Cleaning the apartment is a simple thing, if boring. Put things where they go, wipe away dust and dirt, make sure nothing's been tracked in. It should be an easy task to do, and there should be more time left in the day. But a headache's been growing on her since halfway through, and when done, lying down with her eyes closed feels like the only thing she can do.

Fever knows what it is, when she takes her medicine and waits for it to start working. It's everything, it's the dregs of nightmare and the pain that's a constant bruise and that horrible fucking music from Merrymeet, it's not having enough of other people's problems to solve, it's that same wild urge that she had around Artemy that if she cracked open her ribs, everything would make more sense.

Spring. Maybe things will be better when spring comes. She thinks about it - about new grass, warmer winds, caterpillars hatching from eggs, fueling themselves for what will come next. It's the one spot in her head that doesn't feel mixed up or too disjointed to sort out. If one could bottle this collection of feelings, it would be the best poison ever crafted.

It isn't spoken that she needs him, but it resonates, vibrations across a mycelium, asking even as she would chastise herself for being too much. Even just to talk to, even just to sit in the same room for a bit.