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My vision tunnels. Pulse speeds up. Fists clench.
My face feels funny—slack, like my flesh has disconnected from my skull.
Outside of myself, I watch as a pale, slim hand reaches for the glass door knob and turns it.
The door’s thrown open, and the overwhelming stench of vomit assaults my senses, returning me to my body. Reality slamming back into me with a borderline painful vengeance.
The curtain’s drawn away from the tub directly facing us, revealing the two fully clothed figures struggling under the spray.
A dark head whips around, droplets of water flinging everywhere. Hazel eyes dart wildly around before settling on mine. They widen under the hair plastered over his forehead, drawing attention to the red, glassiness surrounding his irises.
His mouth fumbles for words.
He’s lost weight, I realize dully, taking in the way his soaked shirt clings to his heaving ribs.
My eyes drag over the hunched form Waylon’s currently got his arms caged around. His hand is wrapped awkwardly around a stubbled, slackened jaw.
Water and foam swirling down the drain.
Oh.
“I-I had to… I didn’t know what to do. S-something wasn’t r-right.”
I say nothing. When I look up at Waylon, I feel nothing too.
His chest rises and falls heavily. His soaked black hair is plastered to his temples, curling wetly over his knitted brows. He licks his lips, catching rivulets of water running down. “H-he didn’t l-look right,” he chatters out.
The body in his arms contorts suddenly with more bone-wracking heaves.
But nothing more than a line of spittle trickles out
He slumps suddenly, his knees giving out, and Waylon scrambles to keep a hold of him as they both start to go down. Ivy and I rush forward, catching them, just before they both go crashing down face first into the puke-splattered tub.
Blinking rapidly, I catch them from the front, stumbling to a knee on the slick, hard tile, just as a hard, damp chest crashes into my cheek. Icy water pelts me, shocking my system.
“Fuck,” someone says. Maybe me.
I close my eyes.
Hold my breath.
Just for a second.
Mason…
Rangy arms hang over my shoulders, and there’s a hitched breath—almost like a sob. He slumps fully then, as if whatever fight he had left in him gives way completely.
Somehow, we all tumble out of the shower stall, landing in a wet heap on the too-small rug. The tile is a cold shock to my system, that has me gasping.
I instinctually shove a barely coherent Mason on his side. Scrambling up on my knees, I lean over him, chest heaving. I blow the hair out of my eyes and sweep my gaze over his shivering body. His pinched face. The ever-present shadows under his eyes.
He’s lost weight too…
His skin is pale, almost blue, but something tells me it’s just from the cold shower. He’s breathing just fine—nostrils flaring gently with each inhale. He’s okay…
Okay as he can be.
“What did he take?” I barely feel the words leave my throat.
