Orion cocked his head toward his foster brother, his lips curling into a sharp, irritated scowl. The expression on his face alone carried enough venom to make his displeasure clear.
He hated it whenever Eden brought up—or even hinted at—the fact that he was stealing. Eden's words had a way of poking at the truth Orion would rather not face. The bitter reality was that what the two boys could earn on their own simply wasn't enough to sustain themselves, let alone take care of Kay, who was now an invalid and required constant attention.
The biggest obstacle was simple but cruel: only one of them could work at a time. While one went out to try and earn some money, the other had to stay behind and watch over Kay, making sure nothing accidentally hurt him because, even though he hadn't moved on his own in years, the percentage of him being safe in an empty house was weirdly not zero. This meant they were essentially two capable young men forced to function as a single worker, yet the meager income from that effort had to cover the needs of three people.
The math of it was terrible, depressing even. No matter how they tried to calculate it, the numbers never worked in their favor.
The only reason they'd been able to scrape by at all was thanks to Orion doing what had to be done—whether Eden approved or not.
Orion had accepted the role of bending rules, stretching morality, and sometimes outright breaking the law to balance their fragile budget. Fortunately, or more accurately, unfortunately for him, because they lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone, he never had to resort to stealing anything grand enough to spark widespread suspicion. Something that would really have a substantial impact on how well their lives improve.
The highest risk to reward theft Orion had ever done happened a couple of minutes ago— when he stole Xander's carrier. He usually stuck to small things, items that wouldn't draw too much attention or be missed, because getting caught would not only disgrace him but also bring unbearable shame to Kay. And Kay, before his illness, had been highly respected as the town's doctor.
For the most part, Orion leaned on his natural charm, quick wit, and silver tongue to get what he wanted. He had mastered the art of persuasion, coaxing or sweet-talking people into offering little extras here and there. He had done it so often that his name had become a familiar whisper among the ladies of the town—young, mature, and even elderly alike. They all knew Orion.
People called him an opportunist, and perhaps he was, but most didn't mind being "used" by him. They understood the situation his small family was in, and pity often softened their judgment.
With a faint, mischievous smile plastered across his face, Orion turned on his heel and began walking toward the door.
"If this is your idea of recovery," Eden's voice cut through the air, halting Orion mid-step, "then I don't know what to say."
Orion paused, annoyance flickering across his features. Eden wasn't done.
"The first time he moved on his own was during a seizure. That seizure made him injure himself, and it would've gotten much worse if I hadn't been there to stop it. Do you really think more of that is a good thing?"
The words lingered, echoing sharply in Orion's ears. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward Kay, who lay motionless in the bathtub, his frail body looking smaller than it used to. Yet despite the seriousness of the moment, a grin spread across Orion's lips.
"It's just a little wound," he said lightly, his voice carrying the nonchalant bravado of someone who refused to let despair in. "If you come out of a beating with just a little wound, then that's a win. Trust me, I'd know. Although in this case, Kay's beating himself, it still counts. As long as he keeps winning, he'll be fine."
Eden turned his head slowly, giving Orion a side-eye glare, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Again with those cryptic words of yours," he muttered. "Everything always has to revolve around fighting with you."
His gaze shifted toward Orion's face, and his expression softened into a half-smile. "Judging by those bruises, it looks like you also 'won' whatever fight you got yourself into while you were out."
Orion instinctively lifted his hand to touch the area around his slightly swollen eye.
"Oh, this?" he asked with a sly smirk. "I see you noticed after all. And yeah… I won."
He dropped his hand, ready to make another flippant remark, but before the words could escape, an intense itch crawled up his arm. He tensed, quickly pressing his slightly long fingernails against the spot and scratching furiously.
Eden frowned. "Looks like time's up. Better cover up before it spreads."
"Oh, this?" Orion gave a forced laugh, trying to mask his unease. He pointed at the irritated patch of skin. "It's nothing serious. I mean, it's not like I'm the only guy in the world who gets itchy from time to—"
But then he caught the disinterested, almost knowing look Eden was giving him. Eden's eyes practically accused him of lying outright.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll go handle it," Orion muttered, turning abruptly and hurrying out of the bathroom before the conversation could go any further.
His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall to their shared bedroom, the urgency in his pace matching the intensity of the itch crawling across his arm. He crouched beside the bed, reached underneath, and dragged out a small, worn sack. He tossed it onto the mattress and untied the knot at the top, spilling its contents open.
Inside lay several thin white fabrics, rolled neatly into circles. Each was cut to the size needed to cover a person's face, just like the one he had worn during his earlier encounter with Xander. Alongside them sat a small container filled with a thick, viscous liquid.
The itch spread to his other arm now, prickling his skin as though tiny invisible insects were biting him from the inside out. He wasted no time—snatching one of the rolled cloths, unwrapping it quickly, then grabbing the container. The lid twisted off, releasing the smell of something damp and earthy. Inside was a murky mixture that looked unsettlingly like muddy water.
Orion dug into the sack again and retrieved a small polish brush. He dipped the brush into the substance, carefully applying it across the cloth, concentrating most of it around the section that would cover his nose when worn. He was cautious not to use too much; the goal was for it to dry quickly without smearing against his skin.
Within seconds, though his skin crawled with relentless itching, the cloth dried enough to be usable. Orion quickly tied it over his face, looping the knot behind his head with practiced speed.
Exhaling every ounce of air from his lungs until his vision blurred, he then inhaled sharply through the treated cloth. A cool rush filled his chest. He repeated the cycle several times, forcing himself through the lightheadedness until, gradually, the itching ebbed away. Relief washed over him, leaving him weak but grateful.
Leaning forward, Orion rested his head briefly against the mattress. He sighed, savoring the sensation of being saved once again by his makeshift invention.
After regaining his strength, he reached back into the sack and retrieved the last two items within: a pen and a notebook bookmarked roughly a third of the way through. He flipped it open to the marked section and began scribbling down fresh notes in quick, precise strokes.
One month since the first symptoms appeared. They've only gotten worse over time, but one week ago I discovered that the nose covers work as a temporary solution. The duration of time I can stay unaffected without wearing one keeps shrinking at an alarming rate. Soon, I may not be able to last at all without it.
Pros: The materials needed for these covers are simple and easy to find, so I can make as many as necessary without much trouble.
Cons: Because the filtration process relies on such basic components, how long before it fails completely? How long before the covers can no longer filter the excess oxygen in this world's air—the air that my body, somehow, seems to be rejecting as it reverts… or maybe transforms—into the state it was in back on Earth. My Earth.
Hopes: To find a permanent solution before it's too late.
He tapped the pen against the page several times, then closed the notebook with a quiet thud. His eyes lingered on the cover for a moment before flipping it open again, this time to the second page.
There, sketched in careful detail, was the drawing of a pair of boxing gloves, a championship belt, and the figure of a boxer frozen mid-pose. A small smile crept across Orion's concealed face as he studied it.
He then shifted his gaze to the bottom right of the page that had a tombstone drawn on it and the words Orion Boyd. 2007–2025
With a faint sigh, he tucked the notebook and all the other items back into the sack, tying it securely and shoving it once more beneath the bed frame.
"Good thing Eden and the people here can't read Earth English," he muttered under his breath. "Otherwise, he'd never stop bombarding me with questions if he'd snooped through my journals. How exactly do you tell someone from the medieval period that you not only transmigrated from an alternate future?
Orion knew his foster brother well enough to be certain Eden had probably gone through his belongings at least once. Sharing a room left little room for secrets. But even if Eden had stumbled across the notebook, the barrier of language ensured Orion's secrets remained safe.
As Orion made his way back down the hall, he noticed the bathroom door was ajar and the room empty. Eden must have taken Kay out already.
Just then, a knock echoed at the front door, followed by the sound of Eden's footsteps moving toward it.
"Hey, Ed," Orion said, "I can't really go out right now because of… certain issues. Can you grab some ingredients for me later so I can cook that meal I mentioned?"
Eden didn't respond. Instead, Orion heard his brother speaking to someone else at the door.
"Yeah, he's in," Eden said. "You're in luck—he just came back not too long ago."
Orion frowned, puzzled. Who could Eden possibly be talking to about him? He stepped toward the living room, rubbing at his swollen eye as a sharp sting ran through it.
"Ouch," he muttered, wincing. "Who are you talking to, Ed—?"
The words caught in his throat as he stepped into view. His body froze. His eyes widened, pupils darting nervously as he locked eyes with the last person he ever expected to see standing there.
"You?" His voice cracked with shock.
"Oh? Is today my lucky day or what?" Xander's smirk was cruel as he leaned against the doorframe. With one casual shove, he pushed the door wide open, stepping inside and gesturing for his companions to follow. "So this is where you live."