#flufffffff

The dorm room reeked of unspoken tension. It also, as it so happens, reeked of the joint they’d just smoked through the window. The season was over and drug testing wouldn’t commence until August. This, Patrick had noted, was an opportunity only a fool would pass up. 

“Pretty sure we’re the foolish ones if you think about it,” Art retorted. Patrick rolled his eyes and gently shoved his knee into Art’s. Their twin beds had been pushed together at the beginning of their first semester and neither wanted that to change. 

“And look who’s already nonverbal,” Art teased his lack of response. 

A slight grin tugged at the corners of Patrick’s mouth as he turned his head to Art, eyes half-lidded. 

“I’m…taking in the moment.” 

Art smirked, rolling his eyes.

“Seeing sounds? Hearing colors?”

“Crazy shit. I’m seeing things nobody else can see.”

“What, like you being good at tennis?”

Patrick rolled his eyes and instead of a verbal response, gave Art’s foot a quick swipe. The sensation was enough to make Art jump like a startled cat. His body twitched, eyes wide with exaggerated shock.

“Wait!” Art protested, somewhere between a laugh and a yelp. There was a moment of tense but playful silence; the calm before the storm. And the storm came in the form of a very stoned Patrick seeking revenge. Before Art could remember how to defend himself, he pounced. He used one hand to hold down Art’s foot while the other hand began a relentless, ticklish assault. 

Art didn’t even have the strength to resist laughing. Giggles began to flow from Art. Like a river running, all he could do was babble helplessly. He found his words as Patrick found a particularly sensitive spot between his toes. 

“PAHAHTRICK!” Was all he could get out before his other foot inadvertently swung. Patrick dodged it, but barely. He gasped in offended shock as he removed his hands. Unfortunately, this pause was only so that he could adjust himself so he was sitting atop Art’s knees. 

“You could’ve taken me out right there,” Patrick tried to look as serious as possible, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. 

“I highly doubt a dorm room is the right place to take someone out,” Art sassed as if he weren’t at the mercy of Patrick’s fingers. “I’d take you somewhere nicer.”

Patrick, in a hurry to make sure Art didn’t notice the shade of pink he was turning, attacked. He was relieved that Art’s eyes immediately squeezed shut as he attempted to not laugh at the fingers fluttering over his ribs. 

“I’m gonnahaha get you BACK!” he tried to sound intimidating as the damn broke and laughter came spilling out. “TENFOLD!” 

“Mmhm, I’m sure you will,” Patrick smirked as his unforgiving fingers worked their magic.

“Yohohou assh—“ he was cut short as Patrick found a spot that made him shriek. A shark grin spread over his face and he squeezed his hips again, eliciting another squeal.

“There?”

“NO! Patrick I swear to God—“ the rushed plea for mercy (disguised as a threat) came out sounding more like a single word than individual ones. 

“Oh, to God, you say,” he held up his hands as if to surrender. 

“Fuck yohohou,” Art gasped for air. 

“Code violation! Audible obscenity,” was the only break Art received before Patrick brought his hands down again to attack his hips. Waves of electric tickles coursed through Art. The laughter that exploded from him was boisterous and uncontrollable. Patrick hoped the way his heart sped up was just a side effect of the weed. 

Art gasped and giggled as Patrick moved his fingers to claw at his belly. He kicked his legs and tried to grab at Patrick’s hands, but every movement felt like a slow, exaggerated delay. 

After what felt like an eternity, Patrick pulled his hands back but stayed seated there. He watched Art regain his breath with a lazy, satisfied smile. 

“You’re a dick,” Art breathed heavily. There was no malice behind it, only stunned appreciation for the mercy. 

Patrick snorted, clearly pleased with himself. 

“Yet you never once told me to stop.”

Art flushed pink at the observation. “You’re such a dick,” he rephrased, trying and failing to squirm out from beneath him.

Patrick looked like a cat that had just discovered the joy of knocking things over. There was that grin again, white teeth flashing. 

“That’s not a denial.”

He turned a shade darker and opened his mouth to protest, but the moment he sucked in a breath, Patrick’s fingers found that spot at his hip bones. He shrieked and twisted, half laughing and half wheezing.

“Ahahasshole—“

Patrick leaned in, lips brushing the top of Art’s ear.

“You gonna admit it?”

Art’s face was practically crimson colored, somewhere between being flustered and horrified and delighted. In a moment of weed-induced weakness, Patrick let the impulsive thoughts win. He took a tiny lick and bite of Art’s ear, which made the other shriek bloody murder. 

“Wait wait wait, that actually tickles?” He laughed delightedly and backed up as Art put his hands over his face. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” his reply was muffled as his hands still covered his face. “And it’s gonna be really slow, and really painful.” 

“Choice words towards someone who’s on top of you.” 

“And then I’m gonna kick your ass in the next match.”

“Maybe,” Patrick replied in a sing-song voice, “but that doesn’t change the fact that you like it when I tickle the shit outta you,” he added smugly. 

“Bold assum–” His retort was cut short as he broke into another helpless burst of laughter due to fingers clawing their way under his arms. Dirty blonde hair flopping, he twisted his face into his pillow to muffle the sound of laughter. Patrick paused long enough to let the silence stretch. He wouldn’t stand for anything other than the boy’s full, unbridled laugh. Art bravely dared to glance up.

Patrick struck again with ruthless precision, but this time he utilized a new weapon. Art’s shirt had ridden up in the squirming process and he’d quickly decided it was unacceptable to finish the onslaught without a raspberry. He blew one as hard as he could onto his belly button and by his reaction, this seemed by far the worst (or best) tactic. Art howled, loud and raw, unfiltered.

“OKAHAHAY!” Art laugh-screamed. “I-I don’t hate it!” 

Patrick eased up and beamed like he’d just won Olympic gold. Art lay panting like he’d just finished a marathon.

“I’ll get you to admit to loving it at some point, but I think if I kept going now I’d kill you.”

“Fuck off,” Art retorted playfully as he shoved Patrick off and onto the bed next to him.

“Mmhm, make me.”

You had always been a bit of a light sleeper. Never one to fully let your body get to REM mode, always out of bed with eager footsteps-that use to drive Amelia mad when you were younger. God, the look of utter distain on her features had made it all the more joyful for your five year old self.

You use to jump on her bed and crinkle her sheets and drape yourself all over, till she would eventually give up and accept defeat. Stumbling over shaky legs and mumbling what an evil gremlin you were.

A cool chill ran over you-fast and violent. Causing you to lose the fragmented image of Amelia imprinted on your eyelids. Reality came bolting back like cold air. Stinging your lungs with every heave.

It also didn’t help that you were floating. The calm numb feeling of ripples as it rushed past your ears welcomed you. Opening your eyes you were met with dark overcast skies, Signalling rain. Although that was not hard to guess. It always rained in wales. You supposed that was why it was so green. Full of life.

You hated camping. Hated being dragged out from the cabins outside to spend the night laying under the cold harsh ground. Even with amenities like blankets and space heaters. ‘Bring a million pillows and stuffies’ you’d tell the campers, ‘but you are still sleeping on the ground’. Perhaps you deserved the ground.

But you hated it even more because family summer holidays often consisted of holiday camping. You use to love it-bunking with Amelia. Back when you were still kids-before the girlish hormones and time and distance had gotten to you both. When Amelia and you would giggle long into the night-sneak off into the night for a late night swim. Eat enough chocolate pasties you’d feel ill the next day.

It was a tradition.

Which was why you were swimming. Head thrown back to eye the skies.

You had told Pip you’d be back to camp later-you needed a minute to process everything. Because this was the campsite Amelia and you had used-just weeks before her accident. Granted you both had been in sour moods-had barely talked-had went to bed with cold backs to each other. Why-you couldn’t remember. A simple childish reason. Now when you’d think about it-about having Amelia safe and granted mad at you-in your tent-but safe-what you wouldn’t give to go back and apologize-just for a hug from your big sister. For one of her stupid eye rolls.

It was beginning to pelt now. Small rings of droplets falling from the welsh sky, finding a home in between your already wet brows. Your body chilled-and soon you were lifting yourself up to the pier, and watching as the lake stilled.

The cold always seemed to wake you up. Made the pain hurt less. Once you passed back to camp, finding everyone well into their tents, already getting ready for bed.

You must had swam for hours. Time seemed to still here. Like it was it’s purpose.

You waded past the burnt fire pit, ash clinging to the air, a certain smokiness that left your nose flaring. Past snorting children and giggles behind closed tents.

You could hear your parents as you passed their tent-your fathers cold voice-your mothers soft airy voice-and how it carried less and less of care these days-like she was on the cusp of forgetting it all. Grew tired of it-the hoping-the waiting-

“The hospital phoned me yesterday-the tests are coming back inconclusive. Her brain waves are-“ you walked past far too fast-heart beating loud in your chest. Fingers clenched white. You didn’t want to think about that. Anything but that.

You could hear your mother’s voice-inhuman and tired. Suddenly you felt tired-weighted down. Like all you wanted was rest.

You made it to your tent in record time-slipping inside and letting out a soft sigh-one that was perhaps a choked back sob. Tears threatened to spill as you wiped your eyes, red from the water. From opening them. Amelia use to dare you to open them. I reckon you can’t keep your eyes open for ten seconds! What a baby you are!

Amelia’s voice in your head as you slipped of your soiled swimsuit-grabbing fresh new cotton pajamas-your favorite. It clung to your skin a little too tight-but you didn’t mind. In fact you welcomed it. It was a hug. A warm much needed hug.

You hadn’t had one in a while. Not since-Amelia. Sure you had hugs-but not one born from actually wanting one-of wanting that closeness one craves.

You had the in between sob hugs-one where your mother would cling to you-one where your father would weep into your hair-but an actual hug-not since Amelia.

Amelia always gave the best hugs. The kind that made you close your eyes and let out a big breath.

A rhythmic rap against the tent made you halt-made you wipe the tears from your pale cheeks and ask in a small but what you hoped to be stable voice, “who is it?”.

Pip popped her head in, the zipper of your tent undoing in its rhythmic noise, pip’s kind eyes swept over you-leering to closely, the edges of her eyes crinkling in the same fashion the first day she had met you on the beach. Like she knew something-

“Just thought I’d check in. You’d been gone since we got here. Connor and Cara were getting worried” Pip spoke, lips moving in a grimace.

You nodded, making room for pip on your pillow, “that’s kind of them. I’m fine really-just needed to clear my head. This campground reminds me of a lot of things”.

Pip took the invitation, plopping down on your pillow-her cheeks close enough you could feel her breath against your cheek. She was quiet for a moment-ever observing.

Then quietly she spoke, like a whisper, “I heard you crying. It’s alright to cry” soft fingertips brushed against your cheek-ghostlike in nature.

But Pip’s eyes-they were adoring. Hurting. Like she herself knew pain. Knew how it haunted. Guilt so deep it manifested in anxiety and stomach pains.

And then a flicker of pip’s lips, like a candle coming to flame, flame quivering against the wick, “did you know that when you cry you release these things called endorphins? It’s a feel good hormone. It has an almost neruochemical substance that improves mood. Isn’t that wonderful? Quite amazing isn’t it.”

The observation made your heart race-because maybe it was the fascination in Pip’s eyes-or the way she looked at you.

“You can talk about her-if you’d like”.

An invitation.

“Becca tells me about Andie when I visit. We spend hours talking about her-as children-little things even. I let her because I know she’s hurting too-it’s very therapeutic if you can believe”.

You imagine it- Pip sitting with Becca Bell-eyes a sea of calm-of understanding-and you can feel yourself sniff.

“I’m forgetting things.” You utter into the air, into the softness of the tent.

You can’t see her expression anymore-it’s too dark-but you can feel her fingers-soft and full against yours-a touch that makes your heart spark.

“Like her laugh. And I hate myself for it. Because I feel guilty. I don’t know why-but I do. It’s this pit inside my stomach-whenever my parents mention her-it’s like-this pain. This guilt-“.

You don’t know who initiates first-but you feel it-Pip’s aching breath as she brings you to her chest-a full on chest to chest embrace. It takes you a moment-because how did pippa fitz Amobi know you needed a hug? Divine intervention?

You only hug back, feel her heart against your ear, feel the way she doesn’t speak-but listens. And think-maybe it will all work out in the end.

She held her own arms, arms tucked over her chest- they were yours. A face buried in the crook of her neck, drinking in the almost dizzying smell. Valeria often smelled metallic- like blood.

Freshly showered however? She smelled heavenly. Smelling of blood oranges and vanilla

With practiced ease, the ninety-percent asleep mother poured the powder into the bottle with warm water from the heater on the counter and shook it gently. Little Vic’s cries intensified and the girl sighed. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She made her way to the nursery and scooped up the infant, cradling him in her arm as she gently bounced him on the way to the rocking chair. The babe’s wails only intensified, drawing the girl’s tired face into a deeper frown. 

“Come on, little munchkin. Mama’s here. That’s enough of that noise.” Her voice was soft and tender as she pressed the nipple of the bottle to her son’s lips. Though it took him a few moments to recognize it through his crying, soon the little boy sucked contentedly while his mother closed her eyes. “I swear you’re going to be even more the death of me than your father, and it has only been two weeks…please, please don’t be as bad at sleeping as he is…” 

As if in response, the tiny being cuddled in closer to the girl’s side and grabbed her finger with his tiny hand. Any annoyance she held at being woken yet again melted away and an overwhelming warmth filled her chest to bursting. She began to hum a soft lullaby as she rocked gently and held her firstborn to her chest. As his stomach filled his little eyes closed until the bottle fell from his lips and the tiniest of squeaky snores reached the girl’s ears. 

“There we go, little boy. Now back to bed with you.” Her lips curled up into a smile as she tenderly laid the little bundle back in his crib and stretched to straighten her spine. A series of crackles accompanied the realignment of her vertebra, followed by a yawn. Back to bed…

Meanwhile, Victor paced his hotel room. This being the first business trip since Little Vic was born, he couldn’t help but wonder how his wife was doing. Was she getting enough sleep? Had he purchased enough formula before he left? He shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Knowing that everything would most likely be fine didn’t make him any happier about being away. 

The return flight was only five hours away. Perhaps he could just go to the airport and ask about an earlier flight? The meetings were over, after all. Nothing was keeping him here except a pre-arranged ticket purchased months ago. Victor glanced at the clock and frowned. There was no way he was going to get any sleep, so these five hours would be a waste. 

He unlocked the screen on his phone and searched for the number for his booking agency. As soon as he found it, Victor pressed “dial” and set the phone on the bed on speaker. The rings filled the otherwise silent room while he gathered his items and packed them into his suitcase. It didn’t take long; in his usual tidy way, very few things were actually scattered around the room. He hadn’t even bothered to pull his clothing from the bag and put it away on such a short trip. 

“Hello, Loveland Airlines. How may I help you?”

Victor paused his packing and turned toward the phone, speaking in a firm voice. “I need to transfer my ticket for 9AM for the earliest flight from Beijing to Loveland City. It is under Victor Li.” The woman on the phone affirmed his information and went silent for a few moments as she searched her computer. In the meantime, Victor placed the last couple of items in his bag and zipped it up before slipping his feet into his shoes. 

“The earliest flight I have departs at 6AM, with only one seat left in first class. Would that be alright?” 

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.” Victor picked up the bag, his phone, and headed out the door while the agent instructed him on picking up his ticket at the desk. The moment she hung up, he called for a cab and waited at the door of the hotel. “Don’t worry, my little dummy,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be there soon.” 

The airport was surprisingly busy for it being 4:30 in the morning. Victor grumbled as he hauled his bag through the crowd on his way to the service desk. He had almost forgotten what it was like to stand in line to get a ticket printed; Goldman had always been so good to have things printed and ready to go. Everyone seemed to move painfully slowly, though that could have simply been Victor’s eagerness to get home taking over. 

He finally reached the counter, received his boarding pass, checked his bag, and was on the way to the terminal. Truth be told only twenty minutes had passed, but they felt like an eternity. Victor stalked through the airport corridors with a look on his face that caused everyone who looked at him to back away slowly and allow him plenty of room to pass. This made his passage quite easy, and he arrived at the gate with plenty of time to spare. 

Exhaustion hit Victor like a truck to the face the moment he sunk into a chair in the waiting area. As tired as he was, Victor sighed to himself and pulled up a picture of his wife and son on his phone. “I’m sure you’re even more tired than me,” he whispered, a half smile crossing his cheeks before he put the phone away and closed his eyes. 

He must have fallen asleep, because what felt like moments later he was woken by the announcement over the PA. “First class now boarding on flight N38 to Loveland City. First class passengers, please make your way to the gate and have your boarding passes ready for scanning.” Victor rose from his seat and crossed the five feet to the desk where the other first class passengers were waiting. As soon as he reached his seat and buckled the belt, he was out again. 

It was a smooth flight in all definitions of the word. Victor slept through the entire thing, getting more uninterrupted sleep than he’d had since Little Vic was born. By the time they landed on the tarmac of Loveland Regional Airport, the new father was feeling rested and ready to go. His eagerness to have his little family in his arms carried him as he met Goldman at the baggage claim, climbed into his car, and made small talk on the drive home. 

“How much bigger has he gotten? Is his hair still as thick as when he was born? Is he even close to sleeping through the night yet?” Goldman, unsurprisingly, had a million questions about the tiny human that he adored. Victor patiently answered each one, fatherly pride in every word. “I’d ask to see pictures, but I guess I should keep my eyes on the road…” 

“Yes, yes you should. I’ll see how the wife is feeling about things when I get home and perhaps you can come in and see Little Vic for a few minutes. I suspect she will be exhausted, though, so don’t expect her to be too chatty.” 

Goldman nodded emphatically and made no effort to hide the grin on his face. “Of course, boss! I’d be happy to hold my little nephew so his mama can get some sleep!” Victor chuckled and nodded his head, knowing he would be hard-pressed to get the girl to allow anyone that wasn’t himself to hold the baby. First time mom and all…

They pulled up to the house and Victor exited the car, grabbed his bag, and hurried through the door. He half expected to hear the infant wailing and his poor wife attempting to soothe him, but to Victor’s surprise the house was silent. He set down his bag and slipped out of his shoes, put on his slippers, and headed straight for the nursery. 

The inside of the room was almost completely dark; the curtains were drawn and only the string of glittering star lights on the far wall provided any light. Victor’s eyes immediately went to the form in the rocking chair; it was his wife dead asleep with one hand on the crib. He smiled and peeked into the crib where Little Vic was also fast asleep. “Looks like everyone is as tired as I thought,” Victor chuckled softly, turning to leave so as not to interrupt the napping. 

However, the girl seemed to have become incredibly sensitive to sound as she slept because her eyes popped open and she groaned softly. “Victor? Is that you?” She blearily glanced at the clock and frowned. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be home for like three more hours. I’m dreaming, aren’t I…” 

Victor again chuckled and scooped her up from the chair. “No, my dearest. I managed to catch an earlier flight. I thought someone might be a little tired from having to take care of our son by herself for three days.” The girl simply nodded and melted into Victor’s arms, his warmth filling every cell of her body with relief. “Don’t worry. I’m going to put you to bed and take care of Little Vic. You just get some sleep.” 

He carried her to their shared bedroom and put his wife to bed, pulling the covers to her chin and kissing her on the cheek before exiting and closing the door behind him. Victor headed back toward his son’s room but paused when he saw that Goldman was still sitting in the driveway. He shook his head and pulled out his phone to send Goldman a text. “Little Vic is asleep and the wife is as exhausted as I expected. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow afternoon with Vivian and we’ll have a nice lunch?” 

The response came quickly and Victor could picture Goldman’s disappointed face as he read it. “Alright, boss. That sounds good. You get some rest too while you can. See you tomorrow!” Before Victor could reply, the sound of the car engine humming to life drifted in a muffled way through the room before fading into the distance.