He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out through his mouth before he lets his anger take control of him. It has been a very long time since he has punched someone in the face, and his roommate, who is strangely enough, one of his few allies, is probably not the best place to start.
Nick doesn't mean any harm. His father doesn't mean any harm. They just don't understand what its like. Their bodies just work, without having to think about it. They have never been told by people that its their fault they're sick, if they had just eaten better or exercised more, they wouldn't have gotten this disease. Their mother never looked over her grocery list from the days of their diagnosis and blamed herself. And, they've never had to come to terms with the fact that they're dying. They didn't have to face the real and present danger earlier that afternoon, sliding into home plate just before ball with their name on it makes it in.
Maybe, though, they're scared… for him. He makes a decision, and moves to the seat next to Nick. He unclips the pump from his belt, and uses the four buttons on the front to unlock the screen.
"The computer runs the thing," He explains, sounding authoritative. "It gives a base dose every hour, to keep things running. Then, when I eat, I give myself a bolus." He presses a series of buttons, and the pump chirps. "The insulin goes from the reservoir here, to my site." He pulls up his shirt, and shows Nick the white patch on his stomach.
He realizes this is the first time he's explained his pump to someone who wasn't already a medical professional. Doctors and nurses, especially ones who never encountered a pump before, always wanted to see it. Even then, he's quick and callous. He's never quite rude, but it's always a near thing.
"So, you have to wear that all the time?" Nick asks.
"Except in the shower," He smiles, tiredly. "I get to take it off for a whole fifteen minutes every day."
"And there's a needle in your belly."
This is a question he dreads. People get skittish around needles. "No, there was a needle in my belly. Now there is a little plastic tube." A bit of snark laces his words. He's feeling better.
"And it's not going to alarm at night any more, now that you've shown it to me?" Maybe Nick isn't as light a sleeper as he though.
He snorts. "Fat chance."
He goes back to his seat, and takes a sip of water. Suddenly, he feels full and tired. "Can I be excused?" He asks, almost politely.
His father and Nick let him go.
As he climbs into bed, he wonders if maybe he's been wrong about people all along. Maybe soft power, not hard anger, is the key to control.