Disclaimer: I don't own Eragon or anything associated with the Inheritance Cycle.
Claimer: I, SussieKitten, own this plot and the story. Borrow or steal my plot, my (when used) original characters or story and I will report you. I also own my version of Saphira/Thorn's human appearances.
Warnings: Male homosexuality. Female homosexuality. Heterosexuality. Mild hints at incest - as in, they are brothers in this story. Swearing or strong language. Fluff - seriously, beware the fluff! Attempt at humour - read: attempt. If any of this disturbs you, click on the "back" button. I won't tolerate any flames.
A/N Thank you so much for all the positive feedback from the first part of this story. It really means a lot to hear that I can do some light comedy as well.
In this chapter you will be able to witness, not only one of Eragon's infamous klutzy episodes, but why he isn't allowed to wash his own clothes. And not only that, but you will be able to witness a new trait; imagination gone wild. You can also just call it assumptions, but the way Eragon goes on and on about it, it seems more like imagination gone wild. You'll understand what I mean when you get there.
This part is beta'ed by rAbIdmutt03. Thanks again, dude!
Just Another Ordinary Day
Chapter Two
The Laundry Incident
Eragon was dead. So dead. Murtagh was going to kill him. He was going to gut him, strangle him with his own intestines, and then bring him back so that he could kill him again.
Eragon stared down at the mess in front of him. His hands were gripping the edge of the washing machine tightly. Yes, you had heard him right; the washing machine. The reason Murtagh was going to kill him as painfully as humanly possible.
There weren't a lot of things that Eragon struggled with, but he had never been good at washing his clothes. It wasn't because his mother smothered him and he had just never learned how to do it. Oh no. Selena had actually pulled him aside and made him learn how to work the damn machine. But when he had tried to do it by himself, Eragon would have to say that he had failed spectacularly. He had been banned from using the washing machine since.
But there he was. Because of the stupidity that was his brother, Eragon had been forced to do the laundry himself. Really, Murtagh had picked the worst time to come down with a cold. Or, well, Eragon couldn't call it a cold. Murtagh hadn't come out of his room. The only times Eragon had heard from his brother was when he was bent over the toilet, puking his guts out, when he groaned like -well, Eragon would rather not think about that- and when Murtagh oh so subtly begged the heavens to kill him.
Because of Murtagh's flu-rendered state, Eragon was forced to cook and do the chores. Unfortunately, Murtagh had gotten sick on the same day as he usually did the laundry. Now, this was no problem for the oldest brother. He was bedridden and for all Eragon knew, had been wearing the same shirt and pyjama pants for a week. Eragon however was not that lucky.
That explained why he was there, with another visual reminder of why he was under no circumstances allowed to do the laundry. But he couldn't afford to buy clothes to wear, so he had had no choice.
Right now, he wished he had swallowed his pride earlier and asked Saphira for help.
"What the heck am I going to do?" Eragon whispered to himself and pulled out a t-shirt that, prior to being washed, had been white. Now it was white with specks of blue, pink, green and brown. Thankfully it hadn't been one of his favourite t-shirts.
He had still no idea how the pink had gotten there, though.
Eragon sighed and put it in the bag. That was just the first garment. There was more horror to come, he was sure.
Eragon was not surprised when he found that his socks looked alarmingly smaller than normal. None of his other clothes looked smaller, but of course his socks had shrunk. The brunet sulked.
The majority of the clothes had survived the wash, but Eragon was still stuck with a multicoloured t-shirt, too-small socks, a sweater that now had one arm that was longer than the other, a black t-shirt that now was grey and a pair of jeans that looked very stiff.
Eragon sighed for what had to be the tenth time. He left the Laundromat with the bag of clothes over his shoulder. He hoped -as evil as it sounded- that Murtagh was too sick to come out of the room when he came back. He would rather not be killed before his final exams.
The brunet put down the bag and searched around for the key. He finally found it two minutes later, in his back pocket of all things, and unlocked the door. He peeked inside before actually daring to step over the threshold. Phew. It seemed like Murtagh was still sick. Eragon slipped inside, closed the door soundlessly and tiptoed to his room. There he paused and listened.
Still nothing. Murtagh was probably asleep. Eragon slipped inside his room and started to put away his clothes. And by putting away, he meant shoving it into the closet and slamming the door shut before everything in it could fall out.
Really, it was a miracle that he had managed to fit inside there just two months earlier during the infamous grocery store incident. Or so Murtagh called it, anyway. Eragon snorted. His brother really blew things out of proportion. It wasn't that big of a deal!
Eragon ruffled a hand through his hair. He looked over at the bed where he had put the damaged clothes. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with them. He bit his lip. Had he known how to sew or something, he could probably have fixed the sweater. And maybe, just maybe, he could give the jeans a clothing-softener bath or something and they would be ok.
But before he did anything else, he would talk to Saphira. There had been enough accidents for one day.
Eragon plumped down on the bed and sighed. He would postpone talking to Saphira a little bit longer, though. He'd rather not be inside when she started to laugh insanely on the other end of the phone. Because he just knew that was what she was going to do. He'd rather be outside when Murtagh couldn't 'accidentally' -accidentally my ass, Eragon thought to himself- stumble upon the scene.
He picked absently at the grey t-shirt. He picked it up and looked at it. He couldn't quite remember which shirt it was. Or had been. Eragon flipped the shirt so the outside was one again on the outside. He promptly paled.
"Oh, fuck no."
It was one of Murtagh's. How could he have been so stupid? He had ruined one of Murtagh's shirts! He really was doomed now.
Eragon quickly hid the ruined clothes and grabbed his phone. It seemed like he was going to talk to Saphira a little earlier than expected. He managed to catch himself just in time before he tripped on his way out of the door. That threshold was too mischievous for its own good. One of these days, Eragon just might rip it up. It most certainly deserved it for all the times it had made him trip and fall on his face.
"Eragon?"
Holy fuck! "Murtagh!" Eragon squeaked loudly and turned around, a hand over his heart. "Don't scare me like that!"
Murtagh just winced. One of his hands was gripping the doorframe while the other was on his sweaty forehead.
Eragon hated to admit it, but he had never seen anyone look so sexy while they were sick. Murtagh's hair was a mess and had been pulled back in a messy and half-assed ponytail. His low riding pyjama pants were practically falling off his hips and the tank-top he was wearing was practically skin-tight and had ridden up slightly. Murtagh had thrown on a hooded jacket, probably just as an afterthought or because he felt cold, which hung around his frame. When he looked up, Eragon cursed himself for flushing at his brother's fever-bright eyes.
"Keep it down, could you?" Murtagh said huskily. He let out a painful sounding cough. "What's the racket about?"
Racket? "What racket?" Eragon blinked. He was sure he had been as quiet as a mouse.
Murtagh waved him off. "Where are you going?"
Eragon frowned. Then he remembered. Murtagh's shirt. Saphira. Right! He needed a plausible lie. Fast.
"I was supposed to meet Saphira ten minutes ago," he said and rubbed the back of his neck slightly. "I'm sorry I woke you."
Murtagh shook his head, then winced. Obviously that hadn't been a good idea. "Food?"
Eragon blinked. He actually felt well enough to try food? "Um..." Eragon walked into the kitchen and started to roam about for anything he thought Murtagh could keep down. "We have noodles, a couple of light soups, crackers and there's fruit in the fridge."
Murtagh gave a slight nod. He winced yet again. Eragon felt bad for him. He couldn't understand how he had gotten up at all if just moving his head hurt.
"...Just go back to bed. I'll fix you something," Eragon shooed him and grabbed the instant noodles from the shelf.
"What? No, I can take care of it myself."
Eragon shot Murtagh a disbelieving look. The older brother hadn't even managed to move away from the doorway yet. Murtagh scowled at him.
"Seriously, go back to bed. Give me five minutes."
Murtagh coughed painfully again. Eragon winced. "What about Saphira?" Murtagh asked, his voice sounding horribly raspy.
...Oops. "I'll text her. She'll understand. Now shoo!"
Murtagh finally caved and walked back to bed. Eragon sighed. Honestly. He waited for the water to boil while looking around for Murtagh's favourite crackers. Thankfully they were salty; perfect for a flu-ridden stomach. He then walked to the fridge and got an apple and a bottle of water. He put them next to the crackers and got out a bowl and spoon.
He put the chicken-flavoured noodles into the water once it had finally started to boil. He then noted the time and mentally calculated when they would be finished.
He drummed his fingers against the counter as he waited. As he stood there, he didn't even notice Murtagh walking out until the TV was suddenly turned on. He jolted and looked over at the TV corner.
Eragon was tempted to go 'awww'. Murtagh had gotten his pillow and blankets and had made himself comfortable on the couch. He was moving at a much slower pace, but Murtagh was acting like his usual self; surfing through the channels without really checking what was on them. He was laying sideways, his head lying comfortably on the pillow while the blanket covered his legs and stomach. He actually almost looked cute.
The brunet forced himself to look back at the noodles. He checked that they were in fact done and turned off the stove. He poured over the noodles and chicken-broth and carried the bowl over to Murtagh. He then walked back, got the bottle of water, box of crackers and the apple.
"There. Now you have plenty to choose from," Eragon said and nodded his head.
Murtagh looked at him. He gave a tired smile. "Thanks, kiddo."
Eragon fought down the blush that was threatening to come forward. "It was nothing. Do you want anything else before I go?"
"No, I'm good."
Eragon walked back to the kitchen anyway, got a glass and an ice-tray from the freezer. He put a good couple of cubes into the glass and walked back with it. Murtagh gave him another smile.
"I'll be back in a few hours. Try not to die on me, ok?" Eragon smiled back sheepishly.
The other gave a slight smirk. "I'll try."
Eragon waved and left. He was proud to say that he managed to wait until he was outside of the door before starting to run.
-:-
"Oh, Eragon," Saphira sighed.
Eragon pouted. She made it sound like he couldn't do anything right.
"You really should have asked for my help," she shook her head. "How bad was it?"
Eragon squirmed. He crossed his legs before uncrossing them again. He leaned back against the wall and looked back at the girl beside him.
He hadn't even bothered to call when he had left the apartment. He had just run over to Saphira's place, knocked and rushed inside as soon as the blonde had opened the door. He was really glad Thorn wasn't there, though. He had yet to walk in on them doing anything, and it was not something Eragon wanted to do. Ever. If he did, he would kill himself with a spatula.
So there he was, sitting on Saphira's far too comfortable bed and once again spilling his guts to his best friend for the ten-thousandth time during their friendship.
...Alright, so maybe he couldn't really do anything right.
Eragon shook his head and retold the damages to Saphira. It took her a whole five seconds before she started to laugh. It took her two minutes before she was able to form a full sentence again.
"I really don't get it," she giggled. "How can anyone shrink socks?"
Eragon gave her a sullen glare. Saphira let out another giggle before trying to look serious. "Right. Next time, I really suggest that you let me handle your laundry."
Eragon blushed. There were things he didn't want her to wash; his underwear for one.
...Then again, he let Murtagh wash those, and he actually had a crush on his brother, so...The world sucked. Hard.
Saphira let out another soft giggle. "I promise not to ogle your underwear," she winked at him.
"Can we get back to the real problem here?" he asked sulkily.
Saphira nodded. "Just give me the pants and the sweater, and I'll make sure they're as good as new when you get them back. There isn't much I can do for the socks," she stifled a giggle, "or the t-shirts. They're ruined, I'm afraid."
"...Um...about the grey one..."
Saphira looked at him. Eragon felt himself blush. "It's..." he muttered the rest under his breath.
"I'm sorry?"
Eragon cursed. "It's Murtagh's," he whispered.
The blonde girl fell silent again. A few seconds later she was laughing again. Eragon felt an odd urge to slam his head against the wall behind him. He did so.
"Oh, don't panic," Saphira yanked at his collar and forced Eragon to sit up straight. "Which shirt is it?"
"Um..." Eragon tried his best to remember what it looked like. "I think it's a band t-shirt. It had a logo with a...skull and guns on it? Yeah, I think that was it."
Saphira frowned in thought. "I think I know the one you're talking about. That's actually one of his favourites, you know."
Eragon did. He cursed the blush that strained his cheeks.
"But we can replace it just fine. It'll cost you, though," she bit her lip.
Eragon knew that, but it was better than paying for it with his life.
Saphira stood and grabbed his hand, forcing him to stumble out of the bed. He shot her a glare when he nearly stumbled on the edge of his jeans. "Oh, don't give me that. I'm saving your ass here. C'mon, I think I know where we can get the shirt."
Eragon blinked. She had come up with a solution that fast?
"You know, if this happens again," Saphira looked at him as she grabbed her jacket from the hanger beside the door, "take a picture of the shirt."
Eragon blushed. He should have thought of that.
"Now come on!"
He yelped as he tripped when Saphira pulled him out of the door. From now on, his number one arch enemy was doorways. They needed to die; preferably before they killed him.
-:-
Eragon blinked when Saphira pulled him inside a record store. Granted, he knew Saphira was looking for a band tee, but wasn't there better places for that? Like the alternative clothing store further down the street?
"Um, Saphira?"
"Shush," she pulled him along until he found himself being pushed at a clothing rack.
Huh. There was actually a clothing rack inside a record store. Thing sure had changed with time.
"You look at that one. I'll check this one," she said and started to rotate the rack in front of her.
Eragon sighed. He checked out his own rack. It was one of those annoying ones that squeaked really loudly when you rotated them. Sometimes you could avoid the noise by walking around them, but most stores like to place those racks in a corner or really close to each other, forcing you to rotate them. Eragon scowled. Damn people. He squared his shoulders and started to check out the selection.
There were actually a few t-shirts to look through. Eragon flipped through all of them, just to make sure that a few shirts hadn't just been placed on the same hook as a different band.
"Is this the one?"
Eragon looked away from the bundle of Metallica shirts he had been looking through. He took in the picture on the t-shirt pack Saphira was holding in front of him.
A skull, two guns in the background, a couple of roses, red, sand and green colours...it was the right one. "Yes!" he grinned.
Saphira rolled her eyes. "Figures. It's BFMV."
He blinked. "It's what?"
Saphira shoved the shirt into his arms. "BFMV," she pointed at the letters in the band name. "Bullet For My Valentine."
Right. Eragon thought he had heard his brother listen to them a few times. He checked out the price and winced. "Figures."
Saphira nodded. "It's a band t-shirt. They are never cheap."
He knew that. He had literally gaped when Murtagh had gotten him one for his birthday two years ago. He was very careful with that shirt. There was no way he was washing that one himself.
"I guess it can't be helped," the brunet sighed. "Let's go and pay for this."
"Hold on," Saphira held him back. "What's his size?"
Eragon halted. Shit. How the hell was he supposed to remember that?
"Well, you've obviously been borrowing it," Saphira sent him a private smirk. "How big was it on you?"
Eragon tried to remember. "I have no idea. I know it wasn't small, but that leaves us with medium and large."
Saphira sighed. "There is only one thing you can do." He did not like the sound of that. "Give me enough money to buy it, go home and check and then call me with the size. I'll give it to you tomorrow or something."
That actually sounded like a good plan. However, there was one downside to it. He would have to go home.
"Oh, don't give me that look," the blonde snorted. "You have to go home sometime. Just because Murtagh managed to crawl out of his room this afternoon doesn't mean he'll be healthy as a horse when you come home. Despite what you think, the entire universe isn't out to get you."
"No, just a small part of it," Eragon drawled. "By the way, I hate it when you read my mind."
Saphira winked at him. "I know."
-:-
Eragon stared at the front door a long time before he dared to even reach for his keys. Now that Murtagh was almost up and about, he was a little more afraid of going inside. Damn him and his persistence. Hadn't he learned by now that he should not do complex -and sometimes easy- things unsupervised? He sighed. Apparently not.
Eragon unlocked the door and stepped way over the threshold. He really didn't trust those anymore. He kicked off his shoes and looked up.
Yup, Murtagh was still there. It looked like he had fallen asleep, though. Eragon bit his lip. There he went, thinking his brother was cute again. If Murtagh had known, he would have been mutilated, because his brother was just that kind.
He closed and locked the door quietly. He then began to remove the dishes. Murtagh had almost finished the noodles, but he hadn't touched the apple. Eragon left the crackers on the table. He then walked into Murtagh's room. He made sure to breathe through his mouth as he cleaned up the tissues from the floor. He then opened the window to air the room. It smelled heavily of sweat and sickness. He then grabbed the bucket by Murtagh's bed and went to wash it.
He returned to the living room about ten minutes later. Murtagh was still asleep. Eragon put a new pack of tissues on the table and put the wastebasket within Murtagh's reach. He then put the plastic bucket beside the couch. Eragon remembered the times Murtagh had done this for him when he had been sick. Sometimes you were just unable to reach the bathroom in time. He also remembered the three o'clock wash Murtagh had been forced to start because Eragon had thrown up on his bedding. Eragon was in no condition to be able to do the same for his older brother.
Eragon shook his head. He was getting side-tracked. He padded over to his room and slipped inside. Then he rummaged around until he found the ruined clothes. He really needed to pay better attention to where he put stuff. He made sure it was the right one, made sure the motive was the same as the one in the store before checking the size.
He knew Saphira had told him to call her, but texting seemed less risky. He didn't want to accidentally wake Murtagh up by talking too loudly. He quickly texted Saphira the size before putting the clothes away again. He got a reply before he was finished.
(Large? Cool. You sure it's the same one?)
Eragon rolled his eyes. Yes, he was sure. He wasn't a complete retard. He laid out the shirt, which had been the last thing he had planned to put away, and took a picture of the front. He then sent that to Saphira with the message (yes, I'm sure).
Saphira texted him back quickly. (It looks like the same one. I'll give the new one to you Monday. We'll talk more then)
Talk? What on earth did she want to talk about? He asked her just that.
(Patience. I'll tell you on Monday) was all she said. Eragon frowned. That couldn't bode well. Nevertheless, there was nothing he could do. There was no way she would tell him what was on her mind until the appointed time.
Eragon sighed and sat down. Now what? There was only so much he could do with a sick brother in the next room.
He let out another sigh. The only thing he could think of was studying for his exams. Whoopedi-fucking-doo. Eragon changed his shirt, grabbed his iPod and textbooks and sat down on his bed. Then he started to read, making sure that one of his ears was listening to what his brother might be up to.
-:-
Eragon jolted awake. It was dark, really dark. Where the heck was he?
He stood up and yelped when the book that had been covering his eyes promptly fell into his lap. Right. He had been in his room studying. He must have fallen asleep during the...he couldn't remember. No wonder he had fallen asleep.
Eragon yawned and stretched. He had no idea what time it was, but he was hungry. It was dinner time.
He padded over to the door and opened in it, mentally going over what they had to eat. It only took him two seconds to live up the nickname Murtagh had so fondly given him; Klutz.
Eragon first tripped over the threshold, slid sideways on the carpet their mother had forced them to put in the apartment, connected with a chair that mysteriously had found its way in the middle of the living room and landed face-first onto the surprisingly lumpy couch.
He cursed loudly. The world wasn't out to get him, huh? He'd show Saphira.
But he hadn't been the only one who had cursed. The couch had actually let out a rather colourful string of profanities. Eragon wondered when couches had learned to talk.
"The fuck do you think you're doing, Eragon?!"
...Probably when they were already occupied.
Eragon yelped and scooted back. He promptly scooted too far and landed on the floor, his legs still hanging over the armrest. He groaned. Great, now his head, back, ass and legs hurt.
"I'd get up and ask how you were, but I can't."
Eragon scowled up at the ceiling. Oh, really? He'd show that prick just who was in more pain at the moment. He got up and opened his mouth to give Murtagh the reprimand that he deserved.
"Seriously, are you trying to make the family name end with us?" Murtagh hissed.
The brunet paled. He hadn't just landed on the couch; he had landed -judging by the way he was cupping himself- in Murtagh's lap. Oh God.
He felt himself blush hotly as Murtagh continued to curse. Then he remembered something Murtagh had said. "What do you mean 'trying to make the family name end with us'? We're both gay! It ends with us anyway! ...Biologically, anyway."
Murtagh snorted loudly. "Sure, whatever."
Oh. God. Eragon's eyes widened. Murtagh had discovered that he wasn't gay after all. He was bisexual, and now he had somehow fallen for a girl. He was in a relationship, but he was keeping it a secret so his fangirls wouldn't maim his girlfriend. And-and they were so serious that Murtagh was planning to propose to her. They had probably already discussed what to name their kids. No, that didn't sound like Murtagh. He probably already knew what he was going to name the kids, because he was a control-freak like that.
"For fucks sake, could you stop thinking? You're making my head hurt."
Eragon scowled at him. Murtagh had no right to make fun of him when he was the one in an über-secret relationship that he couldn't even tell his own little brother about!
"...Seriously, stop thinking," Murtagh sat up. Apparently he found that this was a mistake, because he got a really pained look on his face and slid back down. "You have that 'I'm thinking crazy stuff' look on your face again."
Eragon was very tempted to smack him. "I'm not thinking crazy stuff! You're the one that has been keeping secrets from me!"
Murtagh blinked. He looked at Eragon suspiciously. "I'm sorry?"
"Yeah! You're the one who's in a secret relationship with some preppy girl who probably has a preppy name like, like Anasua! Or something! And you're planning on marrying her and having kids with her! And -"
"Woah, hold it right there!" Murtagh interrupted. "Girl? Marriage? Kids? Your mind can be seriously dangerous sometimes."
The brunet glared at him.
"I'm gay, as you established two minutes ago. I refuse to get married unless I'm madly in love with the dude and gay marriage stays legal. And kids? I hate kids, Eragon."
Eragon fell silent. "...But you said..."
"I have no idea what I said to make your imagination go nuts, but whatever it was, forget it. I'm not in a relationship, certainly not with a girl, and I'm not about to get married and have kids," Murtagh shuddered.
It seemed like Murtagh was slowly returning back to his normal state. Eragon wasn't sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. "...Well, at least you're feeling better," Eragon crossed his arms over his chest.
Murtagh grimaced.
"B-besides your..." Eragon blushed. "I'm sorry about that."
"I'll live," the other said hoarsely.
"...How are you feeling? You know, besides that," he asked softly. Eragon really wished the blush could leave his cheeks. So what if he had connected face-first with Murtagh's crotch?
...Ok, thinking that only made his blush worse.
"Better," Murtagh rubbed a hand over his face. "I think I'll be ready to go back to school on Monday."
Eragon was not convinced. Murtagh had been a mess for two weeks, and after one day outside of his room he was confident enough to back to his classes? "...Really?"
"Yes, really," Murtagh sent him a mild glare.
"I mean no harm, but...you've been down for two weeks. Don't you think you should take it easy for a couple of more days?"
Murtagh did not look amused.
"Alright. But it's not my fault if you faint on your way to campus," Eragon shrugged and walked over to the kitchen. He was hungry, damnit, and Murtagh had delayed him by at least fifteen minutes. He wanted food!
"...Hey, could you fix me something, too?"
Eragon sighed. Damn Murtagh. What did he look like, his personal slave? But still, Eragon found himself making a light meal for his brother.
Damn Murtagh, alright; damn him all the way to hell.
-:-
Eragon was thoroughly confused when he woke up two days later. One minute he had been asleep and in the middle of a rather, ahem, private dream, and the next he had been on the floor. He had landed face-down at that. Suddenly he knew how Murtagh must have felt a few days before.
"What the fuck?" he croaked and looked over his shoulder.
Saphira crocked an eyebrow. "Still abed at this hour? Tut, tut Eragon."
"Oh, fuck you," he grunted. He would have gotten up, but he was afraid that his problem would still be present and that he'd let out a rather embarrassing whimper if he tried to move.
"Come on now, Eragon. I don't have all day."
"Why not?" he tried to sit up. He bit back a moan. Ok, yeah, that hurt.
"Because it's Monday and I have a class in two hours. So get your lazy ass up," Saphira huffed.
Wait, what? It was Monday?! "CRAP!" Eragon jumped up and skidded into the bathroom. He did his morning business and grabbed the jeans he had worn the day before. It took a while to jump into them, mostly due to his wobbly knees. He hated hurrying when he had just woken up. Everything was just a blur, his vocabulary mostly consisted of swear words and his brain was not really up and running. Eragon grabbed a random t-shirt from his closet, put it on and grabbed the jacket that hung on the back of his chair. He tried to wrestle his arms into the arms of the jacket while trying to remember where he had stashed his clean socks.
"Woah, Eragon, calm down," Saphira put her hands on his shoulders. "It's nine A.M."
Eragon froze. "Wha?"
"It's nine A.M.," she repeated. "You're not late for class."
Eragon sat down on his unmade bed. He ruffled a hand through his hair. "Then why are you here?"
Saphira crocked an eyebrow. "Murtagh's t-shirt, remember?"
Right. Crap. Eragon winced. "Yeah. Where is it?"
Saphira pulled the t-shirt out of her bag while Eragon finally managed to wrestle his right arm into the jacket. He pulled the zipper up halfway and fixed the hood.
"Here," the blonde said and gave it to him. "I took the liberty of washing it last night so it wouldn't feel or smell fresh."
Eragon took it. "Thank you. I hadn't even thought about that."
Saphira smirked. "I figured you wouldn't."
Eragon gave her a sour look.
"Anyway, now you just need an opportunity to put it away," Saphira fixed the strap on her bag. "Good thing Murtagh's determined to go to school today, hm?"
Eragon shrugged. "Maybe. Our classes overlap. I get out forty-five minutes before he does. That means that I have maybe fifteen minutes to find a spot for it and appear busy when he comes home. And that's only if he manages to stay there for all three of his classes."
"Oh, don't be such a pessimist. You'll find a way into his room, no sweat," she winked at him.
The brunet felt his face flush. The way she said it made it sound like she meant 'his bed' instead of 'his room'. Saphira giggled afterwards. Obviously she had meant it to be taken as such.
"You suck," he glared at her. "It's not easy, you know!"
"I know, Eragon. But sometimes I really can't help it," she grinned sheepishly.
Eragon scowled at her. He put a bag around the t-shirt and carefully put it into his bag. Sure she couldn't. It wasn't like she got her jollies off mocking him.
No wait, that wasn't her. That was Aksel. He shook his head. Whatever then.
Saphira grabbed his arm and began to pull him out of his room. Eragon barely managed to grab his phone from his bedside table before it was out of reach. "Come on. I skipped breakfast to get you. You're treating me."
"What!? It's not my fault you had to come here first thing!"
Saphira gave him a look. "Oh yes, it is."
Eragon felt himself blush again. Right, it was.
"Now come on. I'm starving!"
Eragon just grumbled under his breath. He could already feel his wallet getting lighter.
-:-
Eragon felt his heart thundering in his chest as he stood outside the door. Ever since he had gotten out of class, he had been running. He had actually managed to catch the bus that he usually missed due to his laziness. And when he had gotten off, he had run into the apartment complex and up the stairs. Now he was outside the door, desperately trying to catch his breath.
Usually Murtagh would drive him to school, but thanks to Saphira and her demands that he'd buy her breakfast, he had been forced to take the bus back and forth. And now he was finally home.
Eragon gulped and pulled his keys out of his bag. The moment of truth had arrived. He gave a small prayer that Murtagh had managed to stay for all three of his classes and unlocked the door. He let out a relieved breath when he only heard silence. It appeared that Murtagh wasn't home.
The brunet walked inside and kicked off his shoes. He quickly disposed of his bag and pulled out the t-shirt. Then he walked over to Murtagh's room. He put his ear on the door and listened just to be sure that his older brother was in fact not home. He knocked, on the door, just to be sure, and entered. When Eragon was sure that Murtagh wasn't in some dark corner waiting to ambush him, he stalked over to the dresser and opened it.
Murtagh was a neat-freak. Eragon would never have guessed. The rest of the room was in a soft of comfortable messy state, but his dresser was something entirely different. For a second Eragon was worried that it was colour-coded.
Even though it was apparent that it wasn't colour-coded, there was definitely some sort of order in the way the clothes were put. "Shit," Eragon whispered. He had no idea what sort of order it was and he couldn't very well start to poke around to see if there were a stack of band-tees he could but the one in his hand with.
Eragon spent the next five minutes looking about almost frantically. Apparently he had no other choice. He had to look closer. He couldn't afford to try to pull this off another day. He might never get another chance.
The brunet gently lifted the neatly folded t-shirts and tried to see if any of them had logos. The bastard actually had a shelf just for t-shirts. Just when Eragon had thought that Murtagh couldn't get any weirder...
He paused suddenly. There, a logo. He lifted the shirts a little higher and checked it out. Disturbed. That was a band! Eragon checked out the shirt under it. HIM. Well, it looked like a band-tee, so Eragon figured he had hit jackpot. He smiled to himself and carefully put the t-shirt in his hand on top of the pile. Then he closed the dresser and walked out, closing the door behind him.
"Eragon?"
Mother of fuck! Eragon slid on the carpet and felt the air leave him when his chest connected with the couch. His arms had flown over the back of the couch and his legs were stretched out behind him. He slumped forward and rested his chin on his arms, unwilling to move. Eragon blew a stray piece of forelock away from his eyes. His chest really hurt. He was burning that evil carpet. Selena would never know. He could tell her that it got stolen. Or something.
"Eragon."
Oh right! There was a reason he had taken the swan dive. Eragon bit back a groan. Why oh why was Murtagh back early!?
"What the fuck are you doing?" Murtagh asked. Eragon felt a shiver run down his spine. His brother's voice was still husky, a tell-tale sign that he had been sick for the past two weeks.
"I'm making a fool out of myself," Eragon muttered darkly.
"Yes, I can see that." Murtagh's voice was coming closer. Why was it coming closer? Eragon peeked up and upon seeing Murtagh right in front of him, fell backwards and landed quite nicely on his behind. Great, now his ass was hurting again.
"Seriously, what the hell?" Murtagh walked around the couch and looked down at him.
"I'm practicing for Klutz Olympics," Eragon drawled. He stood up and started to massage his behind. Ok, that hurt! He wasn't doing that again.
Murtagh crocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "Right."
Eragon felt his face pale. Oh crap. Here it came. Murtagh was going to ask him what he had been doing in his room. Double crap.
"So, how are you feeling?" he asked, hoping against hope that he didn't sound panicked.
Murtagh blinked. "Better, thanks," he fixed his grip on the bag he had thrown over his shoulder. "Eragon -"
"That's good," Eragon smiled. "You look better. Or, you know, you look less of a health hazard."
The other male stared at him suspiciously. "Are you feeling ok, Eragon?"
"Who, me? Of course I am," his grin widened. "A little woozy from the fall, but you know I'm used to that by now." What, what had he just said?
"Yeah, about that -"
"I was planning on having pasta for dinner. That ok with you?" Eragon didn't wait for Murtagh to give any response before continuing. "Ok, good! I have stuff I need to do, so I'll talk to you later."
Eragon had to admit that his exit could have gone more smoothly. He had practically skidded around Murtagh and had nearly flown over his doorstep, but at least he had gotten to his room in once piece. And as a bonus, Murtagh hadn't had the time to question him.
The brunet slid down to the floor. He was only safe for now, he knew that, but he needed all the time he could get to cook up a plausible excuse.
-:-
By the time dinner rolled around, Eragon was really surprised to exit his room and see Murtagh by the stove. He tried to slip back into his room, but Murtagh turned around and caught him.
"I was just about to call you. Dinner's ready."
Eragon blinked. Murtagh had cooked dinner? He walked out of his room, scratching his left arm nervously. This couldn't be good. It also totally ruined his plan. He had planned on cooking dinner by himself and fleeing to his room. Apparently that wasn't an option anymore.
They both filled a plate and sat down by the coffee table in the living room to eat.
At first, Eragon was sure that Murtagh was going to question him, but nothing came. Murtagh had picked up the remote when he sat down and had turned on the TV. Now he was flipping through channels between bites. He finally settled on a channel and continued to eat.
Eragon remained a little stiff. He had a feeling that Murtagh was just trying to trick him into thinking he had gotten away with it.
He spent the time looking at Murtagh from out of the corner of his eye while trying to look casual. He had a feeling he was failing, as he kept forgetting to eat. Which really was a sin. Murtagh was an excellent cook; he just despised cooking. He said it took too long. Eragon shook his head and forced himself to eat. If Murtagh wanted to question him, there was nothing he could do. Murtagh was stubbornness personified.
He was truly surprised when Murtagh got up and put his plate away. Fifteen minutes had gone by, and nothing had happened. Murtagh had barely even looked at him.
Eragon nibbled on his second helping and wondered if perhaps he really had gotten away with it.
"Say Eragon, is that my shirt?"
Eragon nearly choked. He forced himself to swallow the food in his mouth and took a sip of water before daring to look at Murtagh. His brother hadn't moved from the kitchen area, but he was looking at him. Eragon gulped. Then he registered what Murtagh had said.
"What?" he blinked.
Murtagh crocked an eyebrow. "Aren't you wearing my shirt?" he asked again.
Eragon looked down at himself. His eyes widened in horror. He was wearing Murtagh's shirt, the one he and Saphira had so carefully replaced. He tugged at the grey material in disbelief. He was an idiot. After all the planning he and Saphira had done, he had managed to grab the wrong shirt this morning and put it on. Fuck!
"Um, no?"
"Well, it sure looks like it. And it would explain why there was a size-sticker on the shirt that I found in my dresser," Murtagh crossed his arms.
Eragon suddenly had the urge to slam his forehead into the table. He and Saphira were both idiots.
"So, care to tell me what happened?"
He was doomed. There was nothing he could do but to tell Murtagh the truth. He silently mourned for whatever manhood he was bound to lose once he finished his tale.
Saphira was so going down later.
A/N I know I said I wouldn't write another part in this story, but I got bored one day and couldn't write anything on any of my other stories. So I gave this story a shot. And what do you know? Something actually came out of it. If it's good, well...meh.
Fun fact; I actually know someone who managed to shrink her socks once. She has no idea how she did it either. Lol.
I didn't mean to fixate so much on Murtagh's illness, but the story just evolved this way. Besides, I think it's kind of cute; Eragon taking care of Murtagh for once. It'll probably never happen again. Hehe.
I suppose people might still ask me why I continue with the slash hints when it seems like nothing is going to come of it. Well, it's because when I first wrote this story, I planned it to be like it's now; with multiple chapters with various degrees of slash. So when I initially lost the will to continue it, I didn't want to cut out the slash, because I felt it would make the story lose some of its essence. And now that I've gotten more plot bunnies, maybe the slash will have a purpose after all. ;)
That's all for now. G'night everyone.
