"What the fuck?" Are the first words out of Nick's mouth. He thinks it's the first time he's heard Nick curse. Nick is a good Christian boy.
He pulls the syrange from his bicep and caps it. He thinks Nick is over-reacting. Even a good Christian boy should know that good drugs would go in his veins at the crook of his elbow, not his upper arm.
"What the fuck are you doing, Seb?" Nick repeats. "I'm calling the fucking rector."
"No, you're not." Despite exhaustion and alcohol and adrenaline in his system, he is suddenly sober.
"Why not?" his fellow Warbler demands. "You're fucking doing drugs."
"Its not a drug when your body makes it," he tries to explain, stumbling with the words. "Fucking bum pancreas. Fucking Insulin. Fucking blood sugar. Fucking pump."
Somehow the jumble of curses and vaguely biological terms trigger something in Nick's brain. "Fine. No rector tonight. Tommorow, we're going to talk, though, Seb."
He yawns. It will be just what he needs when he's hungover and trying to conjugate latin verbs tomorrow. "Fine," he grunts, chugging the bottle of water and curling into sleep.
He is out before his head hits the pillow.
Sleep takes control.
Thank you for all the nice responses! Thanks!