For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Cass couldn’t seem to make his legs work. He was too busy noticing things—the exact shade of green in Riot’s eyes, the waythe morning light caught the gold flecks in them, the density of freckles across his nose, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. There were so many freckles. Cass wanted to count them. That was a strange thing to want, but his brain kept suggesting it anyway.
“Your bandages,” Cass heard himself say, latching onto something practical because practical was safe. “How are your hands? Those cuts looked deep. I have more antiseptic if you need it, though I’m running low on supplies because I’ve been helping people when I can find people who will let me help, which isn’t very often because most people don’t want—”
“What are you doing here?” Riot’s voice came out rough, almost hoarse, and something about the sound of it made Cass’s stomach do that swooping thing again.
Definitely stomach flu.
“I’m staying here,” Cass said. “Room fourteen. They had a weekly rate I could afford with my mission stipend, and the manager said he didn’t care what territory I was from as long as I paid in advance and didn’t try any—” he lowered his voice, embarrassed by the memory—”‘cult stuff’ on the other guests. Which I thought was rude. And inaccurate. We’re not a cult. We’re a harmonious collective. There’s a difference. Also he didn’t actually say ‘stuff.’ He used disharmonious language.”
Riot closed his eyes. His hands, hanging at his sides, curled into fists and then slowly uncurled.
“This isn’t good,” he grumbled.
“What? The hotel?” Cass’s head was swimming. It was hard to think with that scent filling his lungs, making everything feel soft and distant and warm. “Are the rooms not safe? I asked about the locks and the manager said they were fine, but he also tried to sell me something called ‘protection insurance,’ which I think might have been a scam, but I wasn’t sure how to tell—”
“Fuck.”
Cass flinched at the word, an automatic response, and Riot’s expression immediately shifted. The hardness cracked into something that looked almost like pain.
“Sorry,” Riot said, his voice gentler. “I didn’t mean—you didn’t do anything wrong. This is just...” He ran a hand through his hair, and Cass watched the movement like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. His hair really did look very soft. The kind of soft he wanted to touch and maybe braid. “This is complicated.”
“I don’t understand,” Cass said.
“I know you don’t.” Riot’s jaw tightened, then relaxed with visible effort. “That’s part of the problem.”
Cass swayed slightly. The hallway was tilting again, or maybe he was tilting, and the strawberry scent was everywhere, and his skin felt like it was humming at a frequency he couldn’t hear. Riot’s hand shot out to steady him, warm fingers closing around his elbow—firm but careful, like Cass was something fragile. The touch sent sparks cascading down his arm, bright little bursts of sensation that made him gasp.
That’s not normal, some distant part of his brain observed.People’s hands don’t usually feel like that.
Riot’s pupils were very large. His grip tightened for just a second, pulling Cass slightly closer, and there was something in his expression that made Cass’s breath catch—
Then Riot let go like he’d been burned, stepping back so fast he nearly hit the opposite wall.
“You’re flushed,” he said. “Are you sick?”
“I don’t know.” Cass touched his own cheek, feeling the heat there. His hand was trembling. When had that started? “I woke up feeling strange. Hot. Everything smells too strong and my joints hurt and I think maybe I’m getting the flu, which is bad because people die from the flu out here, and I don’t have money for a doctor, and I still have to find recruits or they’ll send meback for support, and I don’t want—” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to go back for support.”
“You’re not dying from the flu.” Riot’s voice was firm, certain. “You’d have other symptoms. Coughing, congestion, that kind of thing.”
“Then what’s wrong with me?”
Riot stared at him.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, but Cass had the strange feeling that wasn’t entirely true.
“Maybe it’s stress,” Cass offered, grasping for the explanation that had been working all morning. “Brother Matthias says stress can cause physical symptoms. And I’ve been very stressed, because my mission isn’t going well and Brother Matthias gave me two weeks to show progress or they’ll send me home for support, and I don’t…” His voice wavered. “I don’t want to go back for support.”
“You said that already.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I repeat myself when I’m nervous.” Cass’s fingers found his braid, twisting the clay bead. “It’s one of my spiritual deficiencies. I have a list. It’s quite long.”
Something flickered across Riot’s face—there and gone too fast for Cass to read.
“What’s support?” he asked.
The question made Cass’s mind brush against that closed door again—the gap where memories should be, the blankness that felt less like protection and more like a wound he wasn’t supposed to pick at.
