Untitled

Brows furrowed for a moment before Lucy's eyes flew open an urgency pushing her out of bed even as she crumbled slightly to the side. Never before had she been so thankful for the fact that the attic came with its own washroom. In 15 seconds she was bent over the toilet heaving, sweat clinging to her forehead. The music student then laid there for a moment curled up and biting back groans as a hand clamped over her right side, as if holding onto the area hard enough would in anyway get rid of the pain.

Lucy had been up late working last night before she began to feel a bit unwell figuring that it was simple exhaustion leaving her so unsettled. Now she was sure that what she was doing was simply dying. She'd never felt so sweaty before thanking god that she had the hindsight not to sleep in long sleeves for once. She'd only been living in 35 Portland Row for a week. A singular week, this house was still new leaving her on edge, her roommates strangers, her bed not yet feeling like her own. She wanted to be home, wherever home was she wanted to be there instead. She was scared, so scared tears beading up in her eyes whether from the pain, the fear of the pain or the sorrow she was not sure.

Grabbing onto the wall Lucy pulled herself up the movement sending an excruciation shock of pain through her right side. Note to self she decided, do not reach upwards. Even bent over as she was, as long as she was on her feet and could make it down the stairs then she had a chance.

She finally got to the stairs one folded over and pained step at a time only to see and remember that the staircase had no banister. "Fucking hell." Lucy whispered to herself followed quickly by a groan. Dragging in a singular breath she clung to the wall the best she could, using her bare feet as traction. Once she was at the landing door slamming open and met with more stairs the brunette began to feel herself giving up, it just seemed too impossible. Maybe dying would be fine, but god she wanted to live, she had no idea what was happening and she wanted to live. Clinging to each bannister on her way down the pain sharpening and radiating at a greater rate she began calling out for her housemates with abandon. "George, Lockwood!" "PLEASE." "LOCKWOOD." "GEORGE." "HELP ME."

. DESPITE IT BEING the beginning of the semseter, Anthony Lockwood already had more than his fair share of work to be done. Deft hands currently found themselves dusted and covered in charcoal as he tried to make it way through the first assignment due as this school year began. His business course didn't have an assignment until the beginning of next week, but one of his drawing courses had a due date of just two days hence. As his third year began, it had already become clear that his curriculum would be more demanding than ever, and that wasn't even taking into account the demands of the fencing team — whose scholarship he depended on entirely to remain at the university — and another year as the landlord of his family home.

35 Portland Row wasn't exactly directly near the campus of the university, but being nestled in the northwest corner of London meant that Lockwood and his flatmates only needed to take the bus a short way in order to arrive at their classes. An old but reliable car took up space in the garage, and could be used either to head to the grocer or if any of them needed to haul gear to and fro, but Lockwood wasn't in the habit of taking it to campus frequently, save for the early-morning fencing workouts in which he could have the car back in the garage before the first class period of the university even began.

There were some perks, he decided, of being a bit of an insomniac. Early morning workouts were never too much of a hassle, and being able to drive only when the world was still waking up meant he rarely dealt with traffic.

This year was going well, he decided, adding a bit more shading to the assignment. His dusty hand masterfully swiped at the shading to diffuse the color, and Lockwood smiled a bit at the work. He couldn't help it: things were working out, and that made his frequent smile and even more common visitor to his features. George had finally been convinced of a third flatmate, and Lucy had even passed the last test of refusing a drink that had been set out prior to her arrival, innocuous as it looked. With George leaving his science projects out and about and Lockwood having various liquids of his own out — paint water, or resin, or other such materials — it was imperative that whoever came into the house already be predisposed of the habit of not taking any cup for granted. His lips quirked of their own accord at the thought of her, upstairs in the attic, unpacking even more and settling into the house.

The thought was cut short by a decidednly un-George shriek, and Lockwood shot to his feet, the sketchpad he'd been working in sliding onto the floor, the charcoal smudging into an indiscernible mess ( though he couldn't care less in that moment ). Lockwood ran out of the living room, meeting George in the hallway as they both stared at each other, stock still, until they heard her voice again.

Lockwood took the stairs four at a time, his long limbs looking almost as though he were falling up the staircase, stilling only when he made his way to the landing where Lucy ws crumpled onto the floor. George screeched to a stop behind him, his body running into Lockwood's back, though he didn't need to ask any questions. A moment's look around Lockwood had George saying he would call 9-9-9 himself, and Lockwood, frantically wiping his hands on his trousers to try to keep some of the charcoal off of Lucy, knelt next to her, gently gently trying to move her into his arms.