It was still fairly dark when Machiavelli decided that he wasn't going to get anymore sleep and that he might as well get up. His eyes itched with sleepiness but he didn't want to close his eyes again and risk facing the nightmares he'd been having. He shuddered seeing the Karkinos stab through Billy again in his mind. He sat up in bed; instantly his head felt like it had split in two. He clasped both hands to his head and pressed tightly, trying to shut out the pain. It didn't go away. Briefly he thought of going back to sleep, but dismissed the thought.

As he came more fully awake, he was aware of a dull pounding behind his ears. He felt strangely heavy. As his head reeled for the second time in a short while, he decided he'd better head for the bathroom.

Carefully, he swung his legs over the edge. He stumbled when his feet hit the ground and he had to grab the edge of his side table to keep from falling. He groaned and grabbed the bin Billy had left for him; there wasn't going to be time to get to the bathroom. He sat down rather heavily on the bed and clung to the bin like it was a lifeline.

The next few moments passed in a wave of sickness and dry heaving. The Italian alternated between cursing his weak stomach and promising the gods above that he would never drink again. The drunk revelry of last night had finally come crashing down around him, leaving him blindingly hung over. He slumped helplessly against his pillow again, hoping that the worst of it was over.

With his increasing sobriety came the realization that he had messed up badly last night. Already he could feel the squirming sensation of shame crawling into his stomach. While he was only vaguely aware of what he had said and done, he was completely aware that he didn't want to face the others in the morning.

The more that Machiavelli lay there in the semi-darkness, the sure he became that he couldn't face the others, especially Billy. He was sure that after all the other stunts he had pulled in the past couple of weeks the American wouldn't be willing to keep him around anymore. It seemed to him that he had blown his last chance.

As the first tendrils of light crept over the horizon, he decided that he would go away, that he needed to. He wasn't quite sure where he was going to go, but he felt that it was better than waiting for the American immortal to expel him. And, he reasoned, he was still an adult in his mind and should therefore be able to make the proper arrangements.

Being very careful now in the way that he was moving, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Georgette mewed from her place at the edge of the bed and for a moment, he groped in the darkness until he found her head. He gave her a few quick strokes between her ears and almost smiled when he heard her purring.

Standing up, he moved gingerly to his closet. The door creaked when he pushed it open and he frozen, listening hard. There was no sound. Holding his breathe slightly, he eased the door open the rest of the way.

He couldn't really see anything in the darkness. He caught hold of a shirt and pulled it off the hanger. Quickly, he scrambled into it. He also attempted to find a pair of pants, but after coming up twice with a pair of shorts, he just pulled on those instead. Thinking hard, he tried to remember where he had left his sneakers. His mind was still frustratingly fuzzy. The front door, he decided. He had taken them off there.

He gave a quick glance around his room. With quick light strides, he crossed the room to his bed, where he stuffed some extra blankets into the shape of a human form. Satisfied, he left the room.

Across the hall, the door to the American's immortal room was open. Briefly, Machiavelli considered going in to check on him but he discarded the idea just as quickly as it had come. Instead he turned to the left and padded down the stairs. The husky lifted his head when Machiavelli began to put on his shoes. He keened piteously. The Italian patted his head and whispered in his ear, "Shh, Billy. I have to get out of here, just for a little while. Come with me." The Pup whined uneasily but perked up when he saw Machiavelli grab his leash. The dog followed him to the front door.

Machiavelli stepped off of the porch and into the dewy grass. He could feel the moisture creep into his shoes and shivered slightly. Though the early morning air woke him up, it didn't take away the itchy feeling his throat that made him feel like he was going to start bawling at any moment.

Inwardly, he marveled at the depth of emotions he was feeling at the moment. He had lived alone for years, reveled in fact, in his solidarity. Never had he felt more alone than he did now.

Peering around the edge of the cabin, he hoped inwardly that Scatty wasn't awake. He had a feeling her eagle eyes would see him, even in this mostly darkness. He jogged over to the forest, disappearing among the forestry. Even that quick movement had jostled his already weak body.

He walked along for hours, lost in his thoughts. Billy the Pup swung around him, yipping at squirrels and snuffling through the ferns. Machiavelli drifted off of the beaten path and into the woods, not really noticing or caring where his feet took him. He felt tremendously guilty about the way he'd been acting the past week and now, as he moved further from the cabin, twinges of shame clutched at his heart.

Finally, when he couldn't go any further, the Italian was forced to conclude that this had been another bad idea that he'd had in a string of bad ideas. It seemed like his brain just wasn't working properly these past few days.

Looking around, he realized he didn't know from where exactly he had come. His heartrate sped up. He spun in a circle, looking for some familiar clue, but there was nothing. And worse, his head was beginning to really pound now. He felt like he was choking on his own heartbeat.

He swung around and looked back in the direction he thought he had come from. The change in orientation made him feel suddenly lightheaded. He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt experimentally, feeling as if the cotton was choking him. The Pup hovered close by him now, tugging his leash backwards, trying to lead the Italian in the direction they'd come from. Machiavelli pulled in the opposite direction.

When the sun was almost directly above them, Machiavelli slumped against a wide tree trunk. The world around him seemed rather hazy, he thought as he looked around the clearing. The Pup trotted up beside him and began to lick his face. "Stay with me, Billy," he whispered. "I'm feeling very low right now." The dog whined softly and settled down, resting his face in the Italian's lap. Machiavelli gently rubbed the dog's muzzle. He felt his face crumple and he leaned into the dog's fur to muffle his cries. He cried himself out and let himself fall asleep, curled up against the husky.