onward, forward

ao3

In Olive’s hotel room, the curtains are pulled shut and the lights are turned off. Somewhere, lilting guitar music streams from a tinny speaker. Through what dim light remains he can see her lying in the middle of the bed, cocooned in the blankets with a plastic water bottle resting at her side and what looks like a hundred balled-up tissues scattered across her lap and chest. Seven stops at the foot of the mattress when he reaches it, opening and closing his mouth as he wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to say. This is a bad idea, he realizes. And it starts to seem like an even worse idea when she whispers, through the darkness, “Orion? Is that you?” His fist clenches at the sound of another man’s name on Olive’s lips. He knows it’s because he’s her manager; because, if anyone was supposed to take care of her when she’s sick like this, it would be him. He just hates the idea of her looking for that from someone else now that he’s… well… now that they’re them again. Kind of. Sort of. A little. If you squint. “No,” he answers through gritted teeth, “it’s Rowan.”  She’s silent for a moment. As silent as she can be when she wheezes with each breath. And then she replies, “Rowan threw out most of his bandanas years ago. I think you ruined them for him.” Seven rolls his eyes. She was just fucking with him. She was probably just trying to make him jealous by mentioning someone else, and he proved himself to be an idiot by letting it work. “Good,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the mattress and leaning back against the wall behind him. The rooms at this hotel aren’t very big - there’s barely enough space for a desk and a chair, and the beds are all crammed into the corner. “He stole half of them from me, anyway.”