In Vino Veritas

by midnight_moth

Summary:

Rain has a little bit too much to drink and doesn’t remember most of the night. With Satan’s worst hangover, he spends the day in bed recovering while Dew takes care of him, and eventually shows him what he forgot.

For Ghoulodont, for fav raindrop sickfic enthusiast.

A hazy figure peels back the curtains. The late afternoon sun strikes, like a lightning bolt right between his eyes. He retreats under the pile of blankets but it’s too late. The sunlight penetrates his skull and shoots white hot pain from his frontal lobe to his cerebellum. 

 

Muffled groans of anguish can be heard emanating from beneath the covers. The elongated figure curls into what Dew thinks must resemble a giant potato bug that’s conglobating. 

 

A word he acquired from Lapilus, who needs very little encouragement and has a great stamina for rambling about insects of all kinds. Dew darted away when he started to show him horrific photos on his phone of something called a trilobite. 

 

“Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”

 

His apology is sincere. His empathy is extended by hand, as he rubs small circles in what he thinks is Rain’s back. 

 

He hears a few garbled words that sound like I was and wonders if he should leave him to it. 

 

However he’s startled to his feet when Rain very suddenly and violently kicks at the covers, finally dislodging the fabric underneath his body so that he can escape the heat and the trapped odor of alcohol that seems to be seeping from every pore on his body. 

 

He pants a few times, something akin to a tickle dances at the back of his tongue. There’s a brief interlude where he and Dew exchange looks of terror. The duvet is filled with feathers, and the cover is in the wash.

 

Dew feels guilty, of course if Rain had to projectile vomit all over the bedding, he would clean it without complaint. It’s normally Rain playing nursemaid and attending his sickbed after all. 

 

He swallows hard and wrestles back control of his gag reflex. All is well, for now. He feels heat wash over his face for an altogether different reason now. 

 

Memories of the evening lay like shards of glass from a highball tumbler smashed on the paving stones. He can look at them from a distance but he’s afraid to get too close to them. Lest they draw blood. 

 

His head droops, the sweat damp waves that have escaped his messy bun flop in front of his eyes, obscuring the peccant expression on his face. 

 

“Sorry - I guess I had a little - no. A lot to drink.”

 

“It’s okay, happens to the best of us.”

 

Rain smacks his lips together, his tongue still tastes like cinnamon and whiskey. He tries to hold back but the wretched sound of gagging makes Dew practically jump off the bed again. 

 

“I’m - hiccup - so - hiccup - sorry. Please, I’m so - hiccup - gross. Just go, I’ll be - hiccup - fine.

 

He clutches at his abdomen, as though he could compress his roiling guts into something smaller, so that the pain would be more manageable. 

 

His esophagus burns each and every time he hiccups. Pretty bottles with amber coloured liquid, sweet in the tongue, razor blades down his throat.

 

His throat - it aches. Like someone turning the tuning pegs on his vocal chords until they were about to snap. 

 

”Let me get you some medicine. And water. Just stay here.”

 

Dew lifts up a trash bin lined with a plastic grocery bag up and nods. Clearly that was placed at his bedside just in case. 

 

Suddenly it feels like his loose bun is yanking at his scalp. He tries to pull the elastic out but it’s all tangled up in his sweaty hair. After shaking it a few times he grunts in frustration as tears begin to slide down his flush cheeks. 

 

He immediately rebounds, urging himself to get a fucking grip. 

 

As he tries to pick at the knots wrapped around the thin band, he suddenly recalls why it’s in his hair in the first place. He wants to cry all over again. 

 

Dew’s fingers raking through his hair as he hovers over the toilet. Dew manages to gather it up into a bun of sorts, to keep it out of his face. As he pleads with Dew ro leave the room. Which he does as soon as he has Rain’s hair secured. 

 

He finally works the elastic out. It’s black and it’s starting to come apart where it’s connected. There are long platinum strands of hair tangled up in it, likely why it got caught. He imagines Dew’s pale wrist, ringed with a red indent from wearing the hair tie there day in and day out. 

 

Rain’s not sure he’s ever seen him use it. Until now. 

 

It looks like it’s on the verge of snapping, but he can’t bring himself to toss it in the bin. Instead, he pulls it over his hand and lets it settle on his own wrist. Perhaps when he gives it back they’ll have matching red marks, at least for a little while. 

 

He leans back and fumbles with the bedside drawer, finally dislodging it from its broken track. He rummages without looking, until his hand locates the cardboard strip lined with hair ties in varying shades of blue. 

 

He stacks the palest hue on top of the black hair tie. He thinks it’ll look lovely against the veins so prominently threaded throughout Dew’s wrist and hand. 

 

He hears the gentle scuff of Dew’s footsteps as he returns with a tray laden with all manner of medication. 

 

He sets it on the bed and the various items gently clatter and it reminds him of a movie or a show, set back a few hundred years. Where everything always clicks and clanks and shoes sound like hoof beats across the wooden floor. 

 

And he probably does resemble a sickly Victorian child right now. 

 

Dew gestures for his hand, where he deposits two oval shaped capsules filled with dark green liquid. He shudders as he recalls taking a shot of something called creme de menthe. He much preferred some other drink that Ifrit had - something called Fireball. It tasted like cinnamon hearts. 

 

Dew hands him a small glass of water, he swallows hard, trying to keep the pills down. 

 

Dew rips open a tiny sachet, white powder that smells of artificial fruit is dumped into a water bottle. He gives it a few shakes and then removes the lid again, but he just sets it on the tray. 

 

He picks up another smaller pill, a pale pink tablet. Rain doesn’t even ask what it’s for, he just swallows. 

 

“That one is for nausea.” He gestures at the water bottle that has turned the water an anemic orange shade, “And this is electrolytes. But no sense in drinking this until that kicks in. Won’t help if you throw it up again.”

 

Rain nods, he finds himself hanging on Dew’s every word. He seems to be an expert at this particular ritual. He wants to know why but can’t bring himself to ask. 

 

Next, he picks up a cloth that’s been sitting in a bowl of water. He rings it out, the water droplets hit the surface and he’s again taken back to some begone time where some poor child has consumption and their mother is patting their head with a damp rag. 

 

He’s not coughing though. He doesn’t have tuberculosis, he just has the worst hangover he’s ever experienced. 

 

Dew moves to the side of the bed and adjusts the pillows, adding one from the other side. “Lean back.”

 

He obeys, wondering how Dew got his lumpy and flat pillows to feel so plush and comfortable. 

 

He picks up the cloth and drapes it over Rain’s forehead and eyes. The sudden cold makes him flinch, but then he sinks into the bedding as relief washes over him. Maybe it’s the pills, maybe it’s the cloth. Maybe it’s Dew hovering so close that he can smell his shampoo. But he’s starting to feel better. 

 

“I think I can drink the other stuff now.”

 

Dew removes the cloth and hands him the bottle. Suddenly he feels unbelievably thirsty. He drains the bottle at record speed. 

 

Dew hovers conspicuously close to the garbage pail, but Rain just leans back against the pillows and sighs.

 

Rain stands and shuffles to the en-suite. The door clicks shut. Dew hears the buzz of an electric toothbrush, and the swooshing of mouthwash. 

 

Rain emerges smelling of spearmint and climbs back into the bed slowly, gently, like he’s a guest in his own bedroom. 

 

Dew dips the cloth back into the bowl of tepid water and presses it to his forehead again. He can feel the heat of Dew’s fingers through the fabric. Which is surely negating the purpose, but through the gap where his nose lifts the cloth away from his eyes, he can see down the sleeve of Dew’s shirt. The pearlescent sheen of pale flesh that he wants to taste. 

 

His hands twitch, he would shake his head to dislodge the thoughts but that would be too conspicuous. Instead he closes his eyes and tries not to drown in yearning and instead enjoy the heat radiating from where Dew‘s thigh is pressed up against his hip as he sits on the edge of the bed. 

 

Rain starts to feel drowsy. From the anti-nauseant, though he’s unaware of the cause. Just that he can’t help but sink a little deeper into the mattress. He wants to stay awake, to enjoy this for as long as it lasts, despite the cursed events that led to it. 

 

But before he knows it, he’s asleep. 

 

It’s heavy and dreamless. 

 

He wakes up and it’s dark out from where he can see in the crack between the curtains. For all he knows, it could be 3:00 pm or 3:00am. 

 

There’s a cool, diffused glow lighting up the room. 

 

It’s Dew, leaning against the headboard, scrolling on his phone. The corners of his mouth are turned up, his eyes are crinkled at the corners, he’s smiling at something. But Rain doesn’t know what. 

 

The light flickers, changing the shadows on his face. It’s a video, but he can’t hear it because Dew has headphones in. 

 

He turns on to his side, toward Dew, who notices and quickly hits the sleep button on his phone, shrouding the room in darkness. 

 

“I’m sorry - I didn’t mean “

 

“No, no. It’s okay. I didn’t want to blind you into another headache.” That’s a lie, but it sounds reasonably convincing. 

 

Perhaps it’s the haze of all the medication and whispers of remnant drunkenness, but he asks - “What were you watching?”

 

“Uh” there’s an edge of panic clinging to his voice. 

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“No, it’s okay. It’s - uh - it’s just videos from last night.”

 

Dew unlocks his phone and turns down the brightness before rotating the screen to landscape mode and holding it where Rain can see it. 

 

Dew wonders if Rain can hear his pulse rattling like an overzealous alarm clock on vibrate mode. 

 

He isn’t sure who’s holding the camera, because both he and Dew are in the frame. Sitting with their legs pressed together on the common room sofa. Dew has a bottle in his hand, Rain, a glass with some clear coloured liquid. 

 

It’s hard to make out what they’re saying, the camera keeps moving around the room and then back again.  

 

Dew holds his breath, he knows it occurs at 57 seconds, because he’s watched the video at least 20 times. 

 

“So” Rain slurs - “Who‘re you gonna kiss at midnight?”

 

Rain can’t help but slap a hand over his mouth. He knew he was embarrassing but it’s another thing to see it play out before his eyes. 

 

“I dunno.” Dew replies. Or so Rain thinks, he can’t hear his voice so he tries to read his lips. 

 

Rain on the other hand speaks with enough volume for both of them. 

 

“Whatta you mean - don’t knowwwwwww?” He lets the word stretch out as if to give Dew more time to conceive a reply. 

 

“I mean - no one I guess.”

 

Suddenly Rain’s jovial expression turns very serious. The camera operator is clearly invested in how this will play out, as Dew and Rain remain in shot. The video vibrates as it zooms closer. 

 

“You can kiss me. If you want to.”

 

Dew’s head snaps to the left, suddenly staring at the neck of his empty bottle isn’t interesting anymore. 

 

“I do. I do want to.”

 

Despite his inebriation, Rain twists his hands in his lap, indicating that his nerves are still a force to be reckoned with. 

 

“Okay. I want you to. Too. I want to kiss you.”

 

Suddenly there’s booming laughter and Rain’s empty glass is plucked from his fingers. And so is he, hoisted up from his seat by who appears to be Ifrit. 

 

“I’ll find you - at midnight.” Rain shouts, as he’s dragged away. 

 

The video ends a few seconds later after the lens of the camera hits the floor. 

 

The silence in the room is overbearing. 

 

Rain isn’t sure what to say. Clearly he broke his promise. He didn’t even make it until midnight. Not only that, but Dew was stuck taking care of him all night. 

 

“I’m sorry. That I missed it.” 

 

“Don’t be.” Dew’s face is illuminated by the background of his phone screen. He’s smiling again. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe he thinks it’s funny. Maybe Rain will jump off the abbey roof tomorrow. 

 

Dew opens an app on his phone and scrolls, it’s filled with clock faces all reading different times. 

 

He lands on one and taps to make it bigger. 

 

“It’s still almost midnight somewhere.” He whispers. 

 

Rain looks at the hands move, synchronized flicks that bring him closer than he’s ever been to having everything he’s wanted. 

 

They all line up beneath the sans-serif digits 1 and 2. 

 

Before he has a chance to fuck it up, Dew’s fingers curve around his jaw and suddenly everything is so warm, and soft. His lips move without premeditated thought. He knows he’s likely being eager, and messy. 

 

But Dew doesn’t seem to mind. In fact he matches it, deepens the kiss further. It’s hard to breathe and he doesn’t know why, but he’d rather suffocate than stop.

 

Dew retreats an inch, thumb still pressed to the side of his face. 

 

“You taste like cinnamon hearts.”

 

Dew swallows his reply with another kiss.