never trust a man wearing a better suit than you

A broad hand grasps his, holding it tightly. "Dimmel? Can y'hear me?"

Gawmer sounds upset, and Dimmel realizes he hasn't actually opened his eyes. It feels like he's lifting a krogan with them, but he manages to crack his eyelids open, staring directly into two blurry faces.

The blue one is upside-down, and the very thought of the world tilting or leaning makes his stomach roil. He closes his eyes with a groan as cool, calloused fingers skate over his forehead.

"He wasn't this hot an hour ago."

"What the fuck? He said he was fine!" Srikit is angry, although at what he doesn't understand.

"Sorry," he mutters feebly, not exactly sure whether he's apologizing or expressing condolences. Either way there's a shuffle and a softer, clammier hand at his cheek. He dares to open an eye again.

Srikit is right-side-up this time, close enough that Dimmel can make out a pale cast to his face and nervous lines at the corner of his mouth. He holds Dimmel's gaze for several seconds before letting out a long, annoyed sigh, but the way his other hand is rubbing Dimmel's shoulder gives lie to the frustration.

"Fucking shit, are you trying to ruin sex for me? If you don't want to do it you can just say so, you don't have to pass the fuck out on me." There's an indignant, "Srikit!" from Gawmer, but Dimmel is only confused.

"Pass out?" That would explain why he's lying back on the--the bed? Judging by the angle he's looking at the ceiling it's the bed--staring up at both of them. Gawmer edges closer to him, worry clear in his voice.

"You don't remember? You looked a little peaky earlier, but when I suggested, euh--" Gawmer gestures awkwardly, and Dimmel realizes that aside from Gawmer's undershorts they're all naked, "--you said you felt alright. But you were kissing Srikit and just...fell down."

"You're sick, moron," clarifies Srikit, scooting close enough to sap some of Dimmel's heat. "You could have just sat this one out. You're not gonna get a prize for perfect attendance or anything...shit, you're really hot."

"I don't think I felt like this earlier," Dimmel murmurs. He's aware enough to be abashed now. He does remember having been very interested in Gawmer's hand running down his thigh in spite of the mounting pressure and foggy warmth in his head. Fainting right on top of Srikit, though? How embarrassing.

Sitting up makes his head whirl, and he tilts dangerously towards Gawmer's side. Srikit grabs at his shoulder, mostly steadying him. "If you just...set me up on the couch with a drink and a bucket I'll be fine."

"Hwhat?" squawks Gawmer. "We're not leaving you to puke your guts out in a corner. Srikit, you want to take a cool bath with him? See if we can't get that temperature down. Are you up to food at all, Dim? Y'didn't eat much at lunch, did you..." Gawmer keeps a close eye on his own meals; it was only natural that he'd notice the plate next to his was still mostly full.

Dimmel blinks in confusion, but Srikit is nodding. "Bath? Yeah, I can do that."

"Good! If you want to get the tub running I'll give him a hand getting there." Srikit stands, scratches his back, and departs for the bathroom with only one last glance back at Dimmel's glazed eyes. Soon, Dimmel hears water thundering out of the tap, and Gawmer has his arm around his shoulders.

"Still dizzy?" he asks. "Think you can stand?"

Or maybe he could blame Dimmel himself. Before bed he had noticed that Dimmel was wearing the old pair of sleep pants (old by Dimmel's reckoning, at least, because he hasn't kept an article of clothing longer than four years. The idea of throwing something out for one small stain was mind-boggling to Srikit, whose favorite sweatshirt was a historical tapestry of scuffs and stains and that was the way he liked it. And then he found out that Dimmel didn't throw his 'old' clothes away, he donated them to some charity, and Srikit had to take a moment and remind himself that Dimmel was a real person, somehow). Dimmel likes the pants because they're one of the few things he owns that are worn to comfortable softness--Srikit hates them because there's a small green-black stain on the outside of the left thigh.

"I wore these while I was recovering from the geth siege," Dimmel had explained. "The wound was only a long cut, essentially; nothing below the surface damaged. But I suppose the medical seal must have ruptured at some point, just enough for some breakthrough bleeding. In spite of that, it healed fine."

"Oh," Srikit had said, thinking of the thin pink line on Dimmel's leg that was nearly two handspans long. Only a cut.

So maybe he can blame it on those stupid pants that always make him think of Dimmel's entire leg covered in blood. If only he'd thought of giving Dimmel some cheesy line about preferring him out of them before bed, or maybe he can volunteer to do laundry and 'lose' them some time and stop this from happening again.

But blame doesn't help him now.

He wakes with a start, arms tightening around the body in front of him. Still breathing hard, he hasn't even begun to calm down when the person against his chest stirs.

"Srikit...?"

When he looks down, all he sees are a pattern of shadows that instantly resolve into blood, splattered over Dimmel's face. And he's not holding Dimmel, he's holding Dimmel's corpse, because fucking C-Sec was too goddamn slow and how the fuck did Dimmel expect him to know how to use medi-gel, the blood all flowed out between his fingers no matter what he did--

He shoves him away and he's up from bed and out of the room, not hearing the confused grunt or the cheerful "Morning!" (especially not that, because in this state Gawmer's scar doesn't make him feel any better) from the kitchen as he enters the bathroom. 

Srikit drops onto the closed toilet, letting out a long, shuddering sigh and rubbing his eyes. Right. Dream. It wasn't always the exact same nightmare--the details were different, sometimes, what direction the attack came from or whether it was men with guns or those slim, asari-like forms who darted in and sliced him apart, neat as you please--but it was almost always the same result: Dimmel dying in front of him.

It's not a new dream, but he never gets used to it. At least by now, in the luxurious bathroom with the fancy soaps and bath oils, it feels far away and unreal enough that Srikit can swallow his panic. He sighs again, this time evenly.

"Are you alright?"

He should jump, because Dimmel's quiet when he wants to be and Srikit doesn't even know how long he's been standing inside the bathroom door, but the soft, low voice is just the reassurance he was looking for and he doesn't even think before standing and wrapping his arms tightly around Dimmel, pressing his cheek against a red horn.

Whether Dimmel's guessed or he's just prepared to accept sudden, crushing hugs, Srikit doesn't know, but he holds Srikit in return and doesn't say anything when Srikit slides a hand under his shirt, feeling the heartbeat behind the curve of his chest.