[ it was only a matter of time before professor fuller woke from his slumber in the chair next to him and sought him out. he hadn't exactly been quiet about his trek to the bathroom and now, with his head bent into his arms, he almost wishes he could will the man away, and with him? the embarrassment and shame he has no doubt flushes its way up his chest, into his neck.

the moment he feels the hand on his back he lets out a soft breath, as if he'd been holding it, wrought with tension and uncertainty. some of the gentleness he remembers in the fog from the night before comes back - a man carrying him, a hospital bed, the smell of expensive aftershave, and warmth.

he raises his head, peering into the mirror at the man at his side. he catches sight of himself - no glasses, dark circles under his eyes, his face both pale and ruddy all at once. he looks horrific, that much he knows. his hair sticks up at a myriad of angles, thanks to the night-sweats and nightmares. no shirt - and when he turns his head is when he catches sight of it - the little mark on his neck.

some of the color leaves his face, and he purposefully pushes up from the counter to stand, keeping one palm flat on the fine, marbled surface. he has to look away from the sight of himself and instead meet the tired face of the man who has obviously cared for him.

he couldn't even suspect hawkins fuller of anything less than honorable if he tried. slowly he takes a breath, trying to swallow around the acrid taste at the back of his throat, to catch up to the wild, racing thoughts he'd had a moment before. he feels awful - like he could sleep for a million years and never sleep again, all rolled into one. leaning against the counter, he realizes the cool top sits on bare skin where the sweats have come down enough, where the jut of his hip bones sits above the disrupted waistband of his clothing.

he's a disaster. he self-consciously pulls the sleep pants up. ]

It's fine - I ... [ what does he even say? he feels like shit. he's sick. he's exhausted. he's scared. he's sad. he's completely defeated. so, so many things. ]

Nothing's - I can't - [ he shakes his head and runs his hand awkwardly through his hair, then scrubbing over his face. he doesn't let go of the counter with the other - just to be safe. his legs feel wobbly, not unlike a baby fawn, and it's better to test them here, anyway. ]

You don't have to leave. It's... it's your house. I should leave. I shouldn't have even... [ he looks down at his own feet then, uncomfortable. another wave of nausea passes through him, and though he doesn't feel he'll be sick, it makes a chill run up his spine, turning the skin on his arms to gooseflesh. ]

Sorry, I don't even know what to say. Or do.

[ does he get his things? the clothes on the floor are his, he now realizes. his dark jeans, the shirt, but with it piled a blazer he doesn't recognize. shit. is that the guy's...?

god, he can't even remember what he might have told professor fuller. he closes his eyes tight and tries hard to think: the pizzeria. the guy. then... what? campus? he definitely went to fuller's office. maybe a doctor. the campus nurse? then here. here that has more memories than his night altogether - here with the smell, the warmth, the traveling fingers, the low voice.

good boy. ]

I didn't... oh, my god, I didn't - did I try to - are you okay?

[ did i try to make a move on you? did i try to show you i want it? did i try to prove something? ]