Rehab- Hesitate
He'd been away from others, away from his brother, and away from the comforting wiles of his usual drug concoctions for a week now... Was it a week? He wasn't entirely sure anymore, but then again the days passing had exactly been something he'd been thinking about.
It had started with the aches, it always started with the aches- they bound his joints in a way almost reminiscent, before it dribbled down his limbs like a bad cold, leaving him feeling like a marionette bound in its own strings... At least it had done until his stomach finally came to the conclusion that there wouldn't be anymore pain relief injected or ingested... Finally letting the nausea hit him.
He'd made sure to plan the room he was staying in to have a few things, one of which was a bathroom, or at least a toilet, the Russian spending at least a day or so at the lip of it, the waves of nausea crashing against him like a violent sea on a sinking ship, the large Russian gripping the ceramic in a bid not to get swept away as his body heaved and lurched against the toilet bowl. His refuse was liquid; blood, darkened with a few days congealing, water, bile... The nausea was strong enough to get him to the bathroom, and the vomit was enough to keep him there.
He wasn't entirely sure when he ran out of fluid to regurgitate, his mind had drifted, though he was unsure whether it was through unconsciousness or something else, his hold still white knuckled on the toilet, his joints looking jaundiced against the perfect white of the vessel. He limply lifted his hand, his fingers snagging the flush, and letting the weight of the painful limb initiate the mechanism, watching the acrid mess that had left his body swirl and leave him here as it raced elsewhere around the HQ.
He'd bought things to try and take his mind from his body's rebellion, but he couldn't focus- books didn't hold his attention, and the television did nothing , the Russian finding himself focusing more on the dots of pigment that made up the pictures rather than the pictures themselves. It did little but bring about migraines, which only brought about more nausea.
He'd taken to the bed, not lying on it, but under it, his head to the floor, a pillow resting on top of it as he did his best to sleep. Being under the bed made him feel safer... safe from what he really had little idea other than the tenseness that gripped his guts that he couldn't quite place. Feeling safer however did little to ease him to slumber, the Russian very much awake, however much he didn't want to be.
He'd given himself a couple of months- once he'd been clean for that long he could see what his options were then... though at the moment he was unsure if he'd last a couple of weeks, the urge to at least get himself a shot of morphine was eating at him, the cramping and twisting of his guts doing all they could in giving him that extra incentive.
He wasn't doing this for himself though, he was doing it for his brother- his brother at least deserved a valid attempt of his partners sobriety or, at least, it was what the Russian was telling himself, drawing on the other for some form of solace, as minute as that solace seemed to be.
He stripped, moving out from under the bed to do so, and sitting on the cot the room had come with, the creak of the springs under his weight sending another pang of tension through his systems. He sighed, rubbing his face for a moment in a bid to relax himself before laying down, not bothering with the cover- it was far too hot, for him at least, and he wasn't expecting visitors.
Two months, just... Two more months.
It had started with the aches, it always started with the aches- they bound his joints in a way almost reminiscent, before it dribbled down his limbs like a bad cold, leaving him feeling like a marionette bound in its own strings... At least it had done until his stomach finally came to the conclusion that there wouldn't be anymore pain relief injected or ingested... Finally letting the nausea hit him.
He'd made sure to plan the room he was staying in to have a few things, one of which was a bathroom, or at least a toilet, the Russian spending at least a day or so at the lip of it, the waves of nausea crashing against him like a violent sea on a sinking ship, the large Russian gripping the ceramic in a bid not to get swept away as his body heaved and lurched against the toilet bowl. His refuse was liquid; blood, darkened with a few days congealing, water, bile... The nausea was strong enough to get him to the bathroom, and the vomit was enough to keep him there.
He wasn't entirely sure when he ran out of fluid to regurgitate, his mind had drifted, though he was unsure whether it was through unconsciousness or something else, his hold still white knuckled on the toilet, his joints looking jaundiced against the perfect white of the vessel. He limply lifted his hand, his fingers snagging the flush, and letting the weight of the painful limb initiate the mechanism, watching the acrid mess that had left his body swirl and leave him here as it raced elsewhere around the HQ.
He'd bought things to try and take his mind from his body's rebellion, but he couldn't focus- books didn't hold his attention, and the television did nothing , the Russian finding himself focusing more on the dots of pigment that made up the pictures rather than the pictures themselves. It did little but bring about migraines, which only brought about more nausea.
He'd taken to the bed, not lying on it, but under it, his head to the floor, a pillow resting on top of it as he did his best to sleep. Being under the bed made him feel safer... safe from what he really had little idea other than the tenseness that gripped his guts that he couldn't quite place. Feeling safer however did little to ease him to slumber, the Russian very much awake, however much he didn't want to be.
He'd given himself a couple of months- once he'd been clean for that long he could see what his options were then... though at the moment he was unsure if he'd last a couple of weeks, the urge to at least get himself a shot of morphine was eating at him, the cramping and twisting of his guts doing all they could in giving him that extra incentive.
He wasn't doing this for himself though, he was doing it for his brother- his brother at least deserved a valid attempt of his partners sobriety or, at least, it was what the Russian was telling himself, drawing on the other for some form of solace, as minute as that solace seemed to be.
He stripped, moving out from under the bed to do so, and sitting on the cot the room had come with, the creak of the springs under his weight sending another pang of tension through his systems. He sighed, rubbing his face for a moment in a bid to relax himself before laying down, not bothering with the cover- it was far too hot, for him at least, and he wasn't expecting visitors.
Two months, just... Two more months.