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Harrow tripped up the stairs, boots thudding over grit coated floor. The harsh glare of fluorescents burned her retinas as she made her way upward, headache pounding and chest aching with the effort. She turned the corner to level nine—the top floor, which had felt exciting when she moved in but now tormented her—and allowed a brief pause for breath, back hunched and fingers splayed over her knees, rings and fingernails digging into her jeans. Her shirt stuck to her skin with sweat, itchy and uncomfortable, and she resisted the urge to shudder.
After a minute of heaving, Harrow righted herself. She brushed her sweaty hands on her pants and walked the rest of the way to her apartment, barely even hobbling or fumbling with the keys on her belt loop.
She shut the door behind her, locked it, and checked twice to make sure it was really locked. Finally, she made her way to the bedroom, shucking her shirt off on the way. It landed somewhere near the laundry bin.
Her room, like the entryway before it, was wonderfully dark. She hadn’t bothered with the lights—they would only exacerbate her headache.
She fumbled to the bed, weaving around heaps of laundry and rugby equipment. At the last moment, a creature darted between her legs and she nearly fell, barely catching herself on the rumpled comforter.
The wretch mewled from somewhere in the dark, offended, and Harrow growled back at it, baring her teeth into the darkness.
She lowered herself fully into bed, scrambling to remove her sweaty undershirt and snag the painkillers from her nightstand. She swallowed two dry and collapsed backward. The ache in her skull thrummed. With one hand, she pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to tamp the lancing pain.
She lay like this for a while, not bothering to remove her shoes or wriggle beneath the covers. The pressure in her head eclipsed all else, taking priority from her usual routine.
The pain eventually eased, and she found the energy to curl into a ball. Bony knees pressed into bony arms, her head sandwiched between them.
Time stretched, rough and indeterminate. Blunt nails pressed into the skin of her forehead. She couldn’t fall asleep.
A while longer, and the mattress dipped beside her. A warm hand rubbed her back. Long, calloused fingers brushed her skin.
She drifted off.
— — — — — — — — —
Harrow woke to a rumbling.
At some point, she’d curled around something soft. Something that breathed and spoke beneath her, chest rising and falling with language.
She snuggled closer, burrowing her head into smooth fabric, and fell asleep again.
— — — — — — — — —
This time, Harrow woke to stillness. The thing beneath her was gone.
She cracked her eyes open, peering about the room. The curtains were drawn—had she done that? Her brain was foggy. A glass of water sat on the nightstand with a note beside it.
cam called. didn’t want to wake you. moved to living room. text me and drink water!!
Dutifully, Harrow sipped at the water. She searched for her phone, eventually pulling it from a heap of discarded shirts.
The screen lit up, bright in the dark room, and Harrow closed her eyes. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and she fumbled to turn the brightness down. She breathed deeply, taking a moment to compose herself.
She opened her eyes, staring down at the screen in her lap. Six new messages.
Ianthe photography 5:21 pm: Quite the abrupt exit, Harry.
Ianthe photography 5:21 pm: You forgot something. [IMAGE ATTACHED: a black bookbag]
Ianthe photography 5:21 pm: The darkroom is closed until next week. You can pick it up from my place x
Harrow groaned, cursing her hastiness. She’d been desperate to get out—away from the putrid chemicals; away from Ianthe’s chatter. Her head had been killing her. Still, how could she forget? The bag held her laptop, along with several books. She’d have to visit Ianthe. God help her.
She turned back to her phone.
Griddle 6:07 pm: heading home. will grab takeout
Nona 7:01 pm: Crown says you have a headache. Please drink water! I love you!
Griddle 7:30 pm: noodles & co in the fridge. i can reheat and bring it when u wake up. love u
Harrow responded to Nona first, ignoring Ianthe completely. She had no energy to spare on lechery.
Harrow 9:22 pm: I love you too, Nona. Gideon brought me some water. How are you doing?
Nona responded quickly.
Nona 9:22 pm: Great!
Nona 9:22 pm: Pyrrha’s letting me help cook!! We’re making curry <3
Nona 9:23 pm: Pal said we could bring you some but Pyrrha said it might kill you.
Nona 9:23 pm: Cam said don’t be mean but she agrees.
Nona 9:23 pm: How are you feeling?
Harrow 9:24 pm: That’s great, Nona. I’m feeling better. Thank you for checking in.
She flicked to her chat with Gideon, fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing.
Harrow 9:26 pm: I’m feeling better. Thank you for the water. I’ll have some dinner, but I’m not very hungry.
Hardly any time later, Gideon opened the door, a bowl balanced in one hand. She padded to the bed and sat next to Harrow, setting the food between them.
“How’s your head?” Gideon poked at Harrow’s skull, catching her hands when she batted her away. "Oh, feisty. That's a good sign.” She poked Harrow’s cheek, to which Harrow bit her, pointy teeth sinking into flesh. “Bite reflexes are normal. Patient shows elevated signs of being a bitch, which is also normal. Let me see…” she squinted, feigning deep thought. “I know the cure for a headache, but you have to promise,” she held Harrow’s gaze, voice turning serious, “no biting.”
Harrow rolled her eyes, but she nodded. Best get the charade over with. She acquiesced to lessen her suffering, wriggling her hand from Gideon’s grasp.
“My poor baby,” Gideon pressed a smattering of kisses to Harrow’s head, “my pouty princess, my sepulchral sweetheart, my–” her words cut off, muffled under Harrow’s fingers. Without hesitation, Gideon licked her palm. Harrow yanked her hand back with a glare and an aborted shriek, wiping the spit on Gideon’s shirt. “Oh, my hateful honey, don't you know you've got to kiss it better?” Gideon laughed, resuming her mission. Harrow tolerated it.
After a minute, Harrow pushed her away, wiping at her flushed cheeks. A smug grin split Gideon’s face, which only made her blush harder. “You cretin, I’m fine. Your pet names grow more asinine by the day.”
Gideon chuckled, then sighed bodily, eyes rolling. “Well, Nona said Cor said Ianthe said you looked like roadkill. I said you look like roadkill anyway, but I don’t think she found it funny. Your sister hates me, dude. And anyway–” another poke to Harrow’s forehead, “you’re not fine.”
“I am.”
“Are not.”
“I am, Griddle.”
“Are not.”
“I am.”
“Are n–” a sharp kick to Gideon’s groin. Her words trailed off into a wheeze.
“I refuse to participate in this inane back and forth. I’m fine. I slept it off. Will you stop babying me?”
“Will you let me turn on the lights?”
Harrow blanched, stomach turning at the thought. Her head had improved, but it was not at a point where lights were tolerable. She preferred darkness anyway, even when her head was fine. If she could, she would spend her life in the darkroom, awash in a dim orange glow, headphones on to deter Ianthe’s small talk. Not that it worked. Still, even with Ianthe and the stench of developer, it was a good place to be. She cleared her throat. “I will not.”
The smug grin returned, but she found it less charming than before. “Well, that settles it.” A beat, and the grin faded, turning softer. Harrow assumed out of pity. “I don’t mean to nag. I just don’t like when you’re all… wounded baby bat, you know?”
Harrow did not know, because Gideon was not making sense, as Gideon was wont to do. She nodded.
Gideon nodded back, picking at a thread on her sock. At some point, she had stopped making eye contact, focusing instead on the bowl of noodles. “These are probably getting cold. I can heat them up if you want.”
Harrow shook her head, flopping back into her pillow. She slung an arm over her eyes. “It’s fine, I’m not hungry anyway. I think I’ll go back to sleep.”
A shuffle amid the sheets. Harrow peeked out from beneath her elbow, eyes landing on crossed arms. Gideon had settled down beside her, laying on her stomach. She nudged the bowl in Harrow’s direction.
“Please? I know there’s a no food policy in the darkroom, so you haven’t eaten all day. You’ll feel better if you have something.”
“Ugh,” Harrow groaned, “the darkroom. I left my bag there,” she pulled the bowl toward her, stabbing angrily at its contents, “and Ianthe has it. She said I could pick it up from her.”
“I'll get it,” Gideon said. “I’m driving Jeanne to practice tomorrow, so I’ll be in the area.”
“Oh,” Harrow smiled into her noodles. “I suppose that could work.” She looked sidelong at Gideon. Her face was squished into her forearm, freckled cheeks against muscle. Her eyes glinted.
“But only if you eat, and mutilating your food doesn’t count. Otherwise I’m throwing you to the wolves,” she grinned, nudging Harrow with her elbow.
Harrow rolled her eyes, but moved to take a bite.
A noise sounded in the hallway. Harrow startled, fork halfway to her lips, and looked over. A small, cat shaped silhouette padded toward them. It stopped below Gideon, eyeing the bed. Calculating.
“Your cat wants up,” Harrow said, gesturing with her fork.
“What?” Gideon turned, peering over the edge of the bed. “No, she’s your cat.”
“You’re the one who insisted we keep her. I thought we should leave her at a shelter, since you claim to be allergic.”
“She was abandoned on the side of the road. She had no family! It’s fucked up you didn’t want her. And besides,” Gideon scooped up the scrawny thing and dropped it on Harrow’s lap, “she’s your cat because she likes you better. Plus I’m allergic.”
Harrow huffed, gingerly scratching between the cat’s ears. It purred and flopped over, exposing its belly to the world. A trap, obviously.
“But whatever, I have allergy meds. I can still do this,” Gideon reached over to pet the exposed belly. The cat hissed and clawed at her, little paws scrabbling along her hand. Gideon yelped and jerked back, glaring down at the creature. “Jesus, she’s definitely yours. Takes after her mother.”
“Good girl,” Harrow muttered, petting the cat’s head. It purred and snuggled closer. “It’s not her fault you’re an idiot, Griddle.”
They sat like this for a while, Harrow picking at her noodles with the cat between her legs; Gideon sprawled beside them. The ache in Harrow’s head lessened—maybe eating helped, but she wouldn’t admit it—and she began to feel drowsy.
A voice disturbed her peace.
“Harrow,” Gideon whispered, "remember how I cured your headache?”
“You did not,” Harrow said. She didn’t like where this was going. “But I recall a lot of kissing.”
“Well, it worked. So,” Gideon held up her hand, “can you kiss it better? It’s only fair.”
Harrow squinted. “There’s hardly anything there. She didn’t even draw blood.”
“It hurts so bad, baby. Please.”
“You’re pathetic, Griddle.” Harrow bent down, pressing her lips to Gideon’s knuckles. Her cheeks were hot when she sat back up.
“Yeah, yeah whatever. I love you too, sugarlips.”