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“Scott!”
Owen’s head hurts. His vision is blurring, and his entire body feels like it’s on fire. He stumbles down the hall in a daze, ears pressed flat against his head. Faintly, he hears his gears, their voices panicked and anxious as they attempt to inquire about his well-being.
He can’t find the energy to answer them.
“Scott!”
Owen is hit by a sudden fit of coughs. He hacks and wheezes to the point that his chest hurts, and tears further obscure his vision. He drops to his knees, his trembling legs no longer able to support his weight. He falls forwards, his head suddenly feeling as if it’s stuffed with cotton.
No. No, he— he can’t stay here. He has to— he has to get back to the attic. Back to Scott. If he doesn’t, everyone will worry… Although, surely just a quick little rat nap wouldn’t hurt… right…?
In the end, he doesn’t get much of a say in the matter. Before he can muster the strength to do anything, his vision darkens and his eyes roll up into the back of his head. The last thing he remembers before his consciousness completely fades is his head slumping onto the floorboards.
“…n…”
Huh…? Wait, where…
“…O… en…”
That voice… so familiar…
“Owen! Owen, can you— Oh, God, can you hear me?”
The familiar voice gradually becomes clearer as the incessant ringing in Owen’s ears begins to settle. His head is pounding, and his entire body aches. He barely registers it, however, as he hones in on the comforting presence he senses in front of him.
“…Scott…?”
A loud sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness.” A paw — presumably Scott’s — grabs Owen’s shoulder. “Hey, do you think you can open your eyes for me?”
Oh, he hadn’t even noticed they were still closed. That would explain why everything is so dark. Peeling his eyelids apart, he is met with an onslaught of bright light. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, and everything is a little blurry, but the world’s warped shakes slowly morph into focus as the seconds pass. Eventually, Scott’s face comes into view, but Owen can’t bring himself to meet his gaze.
“Hi,” Scott murmurs. He’s smiling, but it looks… strained. “You had me really worried there, you know.”
Ah, there it is. The words that make Owen’s stomach churn. “Sorry…”
The smile falters, just for a moment. “No, no, it’s—“
“Sorry.” The repeated apology spills from his lips before he can stop it. Much to his dismay, several more follow. “Sorry, I— I’m sorry, I thought— I thought it would be a good idea but it wasn’t and—“
“Hey, whoa.” Scott gives Owen’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Slow down. Take some deep breaths, Owen. It’s okay now. You’re okay.”
Unable to do much else, Owen simply nods. He takes in a slow, deep breath, only to be interrupted by a fit of dry coughs.
“Oh, jeez.” Scott’s paw falls from Owen’s shoulder, and he immediately misses the comforting touch. He watches with bleary eyes as Scott starts rummaging through his pack while muttering to himself. After a moment, he pulls out a glass bottle filled with a translucent red liquid. Some sort of potion, Owen presumes. “Here, um— Drink this. It’ll help you feel better.”
The potion is pressed into Owen’s paws before he can argue. He peers down at the bottle, watching the mysterious liquid slosh about. Knowing full well that Scott won’t be taking no for an answer in this situation, Owen sighs, popping the cork off of the top and pressing the rim of the bottle to his lips. It tastes much nicer than he initially assumed it would, and the refreshing cold helps with somewhat alleviating his scratchy throat. When he hands the empty bottle back to Scott, he feels his mind gradually becoming clearer, though some haze still lingers like a thick fog.
“Thanks,” Owen gasps, tipping his head back and letting it rest against the wall. “That… That helped, I think.”
Scott doesn’t respond. When Owen looks at him, he finds that he has an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. Though, upon closer inspection, there is sadness and worry in his eyes.
“What are you doing down here? We said the basement was off-limits.”
“Y-Yeah, I know, but—“ No. No, he can’t tell Scott. If Scott finds out he was responsible for this whole mess, then—
“Owen.” Scott’s voice is soft. He kneels in front of Owen, ears drooping lower than usual. “I’m not mad. I just want to know what happened.”
He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—
“It was me.”
The room falls deathly silent. Slowly, the realisation dawns on Owen that oh, God , he just said that out loud. Scott’s eyes widen, his mouth hanging just slightly agape.
“What?”
“It was my fault.” Why can’t he stop talking shut up shut up shut up— “I— You, uh— Do you remember that fungus stuff you were freaking out about? That we burned?” Scott nods, not saying a word. “Well, I… I kept one — just a small one! I thought it’d be helpful for dealing with those bugs, so I put it in there and I— Well, I guess it started spreading.”
Him and his big mouth, honestly…
Scott’s mouth has pressed into a tight line. His brow is furrowed, and Owen catches him momentarily fidgeting with the fur on his paws. He still hasn’t spoken.
He’s worried. He’s worried and it’s my fault.
Owen’s claws dig into the fabric of his trousers. His trembling paws curl into fists, unable to occupy themselves in any other way. What is he supposed to say now?
“Scott, I—“
His throat suddenly burns with bile, bringing an abrupt stop to his words. It rises towards his mouth at a rapid pace, and he lurches forward, wrapping one arm around his stomach when it twists violently. Although he immediately slaps a paw over his mouth, it does little to quell the impending tsunami of sickly yellow vomit that splashes onto the floorboards. Through the sickly haze, he faintly registers his hair being tucked out of his face and pulled behind his head. Scott must have moved while he was busy making a mess of the woodwork.
Several minutes pass. Every time Owen thinks he’s finally in the clear, another bout of puke arrives to prove him wrong. Scott begins gently running his claws through Owen’s hair, serving as some semblance of comfort during this ordeal. When it finally stops, Owen is left dry-heaving while Scott murmurs calming words into his ear.
“You’re alright, Owen, it’s okay…”
Owen’s head is swimming. All of his energy has been spent; he doesn’t even put up a fight when Scott hooks his arms under his armpits and hauls him to his feet. His legs shake, and he almost thinks he is simply just going to fall again, but Scott wraps an arm around his shoulders. Instinctively, he slides his own arm around his friend’s waist for additional support. He swallows the lump in his throat that forms when Scott’s tail briefly brushes against his back. “Let’s get you up to the attic, yeah? I’ll come back and clean all of this up before the humans see, don’t worry.”
“But—“ Owen’s voice is small and feeble. He hates it.
“We’ll talk about everything once you’re feeling a bit better, okay? I’d rather focus on your health before anything else.”
Owen concedes.
“…Okay.”
The attic is cold. Inside his home, Owen shivers, the trembling wracking his entire body. Scott is hovering nearby, a bowl of fresh soup clutched in his paws. Just the sight of the food is enough for Owen’s mouth to start watering. He’s starving , especially after he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the basement floor.
“You look a bit pale,” Scott says. He approaches the bed, taking a seat beside Owen before offering him the bowl, which he gratefully accepts. “Do you still feel nauseous at all?”
“Kind of?” Owen scoops up a spoonful of the soup, gently blowing on it to begin cooling it down. “Feels like it comes and goes.”
“Okay…” Scott’s tail twists around his body, settling in his lap where his claws carefully close around it. Owen’s chest aches. “Well, all of those spores you inhaled have probably started making you sick, so that’s gonna suck for a while.” He laughs, but it’s merely a poorly concealed attempt at lightening the mood.
“Right.”
Neither of them speak much after that. Owen gulps down the rest of the soup, trying his best to ignore the uncomfortable scratchy sensation in his throat. Scott continues pottering about his home as the hours tick by, occasionally stepping out to run errands and fetch more food and other supplies. When sweat begins beading on Owen’s brow, Scott hurries to find a small scrap of an old washcloth soaked with ice-cold water to drape across his forehead. By the time the sun sets, he is curled up in his bed, buried beneath his blanket and feeling too ill to move.
Scott can’t stick around – something about the bar and a promise to Martyn. “I’d ditch it if I could, but you know how Martyn is,” he says while nibbling on a chunk of bread. “I’ll ask one of the others to stick close in case something happens. Call for them if you need anything during the night, alright?”
Mustering up all his strength, Owen lifts a shaky thumbs up. “Will do. Have fun.”
Scott huffs out a laugh. “I’ll try my best.”
That night, Owen dreams of a clock. It’s a grandfather clock, imposing to an almost uncomfortable degree. The pendulum bob swings slowly from side to side, accompanied by quiet ticking. Owen stares up at the structure, examining all of the moving parts that can be seen from his current position. Perhaps, if he climbed to the top, he would be able to get a better look at its inner workings…
He runs up the clock, perching himself next to its face. He peers at the hands with squinted eyes for several seconds. He doesn’t find much, but his curiosity only continues to grow. Down below, the pendulum bob continues to swing, keeping a consistent rhythm that it never strays away from. Observing this, Owen gets an idea. If he could just get behind the glass containing the pendulum, that might just be the key to locating the internal mechanisms. He moves into a more comfortable position in preparation to climb back down, but before he can, he feels something catch on his sleeve. Not even a second later, he is lifted into the air. Kicking and squirming does little to help the situation, and screaming would attract the humans. His heart pounds and his mind races, but he is given barely any time to come up with a proper solution before his full, undivided attention is diverted to a pinch he feels at the base of his tail.
Wait– his tail?
…Oh.
Oh, no, not this. Anything but this.
The pressure continues to increase, putting progressively more strain on his tail as the seconds pass.
Please, please, PLEASE–
Something tears, and he screams.
Owen wakes up with ringing ears and a clouded mind. He barely hears the bloodcurdling scream that tears itself from his throat as he tumbles out of bed, clutching his aching stomach. Clumsily bracing himself with one hand against the ground, he retches and gags as his eyes well up with tears. All of the soup he’d eaten several hours ago spills onto the floor – a horrific mix of stomach acid and bile. He faintly registers that his nose is blocked up, which spares him from being exposed to the terrible smell. Distantly, he hears voices approaching, sounding frantic and panicked.
“Owen?”
“Hey, are you okay?!”
“We’re coming in, Owen!”
The following events are a blur. He faintly remembers paws on his arms and an incoherent cacophony of voices, but nothing else registers enough for it to be recalled beyond that incoherent state. His vision goes dark, and when he comes to, his head is resting in someone’s lap. Judging by the soft surface he can feel below the rest of his body, he is back on his bed.
“You’re okay, Owen.”
Scott .
“You came back…” Owen mumbles, eyes half-lidded as he fights to remain conscious.
“Of course I did. I told you I would.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I sent the others away,” Scott says. “They all rushed in here when they heard you scream. It got super hectic and stuff, so I may or may not have locked them out.”
Owen snorts. “It doesn’t have a lock, though.”
“You’d be amazed at how well a plank of wood can fortify a door.”
He lacks the energy to fully appreciate the facts that Scott is spitting, but he still nods along regardless. It’s funny… just a few hours ago, he was so concerned about making his friends worry. Now here he is, letting himself be cared for by his best friend. In fact, now that he thinks about it… it’s been that way the entire day, hasn’t it? He didn’t really think about it at the time, but… maybe this means he‘s finally getting better, little by little. And he doesn’t mean his illness.
“Owen.”
“Mhm…?”
“Would it be okay for me to stay with you?”
Wait, but— “What about Martyn?”
“He’ll get over it. Plus—“ Scott places the back of his paw on Owen’s forehead, “—you’re burning up. I’d rather not leave you on your own if there’s a chance your fever will spike again.”
Now that Scott’s mentioned it, Owen does feel really warm. Some alone time would be nice, but the thought of trying to fall asleep again and having to relive those horrible dreams alone quickly changes his mind. “That’s fair. I think I’d feel better if you stuck around, too.”
With that, Owen settles back into bed, burying himself beneath blankets and pillows of varying size, colour and quality. Scott ends up on the floor beside him, laying out a pillow and blanket of his own before producing a packet of tissues out of seemingly nowhere. The size indicates that it belonged to the humans, but when did Scott get his paws on it? Ah, whatever, that doesn’t matter. As long as he’s able to keep his runny nose in check, he’ll be a happy rat.
“Wake me up if anything happens again, okay?” Scott snuggles into his makeshift bed, looking up at Owen with tired eyes. The two share a temporary gaze before randomly breaking into a fit of quiet giggles. The action tickles Owen’s throat, but his stomach thankfully remains undisturbed by the following coughing fit.
“I will. Goodnight, Scott.”
Scott doesn’t respond. The quiet, even breathing suggests that he has already fallen asleep, but Owen still finds himself with just one last thing he wants to get off his chest.
“And… thank you.”