RP: Fever, Fever, Fever
Date: 15 March 2006 (references to the past week) Characters: Terry Boot (mentions of Ben, Oliver Wood, Ernie MacMillian, Mandy Brocklehurst and Sophia Fawcett) Location: Hogwarts Private/Public: Private Rating: R Warnings: Hallucinations of dead people, descriptions of death and sickness, dream sex Summary: Terry's dreams take a turn for the surreal.
Time had no meaning anymore. Days bled into nights and back into days where the only thing he was aware of was the pain. At least the pain meant he was still alive. That was one check for the plus column at least. Sleeping was impossible, as was moving, eating, drinking and, at times, breathing. Those were the minuses. Actually, he had no idea how he was still alive really, though death felt further away today than it had for Merlin knew how long. His head wasn't pounding anymore, and he almost thought he was thinking clearly. He could think at least, and that was a change. He couldn't tell if his fever had gone down, but at least the pox marks weren't throbbing, and had started to heal over. Dobby hadn't needed to change his sheets today, and he hadn't bled through the bandages that were wrapped around the open sores.
Every time one of the pox marks burst, oozing white pus over the other million red sores and Dobby had to change his sheets because of the blood, he wondered if living was worth it. And then Ben would drift into his consciousness, a small scared shape at the end of his bed, large brown eyes peering up at him, liquid and terrified, and he'd remember why he wasn't giving into the pain. Even through the pain, he kept Ben in his mind, a reminder that he couldn't die. A reminder that he needed to live.
He'd wanted to though, more than once over the past however many days--weeks?--he'd been in bed. Especially when they'd come to him, beautiful even in death, terrifying in their hatred. Sophia, blood dripping down her neck, her eyes dark with hate and blame, pointing at him and asking why he'd let her die. Why he hadn't stopped Dennis. Mandy, eyes vacant and still, lips moving in death, accusing him of not caring, of forgetting her, of letting Ben forget her. Both of them, floating above his bed, screaming and crying, clawing at their hair and eyes, blaming him for not catching their killers. For doing nothing. Then Abigail was joining them, adding her voice to theirs, the screams echoing off the walls, begging him to help them, asking him to join them. Telling him he was better off dead than alive, because he was useless, he had nothing to offer, that Ben would be better off without him. Over and over they'd come to him, and he hadn't been able to move away, hadn't been able to hide from their accusations. Hadn't wanted too, because he'd known they were right.
But then, almost as suddenly as they'd come, the ghosts had gone, chased away by gentle hands and lips, by quiet murmurs and declarations of love. Ernie his consciousness had supplied, and Terry vaguely remembered latching onto that image and focusing on only that. Fevered dreams came to him, of bodies twined together, slip-sliding sweaty limbs, hungry lips latching onto sensitive skin. Hands roved over his body, claimed him. Golden curls slid through his fingers morphed into shorter, darker strands and back again. Work roughened hands smoothed into Quidditch trained calluses, gripped his hips and left bruises. Deep affection became nervous desire, talented hands became awkward and fumbling. Hips narrowed between Terry's legs, fingers left marks on a more slender back. Ernie's broad, handsome face melted into the sharper features of Oliver Wood.
The memory of the dreams left him breathless now, more confused than aroused. Even through the fever, the left-over pain he wondered what they meant. Why Oliver had been there. Why it had been Oliver, and not Ernie, who'd finally made love to him in the dreams. Why had Oliver's body, his cock felt so familiar? Why had he recognized the taste of Oliver's skin? It didn't make sense, he thought, as he tossed and turned in the present, trying to get comfortable, even while he knew that was a lost cause. He coughed suddenly, and kept coughing until he was gasping for breath, body shaking. He felt small, cool hands easing him back to the pillows, and gagged as a potion was poured down his throat. He didn't choke, and almost immediately he felt the effects. His last thought as he fell into more dreams, was of Oliver's hands on his skin.