Umberto’s House, The Stacks
“I’m missing the point?” he questioned flatly. The youth didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry, but perhaps screaming would be better, more satisfying. Fionn wasn’t able for this, and it wasn’t simply because he was drunk; frankly, he was rarely truly capable of enduring the scholar. He kept talking and the passive could only stare at him, blinking owlishly, wondering if he was caught in a strange dream. The boy had never had drugs, but he’d heard that some could make you dream queer things while you were awake. Could he have taken some without realising it? It would certainly explain the peculiar surreality that he was currently experiencing.
“I can take days off but they ain’t worth much t’me. No enjoyment in ‘em,” the teenager muttered, not expecting that he’d be heard. It seemed all too clear that his words were falling on deaf ears. Then again, maybe he hadn’t spoken at all, and Fionn had simply imagined saying all of it. What had he even said? At this point, he couldn’t rightly remember. Yes, so like a dream, although he supposed that he could recall the essence of it, even if the details were lost.
Not that any of it seemed important now, not when he could feel his stomach roiling. The coffee did not agree with him, its aftertaste still lingering in his mouth like muck. He really couldn’t fathom why anyone would willingly drink the stuff and while it didn’t seem quite as horrific when chilled, it was still something that he could have done without—especially now.
Thankfully, the galdor wanted to distract him by talking about how the University took in passives for the sake of protection. Oh yes, he’d been in need of something humorous. The youth laughed nastily, descending into a dark chuckle at the other’s idealistic view.
“Oh yes, our protection, sure,” he muttered, snorting derisively and finding himself burping noisily. Fionn covered his mouth, less out of observance of good manners and more to stem anything else that might choose to follow the wind. It had brought up the taste of whatever was stewing in his stomach, an unpleasant mix of coffee and beer that was so much worse than how both had tasted on the way down.
Circle preserve him, he didn’t want to throw up, and it had nothing to do with how displeased Umberto was liable to be about his study floor becoming soiled. Maybe if he didn’t think about it then it would ebb. Perhaps he should avoid laughing as well, but then perhaps he should tell his guardian to stop saying things that were humorous—even unintentionally.
“I’m no’ tha’ dangerous,” the servant slurred as if drifting off to sleep, tugging at the collar of his shirt, flapping it slightly to allow some air to circulate, “even if I blow up.”
The passive was warm, overly warm so that sweat was beginning to prickle over his body. Gods, why was it so warm? Sometimes he found himself heated up when he drank tea too quickly, but the same thing couldn’t have happened with the coffee; the coffee was cold.
He was back to a dream-like state, listening to the galdor in a detached sort of way as if he was speaking from a great distance. He cradled his forehead in his hand, eyes flickering as he focused on his breathing.
In and out.
“The University is correct that order and structure is proper…”
In and out.
“...to keep you on an even keel, grounded.”
In and out. Alioe, he really didn’t feel well. Maybe he should get up and try to get some air. It felt as if everything good had been sucked from his surroundings, oxygen severely lacking so that Fionn felt smothered.
“But their methods are, to be blunt, mad.”
The blond’s head jerked up as if moved by a violent puppeteer. The movement had been a mistake, doing nothing to ease the sensation of smothering, and he was fairly sweating as well, that awful taste coming back. His sound of his own breathing seemed to fill the world around him, but he had caught what the academic had had to say about those who had gated him: mad. He didn’t agree with them. There was more but the passive didn’t really hear it, the rise and fall of the other’s voice becoming a hum of background noise.
The teenager leaned forward, shifted in his seat as if to rise but he felt too weak and unsteady to trust his legs. His fingers grasped for the carafe instead, tucking it under his chin as his stomach churned. The boy clung to the container for dear life, hearing his breath echo inside it before the nausea surged and he retched.
It was deeply unpleasant, and undoubtedly little better to witness, but when he finished purging the night’s sins, the boy could say that he felt better. Sure, he was cold and clammy from the sweat, weakened and drained as well as a bit more clear-headed, but definitely better.
“Fuck,” he grimaced, “don’t let me drink. Ever again.”
Leaning back in the chair, he peered at the carafe, lips twisting in distaste.
“Sorry about that.”
He wiped his mouth delicately before reaching for water, swilling it around to try to remove the taste and soothe the burning sensation; he swallowed painfully.
“Did you… say something about uh… not getting into too much trouble?” he asked, clearly chagrined. “I didn’t mean to but uh… yeah. Sorry. At least this is, um... easier to clean?”
He lifted the carafe to highlight its presence and almost immediately regretted it because doubtless the man didn’t want to be looking at it. He put it to one side, smiling sheepishly as he tried his feet once more. No, maybe not a good idea to try to go downstairs to clean it just yet. Better to take a breather.
“Do you really disagree with them so strongly? The University and what they do with… with people like me?” he asked hesitantly. “You think them mad?”