I didn't pay attention as I left the classroom.
I didn't pay any mind to the concerned look on Rokim's face as I cleared my station. I didn't notice the venomous glare pinned on me as I walked out the door. I didn't even bother catching the bus.
I had other things on my mind.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depends how you look at it) the walk from the university to Rian's place wasn't very long. Barely 10 minutes had passed by the time I stepped in the lobby.
Partially in an effort to distract myself and also to sate my own curiosity, I examined the building. Last time I'd been there, I hadn't looked at my surroundings at all, but I was surprised to see that it was actually pretty nice. Much nicer than my apartment complex.
Maybe he has a high-end job? I wondered idly. Being able to afford a unit in a classy place like this required some serious cash. I made most of my capital by working out of the class' restaurant, which was run by Prof and paid pretty well. But even I was nowhere near wealthy enough to sustain the living expenses Rian must be dealing with.
Ah, right. Rian.
With a grimace, I forced myself to walk up to the elevator. I thoroughly checked for any Out-of-Order signs before reluctantly getting in and pressing the button for the second floor.
A minute later, I stood in front of Apartment 212.
Once again, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd chosen this particular room number on purpose or if it was a random coincidence. Or maybe he's forgotten about it entirely, since he seems partial to doing that nowadays, I mused wryly.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I took a deep breath and released the fists I didn't know I had clenched.
And then I knocked. Once, twice, three times.
I waited impatiently, trying my best not to fidget. All this did was remind me how nervous I'd been the first time I came here, and the horrible sinking feeling in my gut when he saw me and I was sure he hated me. Which only grew a million times worse when he claimed not to remember me at all.
What's taking so long? It had been about a minute now, and no one had come to the door. I frowned and looked around for a doorbell, with no luck. A building this nice and no doorbell? Pretty weird, if you ask me. Maybe he had it removed, I thought curiously. He seems the type to avoid guests.
I knocked again, louder than before. It was unlikely that he wasn't home; Prof had checked his school schedule and confirmed that Rian didn't have any tutorials today. And given his antisocial tendencies, I figured there weren't many places outside his house that would suit his tastes. So what exactly was the holdup?
"Rian," I called, rapping on the door a third time. A sudden possibility dawned on me: what if Rian wasn't answering because he couldn't answer? What if he was hurt and unable to get up?
Filled with concern, I pressed my ear up against the door. After listening attentively for a moment, I began to withdraw my head. Maybe he really isn't home? I thought confusedly. Then a noise from inside attracted my attention again, and I strained my ears as best I could. I barely caught the sound of something like a glass breaking, followed by a low muffled groan.
"Shit," I muttered, hurriedly reaching into the pockets of my peacoat. "Rian!" I called again, pounding the door with my free hand, but the voice I'd heard was silent now. Whether this silence was purposeful or not I didn't know, but I planned to find out.
"Sorry about this, Rokim," I murmured as I withdrew two bobby pins from my coat pocket. I'd assured him that I'd stop picking locks after I'd walked in on himâwell, that part wasn't important. The point was I was breaking my promise, but it was for a good reason. I just hoped I wasn't too rusty.
I kneeled down to the keyhole, smoothly sliding one bent bobby pin inside to hold things in place. With my other hand I inserted the second bobby and carefully felt around for the lock pins, pushing each of them up one by one. Just a little more, andâ
Click.
The lock came undone, and I smiled in self-satisfaction. I shoved the bobbies back in my pocket before easing the door open.
"Rian?" I called again, more softly this time. That groan I'd heard hadn't sounded good. I'm just here to make sure he's okay, I tried to convince myself. The absurdity of what I was doing hadn't escaped me, but I really was concerned. It wasn't like I just broke into houses for the fun of it.
His apartment was clean with a mostly achromatic colour scheme. I tried to ignore the irony of that as I hurried through the living room, stepping over one of the few articles of messiness in the place: a dog-eared book, open and face down on the floor.
I came to a room with a closed door, and I hesitated. I knocked softly, waiting for any sort of response. Not hearing any, I stepped inside and promptly let out a gasp of shock.
Rian was lying on his bed, strewn in the middle of the spacious room. His eyes were squeezed shut in apparent pain and his forehead was beaded with sweat. With his messy hair and the blankets wrapped around him haphazardly, he looked absolutely terrible.
I rushed over to him agitatedly. "Rian," I breathed, eyes wide. "Oh my god, you . . . have you been like this ever since the hospital?" He only let out another agonized moan, his eyes still closed. My hands hovered over him, unsure what to do. I placed my open palm on his forehead, gasping again and nearly yanking it away at the blazing heat I found there.
"Ohh, that's not good," I muttered worriedly. He let out a weak cough and shifted around, which is when I spotted the broken glass of water on the floor next to his bed. Was this the source of the crash I'd heard outside? If that was the case, then . . .
"Oh, water!" I exclaimed, nodding to myself. He had probably been reaching for it when it fell. "Right, okay. I'll be back."
I dashed out of the room and to the kitchen, grabbing a mug at random and filling a pitcher with lukewarm water from the sink. I rushed back, pouring water from the pitcher into the mug, and leaned over Rian's prone figure.
"Here," I murmured, gently lifting the back of his head and placing the cup at his lips. He began to drink greedily, his own hand reaching around to grip the cup, directly over mine. I tensed but didn't pull away, idly noting how his hand completely enveloped my small fingers.
He drained the whole cup and let his hand fall back onto the duvet. I carefully removed the hand propping up his head and placed the empty mug on his sidetable. I let my eyes linger a little longer than necessary as I watched him drift to sleep.
He looked totally serene, the complete opposite of his harsh and icy demeanor when he was awakeâinnocent and peaceful. Like before.
I refilled his mug before quietly heading out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. I breathed a sigh before digging my hands into my hair anxiously. The immediate crisis had been averted, but now what?
Just hanging out in his apartment seemed weird. He was a private person, and even though I was pretty sure I knew everything worth telling already, I had no doubt he'd be displeased to see me here. He'd made his distaste for me very clear.
Then again, I couldn't just leave. He was obviously really sick, and despite my attempts to suppress it, my concern wouldn't allow me to simply abandon him. Plus, I still had to discuss details of the ecomp with him. That was a legitimate reason to stick around, right?
"Okay, so I'm staying," I breathed quietly. "Uh . . ."
I decided to pop out to the pharmacy in the adjacent building and pick up some fever medicine. On my way out I spotted Rian's house key on the coffee table. It must have been a spare, because I'd seen his regular house key attached to a keychain in his wallet, and his wallet was nowhere in sight.
I promptly scooped it up and slipped into my pocket. Picking the same door twice in one day was a bit much, even for me.
About twenty minutes later, I returned with a bag full of various over-the-counter medications. I was frowning; on the walk back, I'd suddenly remembered that Rian used to get really sick when we were younger, eerily similar to today.
He'd get horrible fevers and be near-delirious for several days at a time, usually after a period of high stress. I wasn't talking year-end exams type stress thoughâsomething really big had to happen to set it off. But what?
I set the baggie down on the kitchen counter. What's good for a fever? I wondered as I stood in front of the fridge. Soup? White rice? Jello?
I pulled out my phone to search up the answer. "Damn," I muttered as I realized I had no wifi. "Password. Hmm . . ."
What would Rian set as his wifi password? I thought hard for a moment, feeling a vaguely Sherlockian urge to scratch my chin. Finally, a remote possibility dawned on me, and a gleeful smile stretched across my face. No. There's no way . . .
Slowly, I typed out the words, 'gofreudyourself69.'
You are now connected to the wifi network.
"Oh myâ!" I guffawed, trying to muffle my laughs through my fingers. A Freud reference? He really was a psychology nerd! Throwing in the 69 had just been my guess, because Freud wasâwell, you knowâbut it had really worked! "Ohh . . ." I wiped a tear from my eye, still chortling incredulously as I searched up potential fever remedies.
I scanned the results, nodding appreciatively. "Chicken soup, huh?" I murmured. "Not too much olive oil . . . okay, sounds easy enough."
I set about making the soup and placed a pot on the stove to boil. Digging around for the ingredients was surprisingly easy; Rian had a pretty impressive variety of food in his refrigerator. I guess he really did go all-out to prepare for being an AC, I thought amusedly.
I chopped and added a few different veggies to the mix and left the soup to simmer. In the meantime, I found a small hand towel and soaked it in cool water, tiptoeing into Rian's room and gingerly placing it on his forehead. The heat radiating off him had subdued a little and he seemed to still be in a deep sleep.
I couldn't keep myself from studying him again. The difference was just so strikingâin moments like these, he seemed exactly like the person I remembered from three years ago. Cheesy though it was, he'd actually been my best friend in the world. And now he wouldn't even acknowledge me.
My sad reverie was interrupted by Rian shifting abruptly on the bed.
His movements were restless, and I immediately noticed that his peaceful countenance had been replaced by a furrowed brow and quickened breath. It was an expression I easily recognized and knew well: anguish.
Oh no, what now? I thought anxiously. Is he having a nightmare?
I flitted around the room, looking for something to help me out of this mess, when one gritted word from a still-unconscious Rian brought me to a screeching halt.
"No."
I froze, my body going numb as my mind zoomed in on that one utterance: no. I turned around slowly, staring down at Rian's agitated form with newfound apprehension.
It wasn't just the word itself, it was the way he had said itâit was so hauntingly reminiscent of my own horrible nightmares, a pained echo of the mantra I could repress but never really forget. Why was Rian saying that same thing in his sleep? Could heâwas it even possible . . . ?
Another tortured groan escaped Rian's throat, and that snapped me out of my stupor. Whatever my personal questions were, they could wait. Dealing with this was more important.
I leaned over Rian, quickly removing and re-soaking the cold towel on his head. His hyperventilating slowed a bit, but he still looked taut with fear. I nudged him hesitantly, and then with increasing force, but he wouldn't wake up. My own expression filled with empathetic dread; I knew exactly what it was like to be trapped in a nightmare. I continued trying to shake him awake.
But my efforts were in vain: no matter how hard I tried, he wouldn't wake up. So I did the only thing I could do.
I grabbed his hand and held on for dear life.
"Rian," I said, making my voice as soothing as possible. "It's okay." His breath hitched, and my grip on him tightened as I realized my words were having an effect. "It's okay, I promise." My voice thickened as I said the very words I prayed to hear every single day. "It's not your fault."
His breath stopped. For a moment, I felt the world stop turning as his hand in mine went slack. Then he inhaled deeply and slipped back into a calm slumber, and I let my head drop in relief. I could tell; the nightmare was over. He was fine.
I changed the towel on his head one more time before exiting the room. As soon as I did, I sagged against the wall in exhaustion. How did things always manage to get so intense so freaking fast?
Which is of course when a thought struck me, swift and brutal as a truck.
"Shit!" I hissed. "The soup!"
I ran over to the stove, frantically turning down the flames and administering an emergency taste-test. That alone took about five or six minutes, and then I had to make sure the chicken wasn't too tender, and that the water hadn'tâthere was a lot I had to do, okay? No one said the life of a chef was easy. We're all perfectionists.
Anyway, by the time I was done, about half an hour had elapsed since Rian's nightmare. I covered the soup with a lid and collapsed onto the sleek black sofa, left to reluctantly reflect on the events of the day. Reflection wasn't fun, especially for me.
Thankfully, I was distracted from such a tedious task when I spotted the book left on the floor. I'd ignored it earlier, but now it piqued my interest.
It really was strangeâthe whole apartment was super clean, and here was this random book splayed face down in the living room. Why would Rian suddenly drop it and not bother to pick it back up? It was unlike him.
I walked over to it curiously and lifted it, taking note of its battered appearance. There was a good deal of dust on it too, but judging from the spotless state of the apartment, I guessed that the book had been stored away somewhere until just recently. I frownedâit seemed weirdly familiarâand carelessly flipped it around to glance at its title.
In hindsight, I probably should have guessed what it said. Seeing as how Fate seemed to have it out for me, I should have expected trouble at every turn. But I didn't, and the fact remains that I remained painfully clueless of what should have been obvious, of the two simple words I should have anticipated above all else:
Apartment 212.