[for Lloyd]

[number97a413]

[ After  all  of   these ]

In the light of day, things actually seem a bit better than he'd hoped.  Maybe it helps that he spent last night freaking out in the jungle after dark, scaring himself bad enough that he's back on his fucking meds; after that, a hangover and some gay panic aren't really that bad.

The pill bottle rattles from his trouser

Comments

[number97a413]

His look would be a little more wide-eyed if the combined shiner and hangover would let him open them more. He can't decide if the panic he feels (and he really needs to get this shit together and take his fucking meds before his heart gives out or he just starts to believe his heart is giving out) is a natural fight-or-flight now that Lloyd's made the response necessary, or some sort of depressive-episode bullshit mixing with the gay panic so he gets to feel guilty about going home with Jim for some fucked up reason, and panic about Lloyd finding out.

It's moments like these, where he's tipped on the verge of some kind of mixed episode where he's going to end up crying and laughing in the fucking corner, that he wonders why the hell he ever stops taking his medication. This would be so much easier if he just let the psych office keep him permanently stoned. "What the hell do you want," he asks, before thinking better of conversation and just turning to continue on his way, needing coffee first, meds second, and whatever bullshit Lloyd has to explain last night dead fucking last.

[kingshit_lloyd]

Boy, Miguel really did look like shit -- Lloyd doubted either of them was going to win any beauty contests today, but at least he didn't have the black eye to complete the washed out ensemble (he did have that busted lip he still didn't remember getting, but it wasn't quite as hardcore). And that look Miguel gave him, it was like he was expecting Lloyd to come at him with a fucking baseball bat.

Whatever had gone on between them last night, it couldn't have been that bad, right? Lloyd was starting to panic a little, too, especially when Miguel took off before he even got the chance to say anything.

"Hey, Jesus, wait up!" Lloyd called after him, speeding up to catch up. "I'm sorry, okay?" he began, awkwardly fishing for words. "Look, I was having a real rough night -- I shouldn't have taken it out on you." He should have gotten better at apologizing by now, but he didn't know what the hell else to say, especially since his skull was threatening to squish his brains out through his eyeballs. He put a hand on Miguel's shoulder, trying to get him to slow down. "I was an asshole. I'm sorry."

[number97a413]

"Don't you fucking touch me," he growls, made angrier by urgency, but what else does he feel half the time? "Did your night get any less rough for making mine just as fucking bad, man? I wanted to kick the shit out of you." And how could Lloyd understand how hard that is, how much Miguel doesn't want to feel that way anymore? The night was like a study in things he doesn't want to be, and now he's hung over and crashing and Lloyd is giving him vague excuses.

Fuck it, just fuck it. Even if he wanted to just take the apology and let it all go, what then? He'd still feel like shit and he'd still be on edge and everything that happened last night would still have happened.

[kingshit_lloyd]

Lloyd took his hand off right quick, startled into taking a step back. He even kept his hands up for a couple of seconds, hoping that might calm Miguel down some. What the hell?

"No, 'course it didn't," he admitted quietly, part baffled and part guilty. But underneath it was a bitter jolt of agitation: Really, buddy? Did you get a visit from the fucking devil last night, too? At the same time he knew that if Miguel had kicked the shit out of him, he would've probably deserved it. "I said I was sorry," he muttered lamely, shoulders slumped, feeling too fucking tired for this. "What the fuck else do you want me to say?"

[number97a413]

He needs his refill. He needs to not wake up from a nightmare where a dark man is burying him and he's too apathetic to get up out of the hole; wake up groping for a body that isn't there, only to recall its shape, only to recall every shape it could have had.

He needs his fucking meds. "Nothing, man, I don't want you to say shit. Try again some other time, but I can't fucking deal right now."

[kingshit_lloyd]

"Sure, okay," Lloyd said, looking down and for a moment resembling a cartoon of a rueful five-year-old. Well, he could take a hint, even if it sometimes needed to be projected from a giant Fuck Off billboard.

He was getting the urge to ask Miguel what his trouble was, but he figured he was the last person the guy wanted to talk to. And besides, Lloyd had shit of his own to deal with -- there was only so much he could handle, too, before his world started cracking at the edges. And it was getting there. "I hope you feel better, man," he muttered, and got going. He really needed that shower.