TOUCH STARVED

SEVENTEEN

"Bedroom," he called, voice soft and croaked like he'd suffered six weeks' worth of flu.

You followed the echo that was left behind and paced through the walls before reaching his bedroom. The tension in the air had grown strong like the lingering smell as your eyes wandered through the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of a frame. And then you saw him.

Laying on the bed, he was curled on his side with his back facing you. You swallowed, tongue running over your dry lips as you plucked up the courage to speak.

"Peter?"

He jumped suddenly at the tone of your voice, head snapping backwards to look at you. It was as though the air had been sucked from your lungs in a violent action as your eyes caught the drift of one another. He looked like death... His eyes were black like the midnight sky, hair was damp and sticking to his forehead. He was panting softly, as though the sight of you had worn him down completely.

At the sudden realisation of who was standing in his bedroom doorway with her hands cradled in her lap, Peter jumped to the occasion. Sitting upright he kicked his legs forward, taking a stance by the side of the bed. He wanted to reach out and hold you so desperately, that he'd craved the feeling of your skin on his for what had felt like weeks. All he wanted was to be close to you, but his mind and body held fast and betrayed him to the highest degree. Blood rushed straight to the surrounding areas of his skull, forcing a hand to plant down on the unruly sheets of the mattress.

You watched his frame sink, falling back down again before he could even make the move to stand straight. You moved before your mind could make out where was safe to stand, knees denting the mattress below as you crawled across the bed to catch him. He was burning like the firey rings of Saturn, heat you'd never thought possible to be subdued to a human. Then again, he wasn't entirely human after all.

Your fingers linked around him keeping him steady as he sighed softly, "M' sorry," he swallowed, "I'm sorry, I- I didn't call," he was breathless, as though he was drowning in the air around him. Your eyes narrowed, realisation suddenly slapping you in the face. You could smell the scent that lingered on his skin, the sickness. His clothes were drowned in sweat as well as the sheets below him. This wasn't Peter, he should have healed by now.

"It's alright," you noticed, cradling his fragile frame close to you as though he were a newborn child, "we need to get you in the shower."

He was reluctant at first; not wanting to shift from the safety of his bed in fear of falling, but after the first few steps he realised that you were there to catch him if his feet so happened to stumble. You made it to the bathroom with ease and left him to his own devices to undress with the comfort of knowing you were only one door away if he needed anything. 

While Peter took the time to shower and clean himself up, you ventured off back to his bedroom where the air remained sticky. There was still something lingering in the air that you were unsure about. Something cold that left you feeling uneasy and confused. You wanted to go back, switch back in time to when you first met Peter when everything just seemed to be so simple back then.

It was clear that the room was damp with sickness. Something wasn't right and you were determined to find out what, but right now... Now just didn't seem like the time. Your hands gripped the sides of the bed as you tore the sheets from their frame, tossing them into the corner of the room where they lay in a guilty pile, riddled with sweat. The mattress lay bare for a moment before the pillows were shortly returned, cleansed of their mulling skins.

Reaching down to pick up the crumpled sheets, you made your way to the kitchen, in a world of your own as you tossed them into the washing machine, filling up the drawer as you closed the door and set it to a lengthy hour wash. To the sound of the click your mind eased before your feet had you trailing back towards the bedroom, eager to make a dent in the mess that lay before you.