He manages to remain calm, cool and collected until he makes it back to his dorm room. Its not quite five.
He should go to the remaining half an hour of Warbler's Practice.
He should open his calculus book and start reviewing differentiation by parts.
He should go to the gym for an hour and work out.
Instead, he reaches for his hip, and runs his nails across the adhesive of his infusion set until it pulls out of his body.
It hurts coming out. It bleeds a little. He doesn't care.
He lies on the bed on his stomach. Every inch of his body that he can put in contact with the mattress, he does. He turns his head to the wall. He wants to scream. Instead, he takes steadying breaths.
When he was a child, he would fly into passionate fits of emotion. Joy, rage, love, sorrow, he knew them all well. It was why he strives for control, now. In adolescence, raging hormones making him even more passionate, he had discovered that he could pull himself away from the edge by physically grounding himself. He is too proud, now, to lie on the floor as he did when he was eleven.
At least he did not given Them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He remained blasé as the doctor again detailed the horrors that awaited diabetics with uncontrolled conditions.
Neuropathy.
Amputation.
Blindness.
Kidney Failure.
Death.
As convinced as They were of the consequences, he was unconvinced.
His body has betrayed him once. He will not let it happen again. There will be no consequences, because he will not let them happen. He will die first.
He will die you.
He has decided that although he probably doesn't have much time, perhaps another forty years, he will be meteoric in his ascent. He will make his life count, even if it is short and broken.
He is aware that the pillow is wet beneath his cheek, but he lets the moisture remain.
He breaths in the scent of the laundry detergent the school uses. His sheets smell clean and safe.
He counts his breaths.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He finds himself calming.
Slowly, he stands up and goes to the in suite to wash his face.
When Nick and Jeff burst in five minutes later, there is no evidence of his break down.
His face is a perfect mask of control.
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