Ivory's hair was fanned out around her head like she was underwater. Their skin was beaded with sweat, and when George touched her forehead, her lightly tan skin was cool, but somehow still warm. She had a fever.

"Ohnononono" George whispered. He was already late for his job at the library. He didn't need his cousin passed out on the kitchen floor.

He scanned the surroundings. There was a coffee cup a few feet away, undamaged. There were the shattered remains of another a few feet farther than that. In the sink there were three more, and he knew that only one was his from yesterday.

He picked up the cup and sniffed the inside. It smelled of coffee, an energy drink, and was that... mint ice cream? In the blender, he saw what looked like the three ingredients pureed together.

"There's the culprit." He thought.

Ivory was still wearing makeup and those awful paint splattered jeans that were too big for her, and not pajamas, or the other weird stuff she slept in. She had probably passed out at around three in the morning.

Ivory you see, had a bad habit of writing until early hours of morning, then passing out from drinking too much of one of her highly caffeinated homemade drinks. It was part of her routine, she said, but he knew she felt like if she stopped writing, she'd fail. Constantly getting turned down by publishers didn't help.

This time was particularly bad. She was almost certain the publisher wouldn't turn her down, and they didn't... Well, at first they didn't. After a few days of letting Ivory believe her book was going somewhere, they changed her mind. Ivory hadn't stopped writing sense, her hygiene and minuscule social life were thrown out the window.

He did the only thing he knew would wake her up, start the coffee machine.

As the machine bubbled and puffed out fragrant clouds of steam, Ivory stirred. George smirked. He knew way too much about her, from her favorite color (berry purple) to how to wake them up from unconsciousness (as stated before, coffee). When she finally opened her eyes, he was pouring the coffee into a mug.

"Morning." He said and came to her side.

She just groaned and reached for the cup.

He laughed as she took a few sips.

"Decaf?" She asked, looking up at him with disgust.

"Did you really think I'd give you more caffeine after you passed out from drinking too much?" He asked, suddenly turning serious. "Honestly Ivory, you need to take better care of yourself. You have a perfectly able body. Meanwhile..." He gestured to himself. He was in a wheelchair. When he was eight, a terrible car crash paralyzed his legs. Luckily, that's the worse thing that happened. His mom got a concussion and a few scrapes, his dad only broke his arm.

"I'm gonna schedule a doctor's appointment for after work." He said. "In the meantime, call me if anything happens. I'll be checking back in during my lunch break."

"Do you miss being able to walk?" Ivory asked.

This was a conversation they had countless times before. George could've written a script out of it if he wanted too, but he didn't mind. He knew it was just a way for Ivory to connect with him.

"Sometimes." He said.

"Was your mom sad?"

"At first, but she was happy I was alive."

"And your dad?"

"Same thing."

This is normally where the conversation would end, but Ivory kept going.

"How tall would you be if you weren't in the wheelchair?" She asked.

He looked up at her, wondering if she was kidding. But she wasn't, her sense of humor barely reached beyond sarcasm and pranks.

"I don't know. I guess that'd be a question for the doctor this afternoon. Now, can you stand up?" He asked.

Ivory leapt to her feet as if she hadn't just been unconscious. She was made of rubber.

"I'm on my way to the library." George said. "Don't do anything stupid."

"So." Said Lydia, his coworker. "Why were you late to work this time?"

"Ivory passed out on the kitchen floor."

"Oh, crazy night?"

"No, coffee, ice cream, and redbull. Put them put them in a blender and you have enough caffeine to kill an elephant."

"Oh." They both paused to re shelf some books.

"You know, I'd really like to meet your cousin." Lydia said.

"Don't even think about trying to date them." He said, rolling his eyes.

"Why?" She whined.

"Two words, aromantic, asexual. Keep it in your pants."

"Oh." She said yet again. George had the feeling that "oh," was going to he her last word.

"I'd still like to meet her. I'm having a house party this weekend. You should bring her." Lydia said, and before George could explain why that was a bad idea, she walked away.