Klaus hears the monitors first, the steady, rhythmic beeping and the hissing of an oxygen machine. His throat feels impossibly dry and his head throbs like someone's taken a sledge hammer to his skull. His eyes feel heavy and he can't quite will them to open just yet. He fades in and out, hearing words like dehydration, overdose, malnutrition.
This place doesn't smell or sound or feel like the gas station he'd been in, trying to scrounge up change for a pack of cigarettes. A long night partnered with fatigue, dehydration and what is sure to be a lack of food warranted a kick of nicotine, to re-energize him. The bed he's on doesn't feel like a stranger's bed, doesn't have the weird smells or lumps, doesn't come with the expectation of a morning quickie or blowjob. Everything about this feels wrong in a way he can't quite put his finger on. Is he home? Though that thought passes as quickly as it comes. After all, dear old Dad made it very clear he was to never set foot upon the stoop again if he continued to show up 'inebriated'.
His eyes slowly open and he shifts in his bed, groaning against the fluorescent lighting that seems to sear its way right to his aching brain. Klaus knows that if he moves too much, he's going to throw up. He can feel the way his stomach sloshes, gurgling in his abdomen like an angry creature waiting to claw its way out. "Shit..." He tries to raise his hand to touch his face but feels weight on it, he turns with wide, blood shot eyes, half expecting to see restraints. He's never been here before, never dropped himself this far, and a tiny part of him reels with fear.
But when he sees Allison something twists tight in his gut, makes bile rise up hot and acidic in the back of his throat. Fuck, he has to look a mess right now, and he does. All wild, sweat slicked hair, a mixture of black and electric blue eyeliner smudged around his eyes, skin pale and sallow, his waist trim in a way that nods to his drug use, his lack of self care.
"Allison. Man, you're either dead or I'm still crazy high because you don't live here." He giggles at himself and presses his free hand over his eyes.
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This place doesn't smell or sound or feel like the gas station he'd been in, trying to scrounge up change for a pack of cigarettes. A long night partnered with fatigue, dehydration and what is sure to be a lack of food warranted a kick of nicotine, to re-energize him. The bed he's on doesn't feel like a stranger's bed, doesn't have the weird smells or lumps, doesn't come with the expectation of a morning quickie or blowjob. Everything about this feels wrong in a way he can't quite put his finger on. Is he home? Though that thought passes as quickly as it comes. After all, dear old Dad made it very clear he was to never set foot upon the stoop again if he continued to show up 'inebriated'.
His eyes slowly open and he shifts in his bed, groaning against the fluorescent lighting that seems to sear its way right to his aching brain. Klaus knows that if he moves too much, he's going to throw up. He can feel the way his stomach sloshes, gurgling in his abdomen like an angry creature waiting to claw its way out. "Shit..." He tries to raise his hand to touch his face but feels weight on it, he turns with wide, blood shot eyes, half expecting to see restraints. He's never been here before, never dropped himself this far, and a tiny part of him reels with fear.
But when he sees Allison something twists tight in his gut, makes bile rise up hot and acidic in the back of his throat. Fuck, he has to look a mess right now, and he does. All wild, sweat slicked hair, a mixture of black and electric blue eyeliner smudged around his eyes, skin pale and sallow, his waist trim in a way that nods to his drug use, his lack of self care.
"Allison. Man, you're either dead or I'm still crazy high because you don't live here." He giggles at himself and presses his free hand over his eyes.