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‘Well, if you have any suggestions, let me know. It might be awhile before we get off island… But at least you still have my shirt, right?”

Shiloh smiled lightly, but his head hurt. He listened to Ian while he carefully hung the rest of the clothes up. For all intensive purposes, he seemed like his regular self, but Ian’s final question made him stiffen, his reaction nearly imperceptible beneath the bagginess of his sweater. What had it been like?

It had been more frightening than anything he’d experienced. It was the proverbial monster under the bed that had terrified him his entire life, except it was real, and it came from the ocean, and his sister wasn’t around to assure him it was okay, that everything would be alright, because it wasn’t alright, and he was going to wind up dead, just like her. It was a long pause before Shiloh answered, and he silently finished hanging up the last wet item of clothing, before turning around to face Ian.

But he didn’t really face the other man. Instead he slumped against the wall, sliding down it until he was seated on the floor.

“It was scary,” he admitted softly, feeling a lot like he was five years old again, unable to even muster up a grin. He hated himself for giving into the weariness, but his face was hot and his mind was swimming feverishly; being cheerful or cracking jokes seemed like impossible stretch.

He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them. It had been a long time since he’d been so afraid, and since he’d refused to think about what had happened on the beach in favor of duty, and then collapsed into a mind numbing sleep the moment he’d been able to, Shiloh hadn’t really thought about the situation at all until now. The creature’s mouth had been horrifying, wet, and slimy, its saliva coating over him and washing him down its throat. It had been dark save for the blue bio-luminescence, which did nothing but eerily half light the moving wall’s of the monsters innards as it tried its best to digest Shiloh, and the others that had been swallowed with him. He didn’t tell Ian this; there was no point in elaborating on the messy details. That it was scary was an apt description, and the fact that Shiloh’s face was emptily devoid of any sort of smile summed up the situation entirely.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly, “I can’t imagine that either, sorry man.”

Shiloh thought about joking, that next time he’d try to run faster, but it died on his lips before he could tack it on, and the Life hunter settled for staring straight ahead aimlessly, the hood of his sweater pushing the hair down over his face. He just, he needed a minute, he reasoned to himself. He was mad that he was allowing himself to indulge in a side of him he tried best to keep hidden, and madder still that he was doing it in front of someone else.

Gingerly, he pushed himself to his feet and barely made the few steps to his bed before he let himself crash down on it beside Ian, burying his face into the mattress.

“Next time, I’ll make sure you’re not left out, okay?” he mumbled teasingly into the sheets, doing his best to rectify the somber atmosphere that had fallen between them.

Shiloh hadn’t felt much of anything when he’d ‘died’. Part of the reason he was so happy all the time was because he’d mastered the art of not giving a s**t about things. Presently, it was only a momentary lapse in his character, being sick effectively dampening his spirits enough to let his antagonizing feelings win. The art of not caring about bad things was a practice that had gotten considerably easier when the one source of light and hope in his life had been, in a blink, blotted out. And even before that, there was no way he could have survived if he’d been the type to let things get under his skin, and apparently that now included face eating of the monster kind.

He wasn’t sure why that train of thought reminded him that monsters weren’t the only thing with a penchant for face eating, but in comparison, what had happened with Ian didn’t seem scary at all, and though his fever might have had something to do with it, Shiloh smiled to himself a little, thinking at least Ian had had the decency to call him after. Then his smile faded, when he realized he was making jokes in his head, and not out loud, and that Ian’s hand was pressed gently against his cheek while Ian spoke to him.

Too tired to make himself move, he nodded his head, his hood moving up and down the only indication he was even under there. He stretched out his leg, pointing at his nightstand, where Ian would find a bottle of water in the drawer.

The bottle nudged the side of his head and his lifted his arm to take it from Ian, finally shifting his weight so he was curled half on his side, facing the other hunter. He fumbled with the cap for a moment with one hand, his other tucked beneath him, before with a grumble he gave up and held the water bottle back to Ian.

“Cap, please, chicken,” he demanded, though his tone hinted at cheekiness rather than true insolence. Shiloh was the sort of person who drew his energy from being around others, company made him feel safer, warmer and Ian sitting next to him was no exception. It was a feeling that multiplied tenfold when he wasn’t feeling well, Shiloh wanting to be coddled, protected. He glanced up at Ian, scrutinizing him. He felt bad for making the other man sick, but his being sick also meant he wasn’t much of a protector so much as someone who also needed to be protected. Unfortunately for Ian, Shiloh was currently useless for anything that didn’t involve lying there like a lump. Getting the cap off the water would be his first test of Ian’s mettle.

Ian passed the test with flying colors, but Shiloh still made a face at him as Ian took a swig of the bottle, and at the nickname that followed.

“Fine, Ian,” he muttered, but his face, thought weary-looking, lit up with the hint of a smile as the took the now open water bottle. “Even though you just germed up my water. What if I catch what you have?”

The joke was stupid but he grinned anyway, and inadvertently sloshed the water from the bottle onto himself as he tried to take a drink in his current position. He frowned, and sat up with a groan, staring down at the soaked front of his hoodie, and the now considerably emptier water bottle. More embarrassing was that Ian had seen the whole thing, in addition to his weird mood and Shiloh awkwardly avoided meeting Ian’s eyes. He took a quick drink of water, before handing it back to Ian as he began to pull off his sweater. The wet portion was cool against his skin and unpleasant, threatening to send his feverish body into chills. Shiloh wanted it off, and as getting a new one involved getting up, and effort, he was just going to have to deal with being shirtless, even if foolishly he hadn't considered that it might have the same effect as his wet sweater.

Dropping the hoodie unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed, Shiloh lifted the blankets up and burrowed underneath them, tucked next to Ian through a layer of bedding.

Poking his head out over the blankets, he glanced up at Ian, and at the blue marks on his cheeks. “I’m sorry I made you sick,” he apologized softly.

He laughed a little. “You have something else besides a strong desire to play football?”

“Sorry,” he added a moment after, knowing full well that the marks on Ian’s face were to blame, and that he had been the one to put them there. Their slimy hug probably hadn’t helped either, but no matter which way it was looked at, Shiloh was still in some way responsible. If Ian was even feeling a fraction of the way he was, he felt bad, it was awful and he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemies, let alone friends.

Ian’s fingers were cool against his skin as they brushed the hair from his face, but when the light touch turned to poking, Shiloh grimaced.

“Sap,” he said, reaching up and giving Ian a playful shove with his hand. With his strength sapped, it ended up being more of a gentle push than anything else and he let his arm fall lazily onto the other hunter, not bothering to move it back. He was lucky his face was already flushed, because what Ian had said had his cheeks warming from more than just the fever. He hadn’t expected Ian to say that, and it was surprising, but nice, to matter to someone in such a way.

“You’re sick too,” he concluded finally. “What were you doing sitting in the hallway like that?”

“Lucky,” Shiloh said. “I played everything, though I wouldn’t necessarily say I was good.”

He grinned, seemingly not minding that he hadn’t become a star athlete. He hadn’t wanted to, after all, he only joined the teams in hopes of impressing his parents, a goal he felt he hadn’t ever attained. Still, it had been fun, and he’d made friends, so he didn’t regret it.

Ian’s dismissal of his apology, and his subsequent reasoning, had Shiloh nodding his head, his own usually pink hair now partially blue. He rested his head on the pillows, watching as Ian settled beside him, the Mist hunter toying gently with a piece of his hair. He was content to leave his arm where is was, the fever effectively fogging his brain enough to keep it from worrying about their close proximity. Worrying about such things belonged to sobriety, and it was excess baggage he was glad to let slide away for the moment.

At least, he had been content, until Ian’s comment, at which he raised his arm so he could flick the other hunter in the forehead.

“Your head is fine,” Shiloh admonished him playfully.

But Shiloh fell silent too, staring at Ian curiously, even more so when Ian spoke again.

“Someone, huh? Must have been someone special, that you couldn’t think in bed,” he teased. He paused for a second before continuing, his eyes thoughtful and his mouth grinning, “Though, I guess laundry dragged me out, so I guess that’s not saying much.”