Palatable madness.

Yes, that suited how she felt now perfectly.

Leaning back in her seat, her ears pulled back as she rested her eyes on the faded paint on the ceiling, the whole room seeming to float in a computer-screen glow, like the ripple-lights on water. Closing her eyes, she tried to straighten her back in the cushioned computer chair, groaning as she felt her spine crack. Shifting forwards again, she squinted at the little clock on the screen.

3:55. A.M.

Sighing in a mixture of exhaustion and frustration, she cracked her knuckles as she slumped forwards. Reaching up, she pressed both hands over her eyes, the firm flesh connecting her thumb to the rest of her hand following the curve of her eye sockets. Contemplating the silence for the moment, she lowered her hands and stood, ears flat against the curve of her skull as she dragged herself to her feet, tail flowing out behind her almost gracefully before she slipped on a bottle and grabbed her swiveling computer chair for support. Muttering curses, she stumbled into the kitchen, reaching the counter and grabbing it firmly as she hoped the room would stop spinning.

About five minutes later, if the clock on her monitor could be trusted, she found herself back in her seat again, guzzling down yet another bottle of raspberry wine laced with enough vodka to put a two-hundred pound human male into a hospital with alcohol poisoning.

Finishing the bottle, she let it fall with a clatter to the floor again, flopping back in her seat in a pose of non-intentional exasperation. Reaching forwards with a hand, she tapped the button on her monitor to turn it off, finally finding it after several tries, and a feeling of nearly overbearing nausea twisted in her stomach. Groaning, she tried to stand up again, but next thing she knew she was on the floor, cheek pressed against the dusty carpet.

After about five minutes and six tries to sit up, she gave up, both thankful for the carpeting and the fact that she no longer felt the need to vomit. Relaxing, she was about to gleefully pass out, content in her stupor, until there was a knock on the door.

Or, more accurately, someone was slamming their fists randomly on the door to her piece of shit apartment, with every intention of keeping her from being able to sleep in the dark for the first time in nearly a year.

Nanaki rolled over, her hand finding the neck of yet another bottle, her ears flickering for a moment as she held it to her chest in a near choke-hold.

”Na-ki?”

Her eyes snapped open. There was a slight slur in that voice, clearly not nearly as drunk as she was, but his accent was unmistakable.

”Na-ki, please tell me you’re in. Come on, Nanaki, open the fucking door. Please?”

There was a fumble before she heard the rattle of her doorknob, and she rolled over again. Looking at the bottle clenched in her fingers for a moment, she swung her arm and released it. There was the resounding shatter of glass, and a yell with a dull thump as she assumed he’d thrown himself away from the door in shock. The click of a lock was heard underneath the ruckus, she took a steadying breath, pulling herself into a sitting position in the space between her old desk and the wall.

”It’s open, asshole,” she hollered through the door, before giving a hiccup as a mop of long, dirty blonde hair poked itself past the sliver of light.

"Uh... you're not going to kill me are you?" he asked uncertainly, indigo eyes widened to make out her form in the dark. "I brought food."

And, inexplicably, she started to laugh and cry at the same time.

Fern stepped into the room, the crunch of broken glass under his boots, grinding shards into the rug. She'd have to wear her shoes for the next few days.

"You alright?" he asked, shuffling over to where she sat, his ears down in slight confusion and his tail swaying behind him, trying to keep his center of gravity a little less tipsy.

"Y-yeah," she rasped, hiccuping again. He nudged her gently with his foot, and she moved over a little so he could take a seat next to her, depositing the bag he'd been carrying in front of her.

"Chinese," he said bluntly, and she grinned, digging through the bag and immediately pinpointing the sprouts, sweet-and-sour pork, rice, and a pair of chopsticks.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked suddenly. "One minute you were here, and the next you get dragged off by some fucking lunatics and I get shot. Twice." Here she looked up. "You fucking owe me, bastard. And more than just Chinese food, not that I'm really complaining."

Fern sighed, ears back and his head leaned against the wall as she drizzled her rice in sauce hap-haphazardly.

"Sorry."

Nanaki grunted, now shoveling bits of rice and pork into her mouth ravenously, before swallowing it all and nearly choking.

"Well?" he pressed.

"Well, what?" she asked through another mouthful, this time substituting the rice with sprouts.

"Do you forgive me?"

"For what?"

Fern ground his teeth, and Nanaki noted this with a certain numbing pleasure as she continued to eat. She must've slowed down enough for Fern to notice that she was waiting for a reaction, because he looked back at her and let out a little scoff from between his lips.

"Fuck you, Na-ki."

"Yes, please."

He blinked back at her with a look of scandalous curiosity. "How drunk are you, again?"

She swallowed her rice, smirking. "Very. Easily enough for what you might have in mind."

Fern grinned back, leaning forwards and whispering in her ear with a sudden vindictive streak that made her giggle slightly, "Don't you want to hear what happened?"

"What, that your dad forced you to marry the bitch? Yeah, I heard."

"Oh?" he leaned back, clearly disgruntled.

"Yep," she said, giggling, ears swiveling as she pressed him back against the wall.

"Are you sure Michael wouldn't mind?" he asked, sharp teeth wired in a devious smile.

"If he did, I wouldn't be doing this."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Nanaki woke up to shuffling. Sitting up, she watched as Fern stumbled to his feet, his hair tangled and twisted in knots as he wandered, naked, toward the kitchen.

She rolled over on the floor, reaching a hand out to grasp a cold -but decidedly still edible- carton of rice, when there was a shriek from somewhere by the door.

Nanaki closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep as Fern cursed, pulling glass out of his foot.

'I win.'