A/N: Sorry for the delay. Crisis one averted. Crisis two currently being take care of. Crisis three I'll handle tomorrow afternoon. Had a talk with my muse… and Steph. They told me that what I had planned would probably kill poor Seb, and that I should wait for another day. So, I'm heading their advice. Not quite as dark as I initially envisioned, but I hope you enjoy.
He wakes up alone and disoriented in a stranger's bed. His mouth tastes like death and dryness. His teeth are fuzzy, and his face is greasy. The finest stubble graces his cheeks. If he were more effeminate, like lady face Hummel, maybe, his mascara would be giving him a raccoon mask.
He is sore.
He feels dirty.
He feels like a whore.
He's not entirely sure why he is awake and alert. It's still dark outside; the only illumination in the room comes from the yellow glow of a streetlight. Without checking his watch, or disturbing the stranger taking up most of the bed, he estimates it to be between five and six in the morning. It's far too early for his body to be responsive.
He is shaking.
Maybe he's awake because he has to vomit. His stomach is an angry, twisted ball in his gut. It wants to force out any vestiges of alcohol left in his system. He steals out of bed without disturbing its owner.
The bathroom is a communal affair at the end of the hall, unlike the private in-suites he's used to. He is sure he will catch something, going barefoot on the cold, dry tile. There is something that feels infinitely unclean about being barefoot on a communal bathroom floor. Maybe its all the horror stories he's heard about athlete's foot and gangrene.
He kneels in front of the toilet, naked expect for his boxers, and tickles the back of his throat with his finger. He's done it a few times before.
Bile and alcohol, emptiness and hopelessness, they all flood out into the white porcelain bowl.
He's shaking when he stands, and his heart is pounding in his ears.
The realization of why he's awake, why he's shaking so badly, why he feels like he's run a marathon hit him slowly. And, with the realization, the shaking increases.
He goes back to the stranger's room, now blindingly dark after the well-illuminated corridor. Half blind, he dresses himself and fumbles with his wallet.
He's shaking as he takes the steps two at a time down. He would take the elevator, but the rational part of him knows that if he passes out, someone will find him more quickly here. The reverse argument that, passing out on a flight of stairs will cause greater injury, doesn't cross his mind.
He looks half crazy as his shaking hands lift a pair of crumpled ones to the bill acceptor of a coke machine he finds on the first floor. It takes a few tries, but finally, the machine spits out the blessed bottle of dark brown liquid.
He fumbles off the cap, and takes a long swig. The bottle is empty before he comes up for air.
As he sits in the dingy lobby of the dorm, waiting for the shaking to subside, he swears this is the last time.
Deep down, though, he knows it probably won't be. He is a base creature, and his cravings have control.