palace when the army retreated, strategize, and attacked once more. This time with much clearer intent — intent to kill nonetheless. Maybe it was the cold air or the fresh crispness of it that made things more concise, but the most troubling fact is that it shouldn't matter. No outside influence should ever be able to have this power.

Bearing the winter ahead of me that seemed to be just as repelling as the early hour of the morning, I set down the empty streets towards the bifrost, hoping that I would find something along the way to distract me from...me. But it was bare, quiet, and the reflection of the snow made everything so god damned light.

My enhancements should be taking care of this. Each and every one are fluent in eliminating threats of death, ensuring longevity, and ridding the burden of disease.

I did not work my entire life for it to crap out on me now. Not here. Not because of anyone.

Yet it was hard to ignore with the days flooding back to me just how faulty I've gotten. How far spread the virus had gotten before I could even acknowledge it.

I was forced bedridden the first day. After making one to many jokes about all the different forms and every which way I could dive off of my twelfth story balcony, Kahlil literally threw me back into bed. Either he thought I'd be shit at an inward end-it-all or he was scared I would ask him to be my partner for the synchronized kick-the-bucket.

Nonetheless, I was practically chained to my bed with the only thing Kahlil knew would be close to unbreakable. The restraints in the form of Kari's god awful compassion tightened around my legs and forced any and all wits back down my throat. The Asgardian never left my side. When I was thirsty, she had already made tea. When I tossed around, she started a bath. When I laid staring at the ceiling for hours on end, she was there with a box of tissues as I had somehow known she would be. What was that kind of attentiveness called? Oh right. Mothering. So that's what it looked like.