They think I'm fixed... Who: Alex and the moonlight Where: The Meadows When: nearly midnight Rating/Warnings: N/A Summary: Alex wakes from a dream.
He couldn't remember ever being this irritable before. Everything everyone said seemed especially eyeroll-worthy, moreso today than ever. He was sure it was probably due to the Summoning charm. The one that hadn't brought the bottle he'd been focusing on when he cast it. That hadn't brought the bottle he knew was in the treehouse. There had been six. He'd Summoned two over the last week or so.
Alex pushed the window up and open, leaning out into the chilly night. His mother hadn't commented on his appetite, miracle of miracles, but he figured she must have been distracted by the news of the day. Thank Merlin for small favours. He thought Mona might have noticed how little he'd eaten, but she hadn't said anything.
It had been... Two days. Or a bit less. He'd found it easy enough to fall into a routine that had been pretty easy to disguise. Nothing with a sweet or fruity flavour. He'd stashed the liquor he'd got from the Alley in the wall of the treehouse, Summoning a bottle now and then and Banishing the empty ones.
But this morning, nothing had come. Not a bottle, not a cap, not a drop. A trip to the treehouse to investigate was out of the question, as was a jaunt to the Alley.
And Alex felt like crap.
His hands had been shaky for a while, but today it had been much worse. He'd hidden it (he hoped) by keeping something heavy in his hands, like a book, completely ordinary for him. But he wasn't sure he'd convinced Mona.
And now. Wakened from sleep by incredibly vivid dreams. Teeth and blood and darkness. Knives and flashes of silver. Screaming from every direction. He'd been unable to move, unable to shout, finally waking, gasping and clutching the quilt to his chest, the bed and his nightclothes drenched in cold sweat.
He pulled the desk chair next to the window and sat, feet pulled up under himself, arms folded on the windowsill. Breathing in the chilly fresh air, trying to put the dream-images out of his mind. His head pounded, but the cold helped a little. Maybe he'd just sleep here...