When Time Ran Crooked

45 hours, 17 minutes, 33 and seconds Until

"Bea, you need to wake up."

Words trailed into my ears, bursting and bumbling through the blissful drowsiness that consumed my body. They stirred me to consciousness, drawing a series of blinks, until the events of last night washed over me- the grilled Mac 'n' Cheese sandwiches, throwing up, Claude. Claude, Claude, Claude. His hands sweeping through my hair as I hunched over a toilet. Him crying out in his sleep. His blush as he asked me if he could hold me as he slept, needing someone to protect him as he slept like a teddy bear would a child.

My eyes peeled open, slowly. The normally vertical world was flipped on one side, what I assumed was the curtains muting the vast array of colors that decorated the room. And, of course, there was Claude.

Claude's face was mere inches away from my own. From this angle, I saw every tiny blemish and detail that adorned his skin. His azure eyes, the exact shade of wounded blue cotton candy, glanced up at me from behind his glasses. "Bea?"

"Claude?" My voice was husky, due to lack of use while I was sleeping. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry to wake you up," he quickly apologized. "I know that you are sick and the last thing you probably want to do is get up. But we need to get up going, remember? I've packed everything up, all that's left to do is you getting ready and checking out. I figured I could check out while you got really."

Claude was saying a lot of things very fast. Since I just woke up, the last thing I was really prepared to do was actually listen to real instruction. Sitting up, I hid a yawn behind my palm as I nodded along to whatever it was that Claude was saying. "Sounds great."

His eyebrows raised, somewhat warily. "And you won't just fall back asleep? You'll actually get ready?"

Me? I was tempted to question. I would never break my word- "Does changing into a different pair of sweatpants and brushing my teeth count as getting ready?"

Claude consisted this for a moment. "I'll take it."

I swung my blanket-tangled legs over the side of the couch, almost hitting Claude in the process. It seemed so strange that as close as the last time my eyes were open before this, Claude had his arms around me. He had begged to hold me. And we snuggled all night.

My cheeks warned at the memory, and I looked up to his bright blue eyes. Claude's gaze held mine, steady and consistent. If he was thinking about the events of last night as much as I had in the two minutes I had been awake, he wasn't showing it. Claude Martin had one hell of a poker face.

"Hey," I murmured.

His voice was soft when he responded. Like the blanket that had kept us warm and pressed close together last night. "Hey."

I suppressed a smile. "Aren't you supposed to be checking out?"

His cheeks became pink in splotches, as if someone had dabbed him with a pink paintbrush across his face in the random manner of their choosing. "Right. I'll see you in about twenty minutes, and then we can head out of here. To New York."

Because that's the most interesting thing I had ever heard, I thought, as Claude arose and headed towards the door, eventually leaving. Que the sarcasm.

*

Leaving Cloud Nine was an endless period of trying (and failing) to not fall asleep through a speedy shower and brushing my teeth and packing my bag and biding the owners of the hotel (whose names I couldn't remember due to a lack of sleep) ado. When Claude and I finally made it outside, we noted that it was still incredibly cold. However, the storm subsided and there seemed to be less snow intent on eliminating our chance of getting to New York City by Christmas.