A/N: No matter what life he’s in, Alibaba cannot catch a break. Nope. Never.
Kill the wab-bit! Kill the wab-bit! Kill the–
Alan thumped off the Ride of the Valkyries alarm, blinking blearily. Alarms were evil and should die. Especially alarms that made him have to struggle out of a knobby, warm bubble of happy.
Happy. It’s been a while.
He was trying not to feel guilty about that glimmer of warm. Mom wouldn’t want him to curl up in a dark corner forever. Even if sometimes he felt like that was all he wanted to do.
Up, anyway, Alan thought through the fog. Geh. Drink of water?
The one nice thing about living in Florida was his own bathroom. Even if he had to have discussions with Miss Tanya about who, exactly, was supposed to be cleaning it. Which meant he could stick his head under the faucet as long as he needed to, to get the sand scrubbed out of his eyes.
Sand. Urgh. Nightmares.
He’d had a lot of them. Which was funny, considering that contented glow wrapped around the familiar ache of loss. Or maybe not; he remembered reading somewhere nightmares hit when the stress was off. Though what kind of stress had evaporated off that his brain had pulled a nightmare patrol of monsters, facing off with a black-haired friend apparently fallen Darkside, Morgan in short robes with her eyes bleeding, and flying through the air in a crackle of fire with the principal dressed up like a sea-dragon, clawed hands raising a sword that hammered down lightning….
My brain. It is full of weird. Alan blinked, and rinsed his face again, noticing he was still in yesterday’s gym clothes. Ugh. Maybe the punch was drugged?
It’d explain a lot. Flying turbans, hands reaching into his chest; Morgan leaping into battle in her school uniform like flying justice, only to turn up in his bed-
Oh no. No way.
Heart in his throat, Alan peeked out of the bathroom door. Sheets, blankets, comforter – he’d been sleeping under a lot of layers since he’d gotten here, trying to keep the fever somewhat at bay-
Um. That shade of red wasn’t in any of his blankets.
Alan slammed himself out of sight by the side of the doorway, heart racing. Red hair, curled into one of his pillows. Tanned, slightly knobby-elbowed arms; he knew, he’d somehow pried his way out of them half-asleep. And an impossibly cute face, attached to a body that could break bricks like matchsticks.
Dead. He was so dead.
…Where did that blue come from?
Warily, Alan peeked around the doorway. Red hair on what would have been his right side, check. Sprawled on the other side of the bed – a long blue braid attached to a kid wearing a red gem on his forehead and smiling in his sleep. Whose arms would have been the other set he’d wriggled out of, on his way to smashing off the alarm.
Girl. Boy. System crash. Reboot: Y/N?