Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi

The sickness wasn't getting particularly better. Not worse, but certainly not better. There was no real ignoring it any longer, as much as Krem would have liked. As much as his denial would have liked. There was no ignoring that something was wrong, and it wasn't just a flu that was going to be knocked back with tonics and rest.

He called out of work. He hadn't, in all nine months he'd been working at Off the Wall or Bardolf's, and so there was sympathy when he said he was sick and he needed to take a few days off to rest and recover. Then, he deliberated. There was a multitude of numbers in his phone he could call for commiseration, for consolation, for comfort. Krem knew he didn't need those, not quite. He needed a remedy.

He called Hild with a quiet misery in his voice between inability to keep down anything more substantial than broth, and then, curled on the couch and gently holding his stomach, he waited.

It had been a few days since the party at Semele's, which of course meant it had been a few days for Darrow to see that Krem's life had gone sideways in the worst kind of ways. Still, he was well aware that dwelling on his anxieties wasn't going to solve anything. After he'd discovered Aggie's disappearance, he'd been vocal in his protest against the statements that those that had disappeared had just, like so many others, returned home. The whole mess of it stank. And he'd dealt with enough corrupt situations to know the stink of it when he encountered it. But tonight wasn't about that. He'd done everything that he could for now. And for now, all he could do was wait and hope.

So he'd let Thomas know that he had an evening and day off in a row--a rare occurrence for him, and he planned to spend the day tomorrow filled with looking for Aggie again; but that could wait until after Thomas headed home. He knew that Thomas worked, but he let him know that the doors was open, that he was welcome to let himself in when he got here. He wasn't entirely sure when Thomas got off of work, supposing it probably depended on any number of things, but it wasn't as if Krem was likely to fall asleep.

He did wonder if he ought to put anything out in anticipation or presumption of the rest of the evening, but somehow that seemed to be asking a little too much. At this point, he'd just be glad to have Thomas there. More than ever, the quiet of the apartment was getting to him, and it would be good to have someone else there, even if just for the night, someone to be some sort of reassurance that things would be alright.

He curled up in the corner of the couch and waited, a book in his lap that he was only sort of reading.

[A day or so following THIS]

Krem had screwed things up, in a spectacular fashion, and he had known that when he had looked across the room and seen Noah and Thomas talking. It had not particularly occurred to him at any moment prior to that--when he and Thomas had gone back to his apartment and he had selfishly, impulsively kissed Thomas; when he had told Noah about it days afterward in a rush of confessional spirit--that anything was wrong. But he had realized, standing there, that he had made several critical miscalculations in the whole mess of things.

Now, rather than the kiss having selfishly figured anything out for his confounded emotions, he found he was adrift and at risk of losing two people that he cared very deeply about as friends, before anything else was factored into his feelings about them.

The trouble was, figuring out where to find a ghost and a runner in a city that was full of hiding places. Especially when he was certain that neither one of them wanted to talk to him at the moment, or they would have sought him out on their own. Still, he had to try and set things straight. He had to make an attempt at explaining what had happened, what he had done. No excuses, but an honest explanation.

He hoped, at least, that they wouldn't hate him when he was done. It was all he could hope for.