Page 95 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

Felix

As long as it doesn’t involve another one of Priya’s quiches

Relief burst through me, as bright as sunrise. Surely jokes were a good sign.

I promise only two plates, nothing else

A pause, and then:

Luckily, I keep spare cutlery in my desk now

I stopped at three different shops on my way to work, which was completely mental behaviour, but I couldn’t help myself. Fresh bread from the bakery I loved, proper cheese from that little deli, and scrumptious strawberries from the market stall that charged tourist prices but sold fruit that actually tasted like something.

By the time I reached the concealed entrance to the tunnels, I was carrying enough food to feed half of London.

The bookcase swung open with its usual creak, depositing me into the basement. I paused, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I looked—a grown man smuggling gourmet lunch supplies like contraband. How exactly was I supposed to explain this bounty to the team? Oh, this? Just fancied treating myself. No, nobody else can have any.

Upstairs, the kitchen door stood ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I didn’t need our bond to know who was in there; the distinct rip-rip-rip of Freddy destroying something edible gave Rory’s whereabouts away instantly.

“Morning,” I called, pushing through the door.

Rory sat at the central table, blond hair particularly bedraggled. Freddy perched on the wooden surface beside him, methodically demolishing a stack of crackers with his tiny yellow teeth.

“You’re in early,” I observed, setting my bags on the counter and hoping Rory was too distracted to notice their suspicious abundance.

“Theo woke me up at half-past six.” Rory rolled his eyes dramatically. “My powers of persuasion of getting him to stay in bed this morning sorely failed. He muttered something about ‘the real world of having to go to work’ and buggered off to the station.”

“How dare he.”

“All gone, mate,” Rory announced to Freddy, brushing crumb debris from his palms.

The creature made an indignant chittering sound, his gaze surveying the empty space where his feast had been. Without warning, he launched himself across the kitchen in a series of acrobatic leaps, landing with a flourish on the worn wooden table beside the pantry.

Right on Issac’s shrine.

The small altar occupied the same spot where Issac used to perch during our kitchen gatherings, his long legs dangling as he juggled fruit and dispensed sarcastic commentary. Priya maintained it meticulously—fresh oranges arranged among bundles of dried sage, photographs tucked between candles and sprigs of rosemary. His leather jacket still hung on the hook above, its familiar scent of citrus threading through the kitchen’s warmth.

Freddy’s nose twitched as he investigated the offerings, his attention immediately captured by the bright orange sitting at the shrine’s centre.

“Freddy, no—” Rory started.

Too late. The ferret’s sharp teeth punctured the peel with a wet squelch, and he began methodically devouring the bitter rind with obvious satisfaction, his whiskers twitching with each determined bite.

“For fuck’s sake,” Rory muttered. “Priya’s going to have your head if she finds out you ate his memorial fruit.”

Freddy merrily worked his way through the orange peel, leaving chunks of mangled citrus scattered across the shrine’s surface. The absurdity of it struck me—death and decay and remembrance, all being systematically destroyed by an undead ferret with no concept of reverence.

“Speaking of… did you have any ideas of what you wanted to do in April?” I asked, attempting to redirect attention from both the shrine desecration and my own suspicious grocery bags. “For Issac’s memorial, I mean.”

Rory’s shoulders tensed, his gaze fixed on Freddy’s enthusiastic destruction. “I’ll think of something.”

I’d been very surprised when Rory had implied he was going to organise an event—he wasn’t typically the planning kind. Or the organised kind.

“You know, you don’t actually need to plan anything,” I said carefully. “We can all just gather that evening, have some food and drinks. Keep it simple.”

“Right. Simple.” Rory’s fingers drummed against the table edge. “Issac would have laughed at me doing anything elaborate anyway.”

He stood abruptly, crossing to the shrine. His hand hovered over one of the photographs—the one from that last Christmas. Issac balanced on this very table, his bronze skin glowing in the warm light. His leather jacket hung open over a ridiculous Christmas jumper, and that silver lip ring glinted as his face split in wild joy, pelting Rory with paper chains.