A/N: For readers familiar with pumps, I'm envisioning Seb on a Medtronic Paradigm and using silhouettes or quick sets. He's probably the type of guy who just sticks the blasted things in without an inserter. On another note, I may be a little bit more spare in updating the next few days. I'm setting a goal for every 48 hours instead of every 24 because I have a draft of my thesis due Friday and a term paper next Tuesday. So, please excuse the intrusion of real life into this sacred place. C65
He has to get out. His life is getting monotonous, and if he has to experience another minute of the BS that is routine, he will scream.
He gets up, and showers. He tests, and texts his father his blood sugar. It's a new system his father put in place after the day spent in the emergency room. He hates it.
He goes to class from eight to three, listening to endless lectures and answering endless questions about things he doesn't really care about. Why does it matter if he can conjugate the past participle of ire? It's not like anyone speaks Latin, anymore.
Then, he tests and texts his father at lunch, and then again at 3:30. Then, it's off to Warbler's practice where they sing and dance and look pretty. It's fun, but it feels empty.
He tests texts, and eats dinner.
He does his homework, test and texts again, and goes to bed.
He's not going to bed tonight. He's not even sure he will come home to bed. He tests his blood sugar, anyway, and texts his father the number. He gets an XP as a reply. He's pretty sure his father doesn't understand emoticons.
He disconnects his pump to change clothes. Normally, he would just use the release at his site, squeeze the white tabs and let the tubing fall to the ground with his pants. But, today he pulls it out of his pocket, threading the tubing carefully.
He puts on his rugby shirt, pulls on the jeans that show off his ass so well. He stares at the small white oval on his stomach. He studies the little black device on the bed, a little thicker than a first generation iPod and about half as long.
He doesn't want to wear it on his belt, for fear that it will get disrupted while he's dancing. He hates the way it makes the ass of his jeans sag. Fat rectangles mess up the lines of perfect butt cheeks. Imagine if Ryan Phillipe had stuck something small and rectangular to his perfect posterior in Cruel Intentions. Not sexy at all. He presses a few buttons to stop the flow of insulin, and wraps the tubing around his pump.
He goes over to three quarter mirror hanging off the bathroom door, and lifts his shirt. The field of hated white scars stare back at him, their crowning glory the white, clinical looking patch. The black of tried blood shows against the edge. It looks ugly… it makes him look sick. Before he can think of what he's doing, he rips the patch off his stomach.
If he allowed himself to feel remorse or regret for what he did to himself, he might have felt it a few minutes later. But he does not allow himself that weakness. Instead, he goes and draws a dose of the cloudy insulin, injecting life into his leg.
Tonight, he will not worry about his health. Tonight, his hormones can take control.