A/N: Now that Sebastian is going to be at least conscious, I've decided to turn narration back to him. Also, this chapter is written with Bryce in mind. I'm still sorry about the nail marks in your hand...
God, he hates IV's. He hates the feeling of the needle passing into his vein. He hates how the nurse holds it in place until they can get the tape down. He hates how his arm aches every time he moves it, so he's placed it across his body. He hates that the fluid through the tubing is so cold. It makes his whole hand and his arm feel numb. But, most of all, he hates the reminder of just how sick he is.
With the wide plastic tube in his arm, and the needle out, he has released Nick's fingers. His roommate is trying to hide the fact that he's stretching his hand. His frightened grip is powerful.
His father hovers by the uncomfortable plastic chairs. He's not sure if he's angry with Nick for calling his father or not.
The objective, rational part of his brain knows that he's dehydrated and having trouble keeping down water. He knows that hydration is key to clearing the ketones from his system, to lowering his blood sugar, and to keeping his cells from turning into crumpled up balls of nothing.
Unfortunately, he's not sure his rational self is in control. Primal emotions are so much easier to process than rational thought. And, he is Angry and Frustrated. He just wanted a break: a day off to catch up on his life and sleep.
Now, Nick and his father are looking at him like he's a dying man.
He hates his body. There is no good reason for it to turn against him and destroy perfectly good cells. Not just any perfectly good cells, but perfectly good cells that most people take for granted. He didn't know what he had until it was ripped away from him. Now, he bounces between doing a difficult and imperfect job of what his cells did so easily, and saying to hell with it all, and letting everything push on with minimal effort.
His father and Nick both jump at the slight knock on his door. He's in a small room with windows, so everyone can see in and out, but the doctors and nurses like to pretend they're preserving his privacy. It's not as bad as the Peds ICU where he spent the night when he was first diagnosed. At least here, they let him close the curtains and the floor doesn't echo with the silence of sick and dying children.
He rallies, preparing himself mentally for what ever may come. Then, his body decides to play one last trick. He has time to grab the pink molded plastic basin with his good arm as his father welcomes the doctor into the room.
As he pukes, he wonders who will be in control of this visit.