Fireheart | Raven Reyes [O.H.]

23 | blast-off

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chapter twenty-three!
BLAST-OFF
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ARES WAKES WITH a pounding headache. He winces before he even opens his eyes, his forehead wrinkling with the movement as he releases a pained groan. When he breathes in through his nose, he finds the action impossible. Both nostrils are blocked. Great. His head cold is only getting worse— likely a consequence of being out in the cold rain yesterday. Not only that, but he'd also passed out in the mud.

Muffled voices register in his mind. He doesn't have the brainpower to discern what they're saying, so he gives up and slowly starts to blink his eyes open and push himself to a sitting position. His skull throbs with the movement.

Someone is there in an instant. Ares' vision is still too blurry and his mind is too hazy to make out their face, or even speak English. He mumbles, "Ya valí madre," his voice nearly unrecognizable to his own ears because of how hoarse and nasally it is. It's not a pretty sound.

Kiernan answers back with a chuckle and a command of, "Toma esto."

A metal cup is pressed to his lips. Ares drinks the water greedily, some of it spilling over the corners of his mouth and dripping onto his shirt. It's empty too soon. He finally lowers it and remembers to breathe, forced to do so through his mouth due to his blocked nose.

"Thanks," he says in a slightly less hoarse voice, gripping his arms with his hands and shuddering as a chill washes over him. He's still only wearing his shirt, which is now stiff from the dried mud caking the front. "Christ. It's cold in here."

Kiernan raises his eyebrows and takes the empty cup. "It's not." He presses the back of his hand against Ares' forehead; his skin feels cool, which can only mean one thing: Ares' is warm. "I noticed it when Miller and I got the mud off of you. You have a low-grade fever."

Again? It's barely been more than a few days since the hemorrhagic fever had taken over their camp. He doesn't feel as awful as he had then, but he still loathes the feeling of shivers erupting down his spine and gooseflesh rising on his exposed arms. Kiernan passes him his olive-green hoodie, which he eagerly pulls over his head, and zips up his jacket with another shiver. He puts both hands in his slightly damp curls and shakes them out. It seems that Kiernan and Nate had done a thorough job of cleaning his hair; he can't feel any traces of dirt.

He refuses Kiernan's offer for help and pushes himself to his feet. His head swims for a second, then his vision rights itself and allows him to walk out of the small alcove they'd shoved him in. Low murmurs are audible from the other side of the first floor. Kiernan follows him, arms slightly outward like he expects Ares to pass out again at any moment, as he walks toward the voices.