In Search of Home

Chapter 83

He forgot how comforting it was to sleep with someone nearby.

Beeps and hissing from machinery were nothing compared to the soft snuffling and shifting of a living, breathing body. His dad had been nervous and apprehensive, wary about Vok'Rul despite his reluctant acceptance of the alien. Viktor had been determined to sleep in his own bed, though, despite the man's claims that it was demeaning and 'not fit' for him.

"I just spent a month in a coma. If I'm gonna sleep anywhere, it's gonna be in my own bed," he defended, awkwardly kneeling on the floor to pull his blankets in place. His dad stood behind him, looking at his bed with disgust.

"It's a glorified dog bed," he protested. Vok'Rul remained silent, anxiously hovering in the doorway. Viktor knew he wouldn't admit it, but he thought that the alien was desperate for a positive opinion from his dad.

"It's my glorified dog bed," Viktor huffed. He looked desperately to Vok'Rul, but the alien looked as helpless as he felt.

"Does it have to be on the floor?" Oskar complained. "In this corner?"

"Yes," he said stubbornly. After they held each other's gazes for a long, long minute, Oskar wilted in defeat. "It's comfy," Viktor defended, though he was trying to suppress a smile from forming on his lips. It would ruin the triumph he felt.

"I'll take your word for it," his dad sighed. He turned to inspect the rest of the room. There was hardly anything on the walls, except for the portrait of Viktor, which was enveloped in an elaborate, silver frame. It hung proudly over Vok'Rul's dresser, right across the bed. It would be the first thing the alien saw when he woke. It warmed Viktor.

After his dad admitted defeat, Vok'Rul showed him out of the wing. The elevator up to the stairs had finished, but Viktor hadn't wanted to go through the trouble of testing it right then. He'd do it in the morning.

If he ever made it to morning.

His bed was comfortable, don't get him wrong, but the ache in his chest and the throbbing of his arms, legs, and neck made it hard to relax. Not to mention, every breath felt like he was breathing through millions of shards of broken glass. He knew he sounded awful, especially after yet another coughing fit. He felt a little guilty for keeping Vok'Rul awake.

Sure, the alien needed less sleep than he did - and Viktor certainly needed more sleep than he used to - but they were both tossing and turning in their respective beds.

"Sorry," he rasped, too loud in the quiet room. He suddenly missed the chirring of crickets outside his apartment window. At least there'd be some sort of noise. "It's hard to breathe." The admittance was difficult; he didn't want to admit there was something wrong with him. It made him feel weak.

Shuffling, then a sharp growl of disagreement.

"If I could've ripped out his throat in that hallway, I would have, my little Kohgrash," he said in a low whisper. Viktor stared at the ceiling, feeling his stomach do flips. "I should have taken more than his disgusting hand. I should've torn his entire arm straight from its socket."

Viktor focused on breathing for a second. Then, "What did you do to Turrkn?"

Silence. Vok'Rul sat up on his bed, yellow eyes reflecting the weak moonlight. "I saw," he paused for a second, "I saw your weapon in his eye. I took it out. Along with the eye. And then I removed the other."

Viktor didn't say anything to that. He listened as Vok'Rul slid out of his bed, tail thumping onto the ground a second later. The alien paced the room; the familiar thump-thump-slide of his footsteps and tail against the carpet filled the quiet room.