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postictalFour days and three noise complaints later, Tim's left hunched and shivering on the bathroom floor of his predictably subpar hotel room, breathing away the remnants of his latest shitty nightmare. He's rapidly become more familiar with the poorly glazed bathroom interior than he has the actual suite Johnny and him have been awkwardly co-habiting. It's where he rides out the chills between coughing fits, or lies down when he simply becomes too dizzy to maintain any sort of upright posture. Yep, this sure is his life. Hotels and hotel bathrooms, and an ever-dwindling trove of precious white capsules. He's been stretching the time between doses, trying to drag out his supply for as long as -
Tim tries not to swear loudly when his first embarrassingly uncoordinated attempt to get up brings one of his knees crashing into the side of the bathtub, sending ratchets of pain up the leg that already feels fragile and trembling. He grits his teeth and leans back again, eyes screwed shut. One more complaint to building management from the room downstairs regarding 'all that dreadful coughing' and Tim will get both him and Johnny thrown out. He can't see what it is about him that makes a remotely decent roommate, or even an acceptable one. Honestly, he's surprised the staff haven't tossed him out for health concerns yet. Johnny's taken it in stride, however much good that does either of them.
At least he doesn't insist on filming everything.
The grim humor does absolutely nothing to alleviate the pain hammering its way up his knee, nor the ever-present headache drilled through his skull, and he really doesn't need to be reminding himself of the last person he shared hotel rooms with. That's just mental torture.
This is bad. He needs to sort out his shit, and soon. Johnny's been mercifully preoccupied with his own life, something relationship-related, but after that little nighttime adventure through the truly fucked-up corners of his own mind, Tim doesn't really care what the other man thinks he's spending all his time doing in here. The only thing Tim can be grateful for is that he's reasonably sure he hasn't seized. Yet. He'd remember if he had. Or he'd remember not remembering.
Standing up just increases the uncomfortable pressure on his temples, forcing Tim to lean heavily against the sink, fingers clamped around its edges as he breathes way too heavily and tries so very hard to not start coughing explosively again. One capsule would make this entirely easier to deal with, but Tim's already hit his limit for the day. Or - he supposes he did yesterday, seeing as it's bullshit o'clock in the morning, but Tim can't afford to medicate this early. Not with the rest of the day still to go.
He switches off the blinding, glaring lights and stumbles out into the hotel room's semidarkness, praying all to fuck that Johnny isn't awake and knowing full well that with all that clattering Tim made upon waking, there's no way he still is.
Tim tries not to swear loudly when his first embarrassingly uncoordinated attempt to get up brings one of his knees crashing into the side of the bathtub, sending ratchets of pain up the leg that already feels fragile and trembling. He grits his teeth and leans back again, eyes screwed shut. One more complaint to building management from the room downstairs regarding 'all that dreadful coughing' and Tim will get both him and Johnny thrown out. He can't see what it is about him that makes a remotely decent roommate, or even an acceptable one. Honestly, he's surprised the staff haven't tossed him out for health concerns yet. Johnny's taken it in stride, however much good that does either of them.
At least he doesn't insist on filming everything.
The grim humor does absolutely nothing to alleviate the pain hammering its way up his knee, nor the ever-present headache drilled through his skull, and he really doesn't need to be reminding himself of the last person he shared hotel rooms with. That's just mental torture.
This is bad. He needs to sort out his shit, and soon. Johnny's been mercifully preoccupied with his own life, something relationship-related, but after that little nighttime adventure through the truly fucked-up corners of his own mind, Tim doesn't really care what the other man thinks he's spending all his time doing in here. The only thing Tim can be grateful for is that he's reasonably sure he hasn't seized. Yet. He'd remember if he had. Or he'd remember not remembering.
Standing up just increases the uncomfortable pressure on his temples, forcing Tim to lean heavily against the sink, fingers clamped around its edges as he breathes way too heavily and tries so very hard to not start coughing explosively again. One capsule would make this entirely easier to deal with, but Tim's already hit his limit for the day. Or - he supposes he did yesterday, seeing as it's bullshit o'clock in the morning, but Tim can't afford to medicate this early. Not with the rest of the day still to go.
He switches off the blinding, glaring lights and stumbles out into the hotel room's semidarkness, praying all to fuck that Johnny isn't awake and knowing full well that with all that clattering Tim made upon waking, there's no way he still is.
