It's bad, one of the worst, but he's got experience. He's done a few of these binges— a couple times on purpose, indulging in the dangerous cocktail of desperation, boredom, and the desire to show off to whoever he's with; a few times on accident. Daniel is generous about the accidents, because even if someone doses him with something, it's his own fault for being out here shoving it all up his nose or, once in a blue moon, injecting it.
Speaking of. He pats himself down, feeling the awfulness of all of it and the thread of euphoria that says he's still high, but finds no needle marks on his arms, even as he rolls up the unfamiliar and frankly ugly sweater sleeves. Is he wearing a watch?
Daniel looks up. That sound—
Fuck, but the man sitting over there is beautiful. A look of dumb shock takes over his woozy face. I pulled that?
"You're okay?"
How predictable I must seem to you.
Daniel manages to sit up, clutching the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. He stares at the sunlight, the extremely good-looking guy veiled by it, feels the all-devouring hunger cramp his stomach. What the fuck. It's never been quite like this. His vision does something funny, tunneling like he's about to throw up before blowing out again, and his hearing becomes hyper-sensitive. Too much weed, he thinks. It always does this with bad weed. Why does he think a few joints are going to do anything on top of hard drugs but make it worse. Like beer and wine. Knock it off, just do more coke, you know that, Daniel.
Like taking a bath.
"Hey what's up with the bathroom."
It comes out too fast. Heywhatsupwiththebathroom. The noises in there. The feeling, like if he doesn't get there and see to whatever's in there he's going to die. He's so fucking hungry, but it's deeper, desperate, fiending. Must have been amphetamines in whatever he took, to be crashing this hard and weird after.
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Speaking of. He pats himself down, feeling the awfulness of all of it and the thread of euphoria that says he's still high, but finds no needle marks on his arms, even as he rolls up the unfamiliar and frankly ugly sweater sleeves. Is he wearing a watch?
Daniel looks up. That sound—
Fuck, but the man sitting over there is beautiful. A look of dumb shock takes over his woozy face. I pulled that?
"You're okay?"
How predictable I must seem to you.
Daniel manages to sit up, clutching the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. He stares at the sunlight, the extremely good-looking guy veiled by it, feels the all-devouring hunger cramp his stomach. What the fuck. It's never been quite like this. His vision does something funny, tunneling like he's about to throw up before blowing out again, and his hearing becomes hyper-sensitive. Too much weed, he thinks. It always does this with bad weed. Why does he think a few joints are going to do anything on top of hard drugs but make it worse. Like beer and wine. Knock it off, just do more coke, you know that, Daniel.
Like taking a bath.
"Hey what's up with the bathroom."
It comes out too fast. Heywhatsupwiththebathroom. The noises in there. The feeling, like if he doesn't get there and see to whatever's in there he's going to die. He's so fucking hungry, but it's deeper, desperate, fiending. Must have been amphetamines in whatever he took, to be crashing this hard and weird after.