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eight

EIGHT §

I immediately feel the lightweight-ness of my head when I wake up. I roll over the bed, my eyes squinted and my hair curled to all the wrong directions and my throat dry, planting my feet flat on the floor, yawning. Flexing my back a little. My muscles have eased. When I stand up I feel dizzy though, feel the contents of my head swirl and blur and I'm a little out of breath. I brace a hand against the metal bedpost.

My mouth tastes like shit, all frosty and bitter and wet.

I sigh, feel my breath's rancidity cloud the inside of my mouth. Damn.

Quickly brushing my teeth and splashing cold water over my face, I waddle into the room with my hairline damp at the tips, clinging to my forehead. I rake a hand through them and, just out of habit, peer over at Liam's bed. It's empty.

Huh.

Frowning, I jog down the stairs, keeping my footsteps light so as not to disturb the crisp morning silence and find Liam standing over the counter with a black shirt and a pair of loose gray boxers. He's preparing a peanutbutter sandwhich, his hair in a fuss. "'Morning," I say. I wander over to the sink and grab a glass.

"Oh, hey." Liam flashes me a dazed smile just as I pour milk from the fridge into my glass, his eyes foggged with sleep and his voice coarse, deep. He looks back to his task. "Sandwich?"

"Nah." Wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, I sit on the rotating chair in front of him. "I'm eating cereal. Can you pass me a bowl and the cornflakes?"

"You get it," he says and even though he doesn't look up I can still feel the playful smirk on his face, feel it tug at my chest. He non-chalantly swipes the penutbutter-dunk knife across the loaf of bread. Humming.

"Liam," I half-moan/half-grunt, voice rumbling through my throat.  "I'm in a post-sickness state."

"And?"

"And you do what I say or shame on you."

He chuckles and turns around, retrieves the cereal box in the cupboard and I watch his shirt wrinkle at the shoulder as he reaches for it, watch his muscles tense. Damn, I'm so creepy. I look down and focus on the counter, drumming my fingers along the edge until he pushes the bowl and cereal to me.

"Thanks," I mumble. "And, uh, milk?"

Liam turns to the fridge, opening the door. Bends down a little.  "God, you're so pushy and lazy today."

"I almost killed my nephew then got sick the next day, just please give me a break," I roll my eyes and tip the cereal box into my bowl, lean my arm across the counter-top and slumping my weight so my shoulder sags a little bit. "Thanks," I mumble when Liam pushes the milk carton to me and pour its contents into my bowl. Huh. Maybe I should have just brought the carton with me while I was taking a drink from it just a few minutes earlier. I shrug. "Spoon."

Liam hands it to me like he's been waiting for it, his laugh all sharp and hoarse from sleep. "Here."

I murmur another gratification and stir my bowl before I take the first bite. "Don't do that, please. Theo might pick it up," I chastise in between chews, loosely pointing my spoon at him as a feeble warning.

Liam furrows his brows just as he sticks the spoon into his mouth, lets the inside of its curve cling to his tongue and licks the excess peanutbutter off of it. "Why?" he asks, sucking on the spoon a little longer before setting it in the sink. "People do it all the time." 

"He's a child, Liam," I say, "If he picks up on that habit he might think it's okay when he dips the salivated spoon for another scoop—which would be just fine if you don't do that as well. Have you any idea how many diseases you might be transferring through your saliva?"