“We need to talk.”

I don’t care who you are or who says those words to you. It doesn’t matter if it’s your brother, sister, mother, father, teacher, significant other, dog, phone repairman, plumber, or even a random stranger on the street. When someone says those four words to you, your response is always the same.

You blink in surprise as your brain rushes to figure out what this could be about. Your heart rate quickens as your nerves go nuts, and you have to stop whatever you’re doing to turn and face whoever’s talking to you. You have no idea what’s going on - and if you do, that makes it even worse. Still, you try to act casual, and as your brain roots around for potential reasons this person needs to talk to you (and excuses to avoid it), you come up with a quick, ambiguous response that you hope does not betray your inner nervousness.

“What’s up?”

The other person gestures for you to sit down, or if you already are, they sit down across from you. Never beside you; no, that’s too friendly. They need to face you without having to turn, and without you being able to look away from them without keeping them at least in your peripheral vision. No matter what, unless you turn around completely, you’re going to see them - and if you turn away, they’ll just smack you to get your attention back. And then they start talking.

“This house is too small.”

...and then you realize you were never in any danger in the first place and it was just them using the four fatal words in the wrong instance. Damn you, False.

“...what?” I tilted my head.

“You heard me. There’s you, me, Risk, Nimble, and Asylum. This is a house meant for two, maybe three, ponies.” She gestured around with her hoof. “One small living room, one kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms. Not really a five-pony structure.”

“There’s three bedrooms,” I pointed out.

“Only because one of the hall closets was bigger on the inside.”

“...true.” I sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Figure out what we should do,” she replied. “We need a second house for some of us. I bought this one, so I’m not moving out. You figure out who will.”

I rubbed my temple. “I already have to deal with my newfound hospital talk and keep track of the Fine Rock tonight, and you’re giving me more stuff to do?”

“Well, take your time. But Nimble’s not gonna want to share a room after a while, and when he reaches that point, someone is giving up a room. And it’s not gonna be me.”

I recognized the implications of that and frowned. “I’m not giving up our bed either.”

“‘Our’...? Oh, right. Asylum.” She seemed to think of something. “Why don’t you two move out, then? You already sleep together, might as well live together.”

I flushed red and held up my front hooves. “Whoah, whoah, hang on! We’ve only been going out for, what, six months?”

She shrugged. “So? There are ponies who started living together or even getting married after less time.”

“Yeah, but...I’m not one of them.” I sighed. “I don’t want to just shove us both together so quickly. I know we technically live together now, but you three are here too, so that makes it less awkward. Being alone would just…” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

False rolled her eyes. “The two of you have already banged. I don’t think living alone together will make your lives more awkward.”

“...technically, we didn’t really bang...” I weakly pointed out. “Not a lot really happened...”

She facehoofed. “You know what I mean. Look, as it stands, the only way the two of you could be more of a couple is if you got married.”

My heart briefly stopped. “...moving on from that. Right now. As in ten seconds ago.”

“Right. Getting back on topic: house. Moving out.” She stood up and nudged my shoulder before walking off. “Get on it.”

She left the room, and I was left to wonder about what just happened.

Night came, and guess what? I was sick.

Not sick from my evolution, oh no. And not sick and tired. I was just sick.

False had unloaded a task on me earlier in the day to take care of housing arrangements before she had to kick me out. I had medical knowledge in my brain that I didn’t have twenty hours earlier. It had just caught up to me the bloody and gory scenes I had seen at the hospital, and they now wouldn’t leave my head. I was tired from not getting much sleep the previous night, and I knew I wouldn’t be getting any tonight. And then there was the whole deal with Nimble’s parents I had to stress about, along with whatever secret Styx was keeping from me…

Ten minutes before Risk sent Nimble out with his basket of gems, I rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

My head hurt. I couldn’t keep a coherent train of thought; I went from thinking about how much my throat burned, to wondering about False’s marriage comment earlier, to noticing how white the toilet was, to bidding a silent farewell to breakfast as it went to join lunch. From there, I went right on to trying to figure out housing arrangements once more, then started wondering if I should try to call off our mission for tonight.

Apparently the decision was made for me, because after a few minutes, Asylum came into the bathroom and kneeled beside me, a hoof on my back as she said something about me needing to rest. I was only dry heaving by that point, so after I gathered up the strength to stand up and flushed the toilet, I walked with her to our room. She had to support me, since my legs were shaking more than the tail of a dog who just saw his owner come back home from work.

I literally collapsed on the bed, forcing myself to move my head onto the pillow. Asylum nuzzled me, and before she even pulled away, I was out like a light during a power failure.

Author's Notes:

Yes, being stressed out can actually make you sick. It's happened to me before; I was so overworked that someone reminded me of a song collaboration I had forgotten about and I suddenly had to throw up. Even just one little thing can tear you apart if you've already got a lot going on. In fact, this chapter was written mostly off of my own experiences with stress-induced sickness, though thankfully I'm better organized now.