Tweekerz: woah WOW am I late with this.

You're sprawled on your back on the floor right before the first step of the staircase, and the boy's body is draped over your own, his head lolling against your neck. He smells like costume paint and silly putty, and there's another scent there, but you can't put your finger on it; it smells kind of sweet actually. You start to wonder why you're even in this position in the first place, but then you recall tripping over your shoelaces and eating it so very unironically.

You're grunting beneath him, trying to shimmy your way out from underneath his body. You really just want to shove at his chest, but you're afraid you'll aggravate his wounds, and of course, you don't want to get any of his weird blood on you. What if it's toxic or diseased or something? You look down at your chest and grimace—so much for trying to evade his blood. There are smears of purple all across the front of your blue slime shirt. It looks like Bob Ross's color pallet just barfed all over you, if that makes any sense.

You finally manage to get him off you and he thuds unceremoniously to the floor. You whisper a quick sorry and awkwardly pat his head, but then you realize what you're doing and you jerk your hand back—that had been purely instinct, you tell yourself.

He's still out like a light, his chest softly heaving up and down, up and down. You heave yourself up from the floor and look up at the staircase looming in front of you, your hands coming to rest at your side. You have absolutely no idea how you're going to lug him all the way up there.

The best place to stash him is in your room. As you said before, your Dad rarely goes up there, and when he does, he only ventures into your room when you're there, and always before knocking first. Besides, if you were to stash the boy anywhere else, you wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on him. You'd feel better knowing he was safe and sound in your room.

Oh man, you're really going to do this aren't you?

You decide that there's no other way to get him up the stairs, so you resort to something that you don't want to do—you're going to have to drag him all the way up there. Carefully, you lean over him and worm your arms underneath his armpits, using all the strength you have in your skinny little limbs to haul him up so that his back is pressed against your chest. He seems much heavier in this position and you try your hardest not to groan in pain when you accidentally nick your chin against one of his spindly horns.

You start off slowly at first because your back is facing the staircase and any wrong move can lead to both of you falling and eating shit as Dave would call it; however, as soon as you get the hang of things, you fasten your pace and it takes you only a second to get to the next step. You watch as his legs and feet thump against the stairs and you grimace each time—that's got to hurt.

Pretty soon, you're both at the top of the stairs. Your lungs are on fire and your arms hurt from having to hold the boy's weight up. You slump against the wall, bringing the boy with you, his body leaning against your chest. You catch yourself sliding down against the wall and you immediately push yourself away, pulling the boy tightly against your chest. You look down the hallway, thanking sweet baby Jesus that you had left your door open. Now you won't have to struggle to get him into your room without feeling as if you'd just run a marathon.

Taking a deep breath, you kick yourself away from the wall, adjusting your grip around the boy's chest. You try your hardest not to squeeze him so much, but you really can't help it. You're not going to set him on the ground and start dragging him by his feet- you have more class than that. As you limp across the hallway, you can hear the floorboards creaking underneath you. When you finally make it to your room, you let out a sigh of relief and hurry your pace, steadily dragging the boy across the threshold.

Your room is blue- the brightest blue. Your dad helped you paint it last fall, and its still there coating your walls, so blue and light, the color of the sky. You don't really know why you even chose that color, but at the time, it had been the only color you could see. Besides the wall color, you're room is pretty ordinary. There's a nice Queen sized bed lodged in the corner of the room, along with a few bedside drawers, a laptop propped on a wooden desk, and a red bean-bag chair sitting in front of a small plasma TV.

You don't want to half-ass this, but the boy's weight is really starting to get to you and your limbs are starting to get really sore, and so, in an imitation of a crab, you practically scuttle your way across your room and gently lay him down on your bed.

You step away from him and place your hands to your hips, your chest heaving. You really need to start exercising more because you're wheezing like you just got out from the gym. You eye the strange inhuman boy sprawled across your blue comforter. His body is half-way off the bed, his legs draped across the floor. His long arms are spread on either side of him, pointed talons turned in towards his palms. You wince.

You find yourself taking a step forward and leaning over him, your fingers hovering over his hands. His claws are sharp and you really don't want him to accidentally nick himself in the palms while he's incapacitated. The least you could do is uncurl his fingers for him. You don't know why you even bother sometimes. Before you even manage to graze his skin, that deep rumbling growl rolls off his chest and you jump where you stand, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

His dark gray eyelids are still closed, yet they're fluttering spasmodically, as if he can't quite get to them to be still. You wonder why he didn't growl at you when you were hauling him all the way up here. Perhaps it depended on the position he was in? Heck, you know you'd be pretty angry if you were lying helpless on your back with a stranger leering over you!

You back away, your eyes still trained on his fingers. You don't want to leave him like that, but there's really nothing you can do about it right now. You have to worry for your safety as well, you tell yourself. What use would you be if you end up getting hurt? You won't be able to help him at all!

You trail your eyes over his frame, crinkling your nose at the sheer amount of cuts and blood decorating his body. You bet that his whole body is stinging right now; however, you're grateful that he's not awake to feel it. He looks sort of uncomfortable in that position though. Maybe you should move him? You want to make him as comfortable as possible, even though you don't know anything about him, or if he's even human for that matter, but there's this wriggling feeling deep inside you that's insists you take action and remedy the situation.

Instead of walking directly towards him, you side-step and circle around your bed, hesitantly pressing your knee down on the mattress. The bed dips and creaks underneath your weight, but not very loudly, so you continue forward. You slowly crawl across the bed, your shoes leaving brown and purple smears across your blue coverlet. Looks like you're going to have to bleach that stuff out.

When you're only but a few centimeters away from him, you stop. You're on your hands and knees, the mattress creaking underneath you whenever you so much as shift your weight from side to side. That sweet scent from before is there again, slowly invading your senses. You're relieved when you can feel cool puffs of air come from his nostrils, indicating that he was still alive and breathing, although very shallowly. He smells like paint and blood and something else, and he's literally leaking purple all over your bed, but he's alive.

You stare down at him, still on your hands and knees, your jittery body hovering over his still one. Your eyes rove over his face, noticing the way his wiry hair is pushed back from his forehead, revealing more gray as rock skin plastered in peeling white paint. His mouth is partially opened, revealing serrated teeth that glint white and green—you wonder what that green stuff on his teeth is, but you're not about to find out right now. Those teeth look sharp enough to pierce through flesh and you're not about to take any chances.

You might as well have jinxed yourself without knocking on any wood, because you suddenly find yourself jerking yourself back as the boy's head lifts up from the mattress and his teeth snap through air. You scramble across your bed backwards, your back thumping harshly against the wall. You're afraid. Your breathing is ragged and your eyes are widened to such a degree that you feel they may as well pop right out of your eye sockets. You fist the blankets beneath you, your heart hammering against your chest. Your cerulean eyes meet grayish purple, and you can't help but feel fear and panic lacing through your veins. He looks a bit disoriented, but then he licks his lips, tilts his head and blinks his eyes so owlishly you think he might go back to sleep.

"Where the motherfuck am I?"

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