Between Heaven and Hell (PA #2)

Chapter Forty-Three

Willow

There's nothing glamorous about being hungover. Seriously, I don't recommend it. The edges of my vision are blurred by the pounding in my skull and my slitted eyelids. Everything is way too bright and abrasive to allow for opening them past half-mast.

I'm hit with conflicting impulses to chug water and go to the bathroom. My mouth tastes like something died in it. I'm fairly certain I'm still wearing my clothes from the night before–the thought of outside germs touching my bed makes my stomach roil dangerously–and I have a distinct feeling that I humiliated myself yesterday.

There's a brief few minutes that I'm so preoccupied with cataloging all of my ailments that my brain doesn't recognize my current location. It's the ceiling tiles that give it away.

The last time I was in this room was for my birthday. Which wasn't all that long ago, but it feels as though entire years have passed since then. I woke up with a weird mix of guilt, shame, and happiness then as well.

What did I do last night? How did I find myself in Ragnar's bedroom?

Patting the covers, I search for the oldest Morningstar without committing to actually getting up or fully opening my eyes. The space around me is cold and empty, lacking any stoic demons with penchants for witnessing my drunken outbursts. Sighing in defeat, I relax back against the mattress.

Nothing said or done last night can be any worse than Ragnar's graduation party, I reassure myself.

At least the night didn't end in tears. I think.

"Will you sleep with me?"

He's so warm. And big. Larger than life, bigger than all of my problems. He makes everything else seem so small.

"No."

Loss. So much loss. Threads that pull tighter as I pull away from him.

"Okay."

He doesn't let me go. I don't want him to let me go.

"I didn't mean it like that. You're drunk and I don't want to take advantage."

I cringe at the memory. Ragnar was just being considerate of my inebriated state and I was busy writing sonnets about him in my head. If alcohol is intended to lower inhibitions, does that mean that what I feel and think when I'm drunk is more honest than when I'm sober?

I don't sense the bonds normally. I don't sense threads or strings or ropes tying me to and urging me towards my mates. But on the two occasions I've been drunk in my life, I've been vulnerable and wistful around them to a mortifying degree.

I have so many questions and hardly any answers. Where is Aristotle to explain everything to me? I miss him and his wonderful brain.

Opening my eyes and sitting up in the bed is a Herculean task, but one I complete in a record slow time. The knives in my skull protest each minute movement.

I'm never touching a drop of alcohol again.

To my right, there's a glass of water on the nightstand, a ring of condensation staining the wood around it. The sight sparks another memory.

A metal frame on his bedside table. It's so surprising that I immediately want to take a closer look. All three of my right hands struggle to lift it, my depth perception severely limited by the faerie wine and elf shots sloshing through my system.

"What's this?"

Ragnar reaches for the frame, but not before I can see what's in it. Who's in it.