Moros - The First Cold

Who knew a primordial could get a head cold? Definitely not Moros. He doesn’t know why this is happening, or what higher power finds this shit amusing, but it needs to stop now. His nose is leaking constantly, yet somehow also feels as if bricks have been stuffed up his nostrils. It feels as if he’s swallowed razor blades, or something equally unpleasant, and his eyes have never been so swollen.

This is worse than Hell. He should know, too, seeing as that is the location in which he usually resides.

“Whiskey,” He says into the phone as soon as Elis answers.

“What?” His sibling just sounds baffled, “Mor? Why do you sound muffled?”

“I’m fucking dying and I’ve looked in every cabinet we have for whiskey, or honey, or lemon. Somehow we are zero for three right now.” Mor seethes, “Out of them all, I’d like whiskey the most. Where is it?”

“Oh.” They sound reluctant, “I finished the bottle up with Syl a few nights ago.”

Always leave it to his family.

“Fuck you,” He says, part affectionate and part serious.

All he hears is Elis sputtering as he hangs up the phone. He runs damn near burning water and soaks a rag in it, laying it over his face. It does nothing to relieve the pressure building up in his head. He feels like a balloon that’s been overinflated. 

He sends you a semi-whiny message, but you’re in class. You won’t respond for quite some time, so he does the next best thing. He googles it. Apparently spice helps, so he rounds up every hot sauce in the house and makes a cocktail so cursed he could probably fool Satan into thinking it’s you. 

Staring down the glass, he brings it to his lips. Almost as if it anticipates the torture to come, the pressure in his head eases off. It’s too late for negotiations, though. He downs the whole thing, and the effect is almost instantaneous. He coughs, and he feels like lava is shooting up his throat. Maybe if he opened his mouth right now, flames would escape.

At least his head feels better. His mouth, and likely his stomach in a few moments, cannot say the same. By the time you finally text him back, he’s already collapsed on the couch and fallen asleep, cursing the universe all the while.