HEDOSCHISM: WATTY AWARD WINNER

38 // TORRENT

He was the first thing I saw, those eyes, that face, the smile, and straight away, my addiction kicked in. A yearning. A want that screamed in my veins. A desperate need to touch him, to trace my fingertip over that tiny scar on his nose, to press my lips against his throat, to feel his arms around me. Having him so near and yet unable to reach for him, made me feel instantly starved. Withdrawal sunk in its teeth, a bite so bittersweet that for a moment, I wanted to close my eyes again, because seeing him and yet being unable to consume him felt like the cruellest kick to the gut.

'Oh, you're awake,' he said, raising one dark brow. 'About time. My knees are fucking killing me.'

I stared at him and tried to focus, but the edges of my vision clouded over, and my eyelids began to droop again.

'You've got to be kidding me,' I heard Ethan say, his voice sounding like it was coming from under water. I swallowed and shook my head, trying to clear the haze that engulfed me. When I opened my eyes again, there were three blurry Ethans, which soon morphed back into one that was smirking at me.

'Great, you're back,' he remarked. 'Any chance you could try and stay awake? I mean, it's not like you're keeping anyone waiting or anything.' He rolled his eyes and jerked his head to the side.

My eyes widened, and I swallowed again.

We had an audience. A large audience.

We were back in the Great Hall again, which was now packed out with demons. The crowd was far bigger than it had been before, and I noticed, seemed to be divided, with one group congregating mostly on one side and another group on the opposite. Whispers ballooned as they realised I was awake and now, as I looked around at them all, the dizziness threatened my ability to hold my head up every time I tried to turn to stare at the faces looking back at me with curiosity.

Opening my mouth to speak, my tongue felt thick and heavy, I struggled to form words that at first came out as nonsense. I stopped and tried again, bringing my attention back to Ethan, who was on his knees, less than a metre away from me, his hands still bound, but now in front of him, instead of behind his back. If our hands had been free, we could have reached out and touched.

Fuck, I wanted to be able to touch him. I wanted him to hold me steady now as the room spun around me.

I felt high, but not in a good way. One of those bad trips where everything was spiralling out of control and all you could do was ride it out, letting wave after wave of crazy shit reign down heavy upon you, like you were floating in some endless nightmare.

'Wh-what's going on?' I asked, finally managing to speak.

'Showtime.' Ethan flashed me a smile. Wide. Warm. Beautiful. 'I'm dying to do jazz-hands now, you know. Seems like the perfect moment for it.' He glanced over my shoulder. 'Blake, old chap,' he called out, his voice now mimicking a posh English accent. 'You're really not allowing my comedic flair to flow here. I feel quite stifled.'

Footsteps clipped against the tiled floor until Blake, who had been standing out of sight, stopped a short distance away. He looked far more in control than the last time I had seen him, that now-familiar look of amusement in his eyes that told me he undoubtedly was in control and not just of himself, but of us too and this whole situation. The top half of his hair had been pulled into a tight bun, and the rest hung straight and long, reaching down past his shoulders. He looked less military than usual, wearing immaculately-pressed slim-fitting black trousers, shiny black brogues and a black shirt that wouldn't have looked out of place on one of the cool-as-fuck Canary Wharf acolytes that Claire would have drooled over, while desperately trying to appear nonchalant and equally cool-as-fuck.