Post by makism vandik tarasov on Nov 18, 2012 0:08:40 GMT -5
He'd been sleeping so much lately... sleep. Sleep was the enemy in the old days. They could sleep when they were dead. The dark was used for entertaining things like raising hell and partying and being young and wild and free. They were wild at night, and really every time too. Before that Makism had been crazy all on his own. The rave scene... it was fun. He could party until he dropped and live it up like it was nobody's business. Hell, it was everybody's business. Those were the days when nothing was dark and shadowy. Those were the days that Makism wasn't so cold.
The cold had seeped into literally everything. It had eaten his world alive. The creature laid in bed, now, and he shook. When he was asleep he shook with the cold of his dreams and the cold of sleeping alone. Still, he slept. It was the last round of medication... he would sleep it off. A few more days, a few more to sleep it off. Makism could do whatever he damn well pleased, and right now it was sleep. No amount of coffee and pillow talk with Kira would keep him up. He would sleep.
Kira. He'd grown so fond of Kira so fast. Maybe it was the thirst for attention, the attention Quinn wouldn't give him. Makism would fill the hole with what fit. It made it better that Kira fit... fit so well. It was nice to have someone that could keep up and could make him laugh. He hadn't laughed so much since getting his sorry ass into this place. It was lovely, and he had to embrace it as it was. He had to embrace a pair of strong arms and a broad chest. He wanted to embrace being picked up and carried around, being cuddled close to in bed.
There were things that couldn't be changed and he'd accepted it. He tried so hard to play Quinn's game... the game he played now. Makism had been the player, the rowdy friend... until Quinn. Until things didn't need to change. Until they did change. All he wanted became all he couldn't live without and all he couldn't live without was all that was jerking him around. Not all that was making things hell... there was still the things that had followed him all the way here from bum fuck nowhere. He ached.
So he slept. Things could go all the way to hell when you slept. He'd slept for... god, for how long? Nearly 12 hours. A lot of things could happen in 12 hours. Everything could be shot to hell in 12 hours. Makism had been in the middle of a beautiful dream... it was the dream of the life he wished they'd been able to have. It was the one where everything was perfect. A little girl stared up at Makism and asked him where his tattoo came from... the blue one... on his hip. It wasn't a tatt--
And it all shattered. Makism's phone was making the noise that said it was charged. It pulled him down from the sleep of the dead and ragged him across the floor. Why the hell did it have to make such an infernal noise over... and over... and over again? Why the hell did the rooms have to be set up so the electrical outlets were all the way across the room from the beds? Why the hell was the furnature bolted to the floor? The Russian man was clearly waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
On the front screen of his phone there's a little green box with part of a message-- Quinn! Thank fucking god. The Russian man unlocked his phone, scanning the message and freezing. At first, all that registers is the fact that Calan is dead. He actually liked Calan, and so did Quinn. It means that he needs to find the Irishman, to hold him. He reads it again to make sure he has it right... and he realizes what it means. The man's blood runs cold. His heart pounds in his chest, head starting to spin. All of the air is sucked from the room. Without a thought in the world, without care for anything else besides the destruction of his entire world.
He doesn't realize it, but he's off and running. Quinn's room is the first stop, sticking his head in the door he knows isn't locked. His heart gives an aching squeeze as he realizes it's empty, but he shakes his head. Makism knows he could be somewhere else. It's on the way to Connor's room that he briefly stops outside the room he knows belongs to their dealer. It's silent. Ace makes a lot of noise whenever he's anywhere. His knocks are sharp, hard on the door of the god be damned soiled dove and there's no answer. No... god no...
Makism has always been a decent runner, but he's moving faster than he ever has. Adrenaline is all that fuels his movement as he makes his way to the main campus...intensive care. Please, god damn it all, let him be in the dining hall... the coffee shop... everywhere. The man's green eyes find each of those places bereft of Quinn as he runs and watches, searching every face as he passes. What he doesn't realize is that tears are streaming hot and fast down his face as he runs. What he doesn't realize is that they're freezing in oil slicks half way down his face.
The Russian man's hands slam down on the ICU desk and he's standing there demanding to see Quinn. His voice cracks and breaks and he's nearly sobbing, but he needs to see the Irishman. He needs to be alive. If Quinn wasn't there with a breath in his chest he wouldn't have any god damn idea of what to do... how to carry on. It didn't matter if Quinn wasn't his... he just needed to be. Makism doesn't realize that he looks like a madman. His eyeliner is smudged down his cheeks, he hadn't showered since the day before and his hair was hanging a bit greasy around his face. The taller man's shirt hangs awkwardly on his slight shoulders and he's wearing his boxers... fashionable boxers. And tall socks. His legs would always get cold... so it called for tall Batman socks.
He's lead into a room where a young, long body lies. Comatose. It's a word that echoes around Makism's head, one that he knows the meaning of. He knows it means alive. He knows it means that Quinn is still breathing, the steady beeping of the machines that surround him mean that he's alive. The Russian man lets out a long wail and crumbles to his knees at Tarquin's bedside, cursing him in violent, forceful Russian. The words are ugly, but the only one to be screaming them between sobs would be a man in love. The sheer degree of what he's feeling is bearing down so forcefully that his head is spinning... Makism fears he'll be sick.
A long while later he's still crying, but it's the silent sort where no tears are left. Sobs rack his chest and shoulders as he finds himself face down on Quinn's sheets, and nothing else matters. All the pent up emotions were laid plain on the table and he was in the middle of what some would call a mental breakdown. If only he hadn't broken such a long time ago because of the situation. All that could happen now was an increasing decline. Makism was getting worse. Composure was slowly coming back, but all he wanted to do was cry. Never once did he get up, still on his knees, broad hand still over Quinn's motionless one.