Rival Roommates

18 ☁︎

Jordan
For the third time this week, I wake up coughing and spluttering blood out my nose. The first few times I could've believed I might have accidentally hit my head on something during the night, but now that it's become more common, it's also become more fucking creepy. I stumble into the bathroom, blinking the brightness of the light as it stings my still-sleepy eyes.

Leaning onto the sink, I wash my face and the blood dried on my face. I look up into the mentally exhausted reflection in the mirror that I almost don't recognise, and get lost in the darkness of my eyes. I push myself off the sink and back away from the bathroom, padding to the kitchen as I try to keep quiet. The cold metal freezes against my palm as I turn the knob of the tap and pour myself a glass of water. I gulp it down, downing the entire glass in one go, rinsing my glass out after.

I turn around and glance at the floor, a small puddle of blood once again dripping out of my nose. But this time it's different. It's blood, on the floor, in a puddle, glassy and clear, my own reflection staring back up at me through it. Like last time. Before I know it, I'm a panicking hyperventilating mess, past memories flooding through my brain. My body is heating up and my throat is closing before the air can escape through it. My skin is itching and crawling with the need to get out, escape my own mind.

I'm gasping for air, over and over and over again. It's not enough. I can't breathe. My vision is blurred through my tears and I place my hand on my throat in an effort to open it.
"Jordan?" A sleepy voice asks from the distance. My brain is too frizzled to even realise it's talking to me. I'm a choking, hyperventilating, shaking mess.

"Jordan, honey, I'm gonna need you to open your eyes." Her silky voice is there again, like an angel in the distance. My eyes are clamped shut in an attempt to stop the water tearing down them. I don't want her to see me like this. Her warm hands are on my arms now, gently shaking them and I'm still gasping. The softness of her skin on mine is setting my insides alight, I'm choking on fumes.

"Come on, Jordan, tell me what's wrong baby." She asks, no, pleads, and I slowly blink my eyes open past my dried eyes and tear stained cheeks. I blink once, twice, three times till her figure stops blurring. She's crouched on the floor next to me, I don't even know when I sat down. My legs must have given out underneath me.

"Valentina." Is all I can rasp out. Her name, over and over, clinging to it like it's my saviour, salvation. She nods, her hand running down my face, once, twice, shaking me from my thoughts, running through my hair, once, twice, three times in a frenzy. I'm no longer shaking, but her arms are as she tries to hold me. To steady me or her, I don't know.

I try hold her to me, gripping onto her soft peachy skin, her bittersweet lemon scent, the soft fluffiness of her hair. It's not enough. It wouldn't be enough to be in her skin, to smoke it, to drown in it. She's fucking addictive and makes my insides crawl with the need to combust around her. My arms are all over her waist, hips, hugging her as tight against my tense body as I can. Her fingers are around my neck, in my hair, playing, rolling, twisting the damp strands.

"Your skin is on fire." She whispers against me, making a move to stand up and tugging me along with her. "Sit here." She says and I listen, because she could tell me to jump out of a moving vehicle and I would. I slide my ass onto the countertop and her delicate fingers fiddle with the hem of my black pyjama shirt. She glances at me warily, conflicted, before she blows a breath against her stray loose strands of hair.

"Arms up." Once again, I obey. She pulls it as high on my chest as she can reach, and I pull it off the rest of the way, watching her smaller figure as she turns and opens the fridge. I'm left in my plaid pyjama pants only and she's taking our trays of ice and unfolded cloths. 12 pleats across the fabric, two folds uneven in each corner. My brain notices the unnecessary things to distract me. Her tiny frame, the sliver of bare flesh between her navel and shorts. Tiny, silk shorts. She's the perfect distraction, and suddenly my breathing is slow and shallow again.