#parts vii and viii will be the final post of this little story tidbid <3 so stay tuned.

[painted-bees]

>>part i and ii<<

>>part iii, iv, and v<<

vi)

  Rafael was running on fumes.

  In retrospect, driving to and from Vancouver Island on only two distant hours of sleep was probably not the wisest choice he had ever made. But it had been the only choice. At least, that’s what he had felt. When he found her, Magritte was not herself. Her stare was vacant, and her words were vague and distant…he wasn’t even sure that she had recognized him.

  That scared him the most.

  It had taken him every ounce of self restraint not to smother her in a crushing, unending hug, not to kiss every inch of her face until she finally said his name–either in bemusement or irritation, he wouldn’t have cared which. The impulse to overwhelm her back to her senses almost robbed him of his own. But, he had managed. He had gotten her warm, dry, and hydrated and he kept his own shit together all the while. The euphoric relief of finding her–clashed with the disheartening terror of finding her unwell. He couldn’t, for the life of him, find any assurance that she was going to be alright.

  Until, finally, she mentioned something about orcas.

  Raf had been attempting to steal a wink of sleep in the cardeck of the Heriot Bay ferry when Magritte’s voice chimed energetically about having seen orcas. It was hoarse and raspy, yes, but it was her. The broad, open mouthed smile he saw on her face when he opened his eyes–it was her. And then, they had a conversation. A proper conversation. As they did, all the adrenaline that had been keeping him alert and awake slowly evaporated out of his body.

  Margie was okay.

  And he–

  He was so, so…so fucking tired.

  The car ride across Quadra Island had been alright. He kept Magritte awake by telling her about the flooding he saw, how it had even waterlogged the campsite. He told her about calling in the missing person report, and about sheepishly calling again while waiting for the ferry–to inform that he had found her. He told her about the weird, disjointed conversations they had, before she had fully come-to…how it was a lot like the funny little conversations he’d sometimes have with her while she was fast, fast asleep in the middle of the night. 

  In turn, Magritte told him about more of her memories as they came to her. She asked if he knew anything about a kind of orange starfish with thirteen legs. She told him what it felt like to be suddenly whisked away by the tide, and boasted to him about how nonchalanty she had managed to compose herself afterward.

  “I thanked the orcas for showing up, and then I was like ‘please don’t flay me, l-m-a-o’.”

  Apparently, that was the last thing she remembered. 

  The lack of closure provided by the gaps in her recollection didn’t seem to bother Margie much–but it gnawed at Raf. Even if the tide had somehow pushed her back onto shore, Magritte should have been hypothermic. She had been shivering from the cold when he found her, but her body was hot–feverish. Raf couldn’t conjure an explanation in his mind for how she had survived, or how he had found her walking back home. He hoped to get some answers at the hospital.

  When he and Magritte both cited the tidal swell as the cause of Magritte's injuries, the doctor cleaning her wounds seemed dismissive. The same way the lady who had received Raf’s missing person report seemed dismissive. Upon meeting the doctor’s subtle incredulity, both Raf and Margie dropped mention of the tidal event in favour of simply agreeing that she had been swimming irresponsibly and was dragged out by a riptide in the middle of the night. It wasn’t a detail they had planned to abandon together, but operating on the same exhausted wavelength, they simultaneously agreed that vying for the doctor’s belief wasn’t worth the energy. 

  Raf might have been a lot more bothered by the doctor’s impersonal aloofness–if he wasn’t so damn tired. Whether the doctor genuinely cared about Margie’s wellbeing or not didn’t terribly matter. Raf oversaw the man as he worked, confident that the doctor would be less likely to disregard Magritte’s comfort while he was being watched.

  Despite receiving a local anaesthetic that numbed her hands, Magritte kept her head turned away–her eyes wrenched shut–as the doctor flushed saline solution through the gashes carved into her palms and fingers. Raf, on the other hand, took the opportunity to observe the full extent of damage that had been done. The deeper lacerations appeared to have been filled with some manner of black, tarry silt. The saline that went into those wounds came out faintly red at first, and then ran suddenly black and thick with mud. Once the tarry mud had been flushed, the solution flowed deep crimson with blood for a brief while, until it cleared up again–but never as faintly as it had begun. The mud had been…almost scab-like in how it suppressed the bleeding.

  The doctor muttered; more to himself than to his deliberately inattentive patient. “How’d you pack so much dirt into these..? Must have been one hell of a current.”

  Within at least one of the freshly cleaned wounds on her palms, Raf caught a glimpse of white beneath the thick layer of pink and bleeding flesh–bone or cartilage, he couldn’t tell. It bothered him enough, though, that he felt compelled to ask something on Magritte’s behalf. But…

  Raf cleared his throat. “"Pardon, pouvez-vous parler français?"

  Whether it was because he was focused on his task, or because the question struck him as strange, the doctor was slow to answer. “Je peux, pourquoi?” 

  “Au cas où la réponse est mauvaise, je ne veux pas la contrarier.” Raf said, plainly, with an alleviating smile to avoid piquing Magritte’s concern.

  “Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?”

  Performing a lighthearted shrug and a sheepish grin, Raf replied, “Elle est musicienne–pianiste. Est-ce que ses blessures vont affecter son jeu au piano?”

  Raf watched the doctor hesitate before sighing through his nose. Unfortunately, he wasn’t interested in playing along with Raf’s diversionary nonchalantness. “C'est dur à dire. Des dommages aux nerfs sont bien possibles. Ce genre d'abrasions ont tendance à s'infecter.” The doctor then looked at Magritte rather sternly. “You’re going to need to keep your hands clean and–importantly–keep them dry. If you want them to make a full recovery, don’t use them until the stitches come out.” He nodded to Raf. “Make him do everything around the house, doctor’s orders.”

  Raf set his jaw in annoyance.

  Magritte, apparently surprised at being addressed, turned to the doctor with wide eyes. “He already does!”

  Her candid defence disarmed Raf completely, and won a genuine smirk from him. He straightened his back with a small surge of pride.

  “Good, that means you’ll have no excuse the next time I see you.” The doctor stepped back from her, having completed the task of cleaning her abrasions. “Let’s get you stitched up, then.”

  Magritte’s complexion was naturally very pale, and the chill she had caught made her paler yet. Raf hadn’t thought it possible for living flesh to be wholly devoid of colour–but any hue left on Magritte’s face ghosted away as she watched the doctor ready his suturing instruments. Raf could scarcely provide more than a pitying smile. He moved in closer to her, and caressed her hair as a way of distraction. Unfortunately, the tried and true ‘hold my hand and squeeze as hard as you need’ was, well…Her hands wouldn’t be holding anything anytime soon.

  Thankfully, the doctor worked quickly, and Raf had kept Magritte’s mind occupied by talking about ice cream, pretending to forget what her favourite flavours were so that she’d tell him about all of them. Mint chip, cookie dough, and around-the-world chocolate, all absolute bangers, by Magritte’s tastes. 

  “Also,” Raf reminded her, “strawberry rhubarb, no? The homemade stuff sold out the back of that one house on the bay, specifically.”

  “Yeah, but that one’s obscene! It’s so good, it’s not even fair to count it as ice cream!”

  When all was said and done, the hospital sent Magritte home with sutures in both hands, as well as her left elbow, knee, shin, and the underside of her right forearm. Each area was lightly dressed and well wrapped. Raf had received a sizable little goodie bag of gauze, bandages, polysporin, and naproxen, as well as antibiotics for her sore throat and fever. The dazed state he had found Magritte in was, apparently, the symptom of a concussion. Aside from instructing Raf to wake her up every few hours and assess her condition, the doctor seemed to have no real concern about her head. Raf just had to trust him on that.

  Magritte was alive and well…ish. She wasn’t in any danger. Her health had been seen to and confirmed by a medical professional–he had no choice but to trust that she was going to be just fine. Finally liberated from panicked urgency, Raf was left vulnerable to a nearly debilitating fatigue, and it settled upon him like a stone. 

  The same oppressive exhaustion seemed to have burdened Margie, as well. Soon after they had turned out of the hospital parking lot, she fell fast asleep in the passenger seat next to him. He let her. Though he would have appreciated a conversation to keep his own consciousness from drifting, she needed the rest more badly than he did, and a sleepy Magritte never made for very rousing conversation anyways. As a little treat to himself, he picked up a coffee from a drive-through, on the way out of Campbell River. It was a poor replacement for Margie’s adorable chatter but it was certainly better than nothing.  

 The final ferry off of Quadra was, by far, the greatest test of his resolve, and he finally forfeited to sleep during the forty-five minute ride. The PA system had failed to wake him, but the loud diesel engine of the truck parked next to him did the job just fine when it roared to life in preparation of departing. 

  Thankfully, the road from there was as empty and uneventful as the island’s roads always were. At 4:12pm, Raf’s little sedan finally rolled down the long, uneven driveway to the cottage. Parking his car and turning off the engine, he dropped his head back against his seat and let out a long, alleviated sigh.

  Without lifting his head, Raf cast his gaze towards the prodigal goblin passed out beside him. She’d be the ruin of his life; all because she was what made it worth living. Eventually, he’d find his own legs to stand on in that regard. But the events of the past twenty-four hours laid bare to him just how much work yet needed to be done towards that end.

  Be patient with yourself. It’s been…a rough fucking year.

  A rough year, but things were okay. Margie was okay. He was okay.

  “Margie, hun.” Raf reached over to smooth back her hair and gave her neck a gentle rub. “We’re home.”

  “...Already?” Slowly, Magritte sat up and pried her eyes open. Her brow furrowed deeply over a squinted gaze and she looked so…pained.

  “Yeah.” Raf unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door. “Hang on.” He grabbed the bag of medical goodies from the back seat before coming around to Magritte’s side of the car and opening the door for her. 

  All he had to contend with was the fatigue of a sleepless, stressful night–and it had hit him hard on the ride home. Magritte had the night’s fatigue as well, no doubt, but she also had the additional delight of physical trauma. Much like the exhaustion, the pain of being pummelled by Poseidon’s angry fists undoubtedly made itself fully apparent to her as the adrenaline, local anaesthetic, and pain medication waned. It showed in the wary stiffness of her slow, careful movements.

  One of her flip-flop adorned feet emerged from the car, and then another. Raf helped her up, careful to grab hold of her right elbow and not graze the minefield of fresh sutures hidden beneath the loose sleeves of her sweater. She crawled up the porch stairs with little more than a limp, and patiently waited as Raf unlocked the front door. 

  She was sluggish getting up the narrow, steep flight of stairs to the second floor, but otherwise had no trouble making the climb. Somewhat reluctantly, Raf had to stop her from b-lining to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

  “Hold up, hang on. Over here, first.” Hands on her waist, he gently–somewhat playfully–pulled her back and steered her towards the bathroom. She immediately knew what it was about.

  “Y-yeah…okay. S’fair. I gotta destink.”

  “That, and if we want any hope of combing these tangles out, it’s gonna require an entire bottle of conditioner.” As Magritte was in the careful process of removing her sweater, Raf managed to excavate a piece of foliage out of her matted curls before helping her pull the garment over her head. “You’ve got like…a whole cluster of burs stuck in there somehow.”

  For the first time since leaving the hospital, Raf realised the extent of the work ahead of him. Literally everything about preparing for–and taking–a shower required the use of hands. And, unfortunately, Magritte wasn’t the sort to wait on him for something as simple as turning on the faucet. She jumped ahead to carry out the task, and winced through the pain of it.

  “Margie…”

  “Wait, no…what? No…” Her words were drawn out in a whine as she came to Raf’s same realisation. “I don’t want to be treated like a decrepit old lady until my hands are better. It’s probably okay to do like…little stuff, right?”

  “Little stuff, very infrequently, I'm sure is fine” Raf relented. “But you heard the doctor as well as I did.” He removed the shower head from its bracket. “Anyways, let’s try to keep soap and water away from your stitches for now. Sit on the side of the tub, and I’ll wash your hair.”  

  Magritte did as he asked, sitting down and holding her bandaged hands limply between her knees. Raf had to bring the heat of the water up to near scalding before the shuddering from her feverish chills relented. Once the water ran nice and hot, however, she closed her eyes and melted beneath his fingertips as he massaged shampoo into her scalp.

  Getting all the detritus out of her hair was a task and a half. The leaves, twigs, and grass came out easily enough, but the burs required copious amounts of conditioner and patience. Until then, her hair had felt brittle and harsh, like dry hay. Thankfully, the conditioner pulled through in rehydrating her thick, curly locks, imparting it with a tropical coconut scent that was far more pleasant than ‘shoreline rot’. Employing the help of a comb, Raf was able to brush out the burs and tangles with a very gentle hand. 

  It took Raf the better part of an hour to scrub the reek of sea decay off Margie and clear her hair of knots and debris. She seemed even more relieved than he was when he reached for the towel after one last rinse. Equal parts boredom, ache, and sleepiness likely contributed to that. He threw the towel over her soggy nest of hair and tousled it vigorously, knowing he had no more than ten seconds to get her dried off before she felt compelled to get up and leave.

  Sure enough, he’d only just started to pat the towel down her back before she picked herself restlessly up off the side of the tub and began limping eagerly out the bathroom door.

  “You’re not dry yet,” he called fruitlessly after her.

  “I’ll put a towel under my head, don’t worry.” Her answer arrived after she had disappeared into the hall, but Magritte poked her head back into the bathroom again to make a plain request. “Come nap with me.”

  With a sigh, Raf pulled himself to his feet, and grabbed a dry towel off the rack before joining her in the hall. She scurried into the bedroom with haste motivated by feverish chill and, as he watched her, Raf took inventory of the scrapes and bruises he could see discolouring her skin. The ocean had thoroughly battered her…but it returned her to him, alive.

  A burning ember or resentment seared his mood for a brief moment before being smothered by thankfulness–with a conscious and very deliberate effort.

  In the bedroom, Magritte had already begun shimmying under the blankets before Raf reached over to lay the fresh towel neatly over her pillow. At least this way, once her hair was properly dry, she could just shove the towel off the bed and not have to suffer a damp cushion under her head.

  Even with the exciting prospect of comfortable sleep motivating her, Magritte's movements were as restrained as she was capable of making them; cautious not to aggravate her sore muscles, tender bruises, or painful stitches. Still, she winced and let out a whine that dissolved into a self-depreciative little chuckle as she failed to navigate her injuries carefully.

  Raf was too tired to oblige the impulse of asking her to slow down. She wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. Magritte was very intent on nestling into bed, wearing only the bandaged dressings that covered the worst of her lacerations. He couldn’t blame her. As he tucked her underneath the thick, heavy duvet in an automatic gesture of habit, his entire body begged him to join her. He removed his sweater jacket and shirt–and intended to leave his jeans on until he considered what the coarse denim would do if it managed to graze any one of the raw, red scrapes on Magritte’s legs. There were still a number of things he needed to take care of around the house before he passed out for the evening, and so he didn’t plan on napping for very long–but regardless of that, the jeans came off before he crawled into bed.

  He sank into the mattress, beneath the large duvet and next to Magritte. Laying with her back to him, she favoured the left side of her body and rested all her weight onto the right side. Raf reached over to caress her damp, clean locks of hair before leaning over to plant a small kiss just above her ear.

  “You can cuddle me, if you’re brave.” Her eyes were already closed, but a coy smile warmed her face. “I know I’m literally being held together by threads, but I promise I won’t fall apart if you hug me.”

  Raf hesitated for a moment as he considered the logistics, and then answered Magritte by gently, carefully snaking an arm around her waist. As he closed the space between them, he gingerly tucked his knees between hers, mindful of the bandaging on her left leg. Suddenly, he was happy to have shed most of his clothes. Magritte’s body temperature was running so hot, it threatened to cook him.

  She provided a little wiggle as she nestled comfortably into his arms. A content little hum escaped her. “Are you in your own head right now?”

  “Not really. Trying not to be,” Raf replied honestly.

  “Okay. You’re just kinda quiet.”

  “Tired.”

  She turned her head towards him, but couldn’t move enough to meet his gaze. “Are you gonna be alright?”

  “Yeah.” He had already determined that much for himself.

  He buried his nose into her coconut-scented curls and lightly squeezed his arms around her in an appreciatively reassuring gesture. She was the one who had spent the past twenty four hours being violently tossed around by the sea, freezing, narrowly avoiding death, and getting stitched back together again–but naturally, she was concerned to know if he was alright. Because he was being quiet.

  “You know…” He recalled something she had said to him one evening.

  It had been after one of the more difficult days the year had doled out to him and it made him especially despondent and not at all pleasant to sit with. He had received an email from his mother. In it, she had outlined her disappointment for the way he handled the matter of his uncle’s body and funeral. Her wording was–as always–carefully crafted to wring as much guilt and anger out of him as humanly possible. Apparently, choosing to honour his uncle’s wishes–by following the clear instructions written in his will–had done a great deal of emotional harm to his father and his grandmother, both who’d have loved the closure of seeing him one last time. It was, in her words, a betrayal of love and trust that she never imagined him capable of. This, despite the fact that he couldn’t have stopped them from attending the funeral if they had actually cared enough to show up for it. That shitty email had coloured his mood for the rest of the week, but the way his misery affected Margie had been especially clear to him that evening. She had remained quiet in his company, and made herself as small as she could–as though she were being punished by him just feeling his own damn feelings. It had bothered him to the point of asking why she wouldn’t go somewhere else for a while. If shit was so difficult for her, why didn’t she just leave?

 She had looked him squarely in the eyes, with an expression of frustrated conviction so intensely uncharacteristic of her–it seared into his brain.

  Raf sighed into her hair. “When you told me that you’d stick with me ‘through hell or high water’, I thought you were being hyperbolic.”

  “Hah-!” Magritte’s weak, but triumphant laugh was accompanied by a little wiggle. “Joke’s on you, nerd. You’re stuck with me. Absolutely poached.” There was a long pause before her hoarse, groggy voice added one last, conclusive, “...Sucker.” 

  “Mmh.” It was yet another little piece of proof he could add to his growing arsenal of defence against the inevitable cycle of paranoid musings. “You know what’s kinda neat?”

  “...Hm?”

  “I love you a whole heck of a lot.” He replied.

  Or, rather–he thought he replied. In truth, he barely managed to mutter the first three words before sleep took him.

  –

  Raf’s eyes snapped open at the sudden sound of…something very near to his ear; some manner of organic clicking. An owl just outside the window? Or–

  A snore rose up from the source of heat between his arms, followed by the sound of lips smacking quietly. 

  Ah.

  Magritte was not usually a loud sleeper. Unless she was sick, her breath usually emerged as little sighs that purred very lightly in her throat; audible, but by no means disruptive. Her illness, however, was apparent in more than just her snores. The heat that radiated off her body had roasted him while he napped. The stubborn euphoria of being able to hold her close after fearing he’d never have the chance to do so again–struggled to compete with the humid discomfort of sweating flesh and damp bed sheets.

  Still, he hesitated to move. Margie, who had the compulsive tendency to fidget, wiggle, and shift restlessly, had apparently remained perfectly still in his arms. She laid with her back flush against him, her knees and elbows exactly where they had been before he had fallen asleep. Raf figured that once she settled into a position that wasn’t painful, she simply refused to comprise it by moving even an inch. 

  Reluctantly, slowly, he withdrew his legs from between hers, uncoiled his arm from around her waist, and sat up. The chilly air outside of the blankets met him as a relief. The sun had fully set, and the cold glow of the moon outside blended with the warm light from the downstairs kitchen window, dimly lighting his bedroom. He turned his gaze to the digital clock on his nightstand.

  7:08pm.

  He rubbed his face, feeling more awake than he ought to after less than two hours of sleep. Remembering the doctor’s instruction, Raf performed the unconscionable task of waking Magritte up. First, he ran fingers through her hair and, when that failed to stir her, he leaned over to kiss the exposed side of her face.

  Finally, he gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Margie.”

  She inhaled sharply, curling into herself. As the deep breath turned into a yawn, she began unfurling into a stretch. A quiet whimper of pain escaped her as she abruptly halted the gesture, and Raf winced for her. Curling back into her original position, Margie let out a disgruntled hum. She had no intention of pandering to consciousness.

  “Margie.” Raf’s voice took on an apologetic tone. He got to his feet, sliding off his side of the bed, and rounded to her side. Crouching to be at eye level with her, he smoothed back her hair in gentle but deliberately rousing strokes. “How are you feeling? How’s your head?” 

  “...S’fine.” She didn’t open her eyes.

  “Yeah? Can you look at me?”

  Reluctantly, she obliged him, forcing her eyes open. “No concussion stuff happening.”

  Raf rewarded her with a smile. “How about everything else? How’s the naproxen holding up?” 

  “Oh,” Magritte closed her eyes again and swallowed, “yeah–no, I could use more of that.”

  “Alright.” Raf stood up and looked for his pants. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, no…” 

  “Can I make you some tea?”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you drink it?”

  Magritte lifted her head just enough to look at him as he buttoned his jeans. “What kind of tea?”

  Raf provided a sheepish grin that she couldn’t see as he turned to pick his t-shirt up off the floor. “Neocitran.” 

  As he expected, Margie dropped her head back onto her pillow with a dissatisfied groan. “I guess.” 

  “You’re sweating buckets and you haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  “It tastes like stomach acid.”

  “Yeah, well…electrolytes.” He pulled his shirt on, over his head, and smoothed it down. “Try not to crash too hard, I’ll be back in a few.”

 “...Okay.” But sleep had clearly already won her.

  Standing in the open bedroom doorway, Raf hesitated for a moment before deciding not to pester her further. He exited into the hall and quietly closed the door behind him.

  Downstairs, the little black wood stove–who’s chimney pipe ran through the very centre of the cottage–had burned its wood down to embers. Raf’s first order of business was to stoke it back up into a fire that’d last the night. He opened the front of the stove slowly, careful to avoid receiving a face full of smoke. Using a fire poker, he smoothed out the coals before layering blocks of firewood atop them, as far back as he could manage. He let it burn, leaving the stove door slightly ajar while he turned his attention towards preparing Magritte’s tea.

  In the kitchen, Raf filled an electric kettle with water and plugged it in before rummaging the cupboards for a coffee mug and the box of Neocitran. As he emptied a packet of the medicinal tea powder into the cup, he heard Magritte near him.

  “...Raf.”

  Her voice had been hoarse and raspy since he found her, but just then–the way it seemed to waver, tremble, and barely find purchase in her throat–she sounded like hell.

  “Hun,” Raf furrowed his brow in concern as he turned to look at her, “you should be in–”

  He paused, staring across the empty room behind him. “...Bed.”

  Curiously, he doubled back to look into the living room and towards the stairs. Margie wasn’t there.

  Chalking it up to his imagination, Raf took the opportunity to fully close the front of the wood stove before stepping back into the kitchen. It’d be a while before the water in the kettle started boiling.

  “...Raf.” Her voice, again.

  He paused again, trying to discern where it was coming from.

  “...Raf.”

  His gaze followed the sound of Magritte’s voice, to the left and…out the kitchen window.

  “I’m sorry…Raf.”

  Across the small grassy clearing in front of the porch, at the shadowy edge of the treeline, two large pupils reflected moonlight towards him. The eyes could have belonged to a deer, except the silhouette that broke through the boughs of spruce and cedar trees was distinctly un-deerlike in shape. It stared at him, unblinking, one dark, impossibly long and slender arm lifting a bough over its head, the other arm hanging past its knee. Impossibly long and slender; the entire shape of it.

  “...Raf.” It had Margie’s voice.

  Raf watched it for a moment longer, his expression no different than if he were observing some manner of common wildlife. As the sound of boiling water met his ear, he returned his attention to the task at hand with a long sigh.

  This better not be how I discover I’m schizophrenic. He unplugged the kettle and poured hot water into the mug.

  “...it was….supposed to be…” Margie’s awful sounding voice trailed off before returning to its favourite word again, “...Raf.”

  Grabbing a spoon from the drawer, Raf began to stir the contents of the medicinal drink, watching the powder dissolve. Ages ago, a psychiatrist had once cautioned him to the non-zero chance that he could, eventually, find himself experiencing hallucinations; a lovely piece of genetic inheritance from the grandfather on his mother’s side–a man who had thrown himself into traffic decades before Raf was ever born.  

  With half-lidded disinterest, he watched the last of the powder dissolve away before pulling a second mug out of the overhead cabinet. He poured hot water into this one, too, but elected to forgo the Neocitran in favour of a chamomile tea bag. As he added a small splash of milk and a spoon of honey, the ghostly ill sound of Magritte’s voice continued to beckon him from the yard. The flash of moonlight reflecting off the two large, unblinking eyes still glinted at him in the periphery of his vision. 

  He had to admit, if he did carry a genetic predisposition for something like schizophrenia, the environment was exceptionally ripe for it to finally rear its head. He had just lived through the most stressful twenty-four hours of his life–at the tail end of the most stressful year of his life.

  He measured that thought for a second. Was it as stressful as Juilliard? As stressful as the year prior to Juilliard?

  Perhaps not…but as hellish as those years had been, they didn’t carry nearly as much heartache. Juilliard and the three ring circus shit-show his mother had put him through were stresses that he could wish and plan to escape from. The untimely death of his loved ones, on the other hand–the two unconditional beacons of trust, warmth, and guidance he had grown to depend on–wasn’t something he could claw himself away from. The scars of their absence would be a permanent wound he simply had to live though. His uncle was a permanent wound.

  But Magritte–

  “...Raf.”

  Raf groaned, a touch irritated at having his thoughts interrupted by the not-Margie thing goading him from the side yard.

  Having stirred milk and honey into the chamomile tea, he took the mug up in his hands and carried it out the side door, onto the porch. He walked up to the railing, overlooking the small clearing.

  “Well, if you want your tea, you’re gonna have to come out from under the trees.” His voice was as plain as though he were addressing a neighbour. 

  The long, slender silhouette stood unmoving, its moony gaze unblinking. It said nothing in response.

  “Yeah, alright.” He placed the mug of tea down on the lowest porch step leading into the side yard. “Well, I’m not going out there, so… It’s here if you want it. I’d have appreciated…you know…some confirmation that you’re real. But sure, whatever. This is chill too, I guess.”

  Raf turned back into the cottage, closing and locking the door behind him. If this was a hallucination, then he’d deal with it later. It could wait until Margie got better, until he had gotten a proper time away from the city…until he was good and ready to return. Until then, he’d manage it on his own terms, the way that felt right.

 With chamomile, milk, and honey. >>part vii and viii<<

#Hi-Note #Cortes finally shows up in this one!! #also this part runs really long (12 pages) and so it gets to be its own post. #parts vii and viii will be the final post of this little story tidbid <3 so stay tuned. #I hope you enjoy :D #rafael #magritte #cortes