I'M A MESS [invite only]

[makism vandik tarasov]

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.

[driscoll luka renshaw]

There had been enough on his plate already. Things that had come into play after all the work he had been doing besides the normal duties that he had with all the mutations to create, give and test out. There were side projects too, here and there. One being an odd request that once funded, Driscoll hadn't been able to pass up. There were so many interesting factors to it that he'd wanted to try out. So what if the outlines hadn't all been his? He could work with what he had been given, and he had. There was give and take from both sides of it, and he had to say that the results so far had been very interesting and well worth it. Driscoll had been taking notes through it all; day by day because it needed to be done that way. Things were happening so very fast. He was actually surprised at how quickly it all took, and kept going.

Things had been stable enough to relay the message for over a week, but Driscoll never got a message back, and he realized that during that time, Quinn had been locked up in the restraint room. There had been no way to give a message there, and from all the things he had heard, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. No words would have gotten through to the male at that point or during the time Quinn had been in isolation. So Driscoll has simply written things down and kept on observing and testing. He kept to the plans he had and went with it. At least there had been plans set up in case of anything like this happening. Which was good, since one never knew what could happen in this kind of place. Certainly not for patients like Tarquin. Either way, Driscoll had all of that going on without a hitch.

It only got more interesting and complicated with the male having an OD and ending up in a coma. There had been a lot of running around yesterday when Quinn had been brought in; not much information given as to what occured or any of that. To be safe, most idea of how had been checked over. Stomach pumped to reveal quite a few partly absorbed pills of a variety, and alcohol. It seemed as if Quinn had gotten high in a few different ways before all of this went down. There had been blood in the male's lungs that had to be drained and checked to make sure any more started to build up, and cat scans and hookups to all the IVs and moniters were put in place. It was quite a process getting that all in place. Driscoll still did not have all the information on how it all occurred, though he had a pretty good idea by now.

The morning brought more files to fill out, and talking to the nurse on overnight duty as to any changes that might have occured. Nothing. No more fluid buildup, no jumps in heart rate. Nothing. Perfectly comatose. Driscoll would keep an eye on it for a few days or so before he tried anything to rouse the patient, but the longer Quinn was in a coma, the less of a chance of the male waking up. He knew that. Most did. For now, at the beginning there wasn't much he could -- or should -- do. Just wait. And so he had gone back to keeping an eye on his other projects and awake patients. Tarquin wasn't even in his ward, he'd only happened to be on duty when the male had been brought in, and he took control of the situation. Might as well; he did feel a bit obligated over the whole matter, and he knew the manipulation head doctor had enough on his plate.

When he hears about the male demanding to see Quinn -- there seems to be a lack of good hygien and clothing to the guy doing the demanding -- Driscoll left what he was doing to go see what was going on. It did not take too long -- considering the distance and when he'd been informed, of course -- for him to get to ICU and find the male there. The kid was a mess, Driscoll could see that from the limited view as it was. He cleared his throat and picked up the clipboarded records and information, waiting for the male to at least say something or act interested in what might be said. After a moment, Driscoll scanned quickly over the papers to see if any added notes had been written down, then looked back to the male. "Your friend had quite a lot of drugs and alcohol in his system. It caused a heart attack and from what we can telll, a seizure before he went into a coma." Driscoll said briskly, going over what he had, wondering if the male could fill in any of the blanks at all.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism feels as if he's been frozen to teh spot for a long time. He's ever so cold, shivering and shaking. The tears had frozen a long time ago, chilling to his skin. Moisture pulls heat away, and he doesn't have a hell of a lot of that to begin with. Seeing the only human creature that had ever meant anything serious to him laying there comatose? That was enough to freeze him to the bone. The air around Makism had gone cold as well, enough to feel as if an extra fan had been turned on in the room. Just like every other time he was alone and really needed someone he shivered and shook, he was cold when he woke.

The young man murmurs in rapid Russian, speaking lowly. Words of adoration mix in with just how much he's been feeling lately. His entire world had been crashing down because of Quinn. Things had been rough, had been rocky. The ups and downs of what he'd been feeling was far too much to handle. The fact that Makism was bouncing between rejection and heartbreak, being replaced and the fact that there was something he could use to fill the void... it was too much. Makism was trying his damndest to convince himself he'd make it too.

A man Maksim recognized but didn't know the name of walked through the door, probably set off by the screaming. It wasn't Quinn's, he'd be they had to make sure. Then again, why would an Irishman be wailing in desperate Russian. He'd taught the man only the most basic of phrases... the 'I love you's and the little terms of endearment. Those had been the only things that he'd been using... they were the only things he'd been saying.

"I know." Makism doesn't look up. He knew Quinn. He knew his attention to detail without really attending at all. He knows that there were probably little details he wouldn't bother paying mind to that meant all the more. "I can tell you it was probably vodka... the good stuff, Russian. The drugs were... god, probably not coke, that's his weapon of choice. He wouldn't ruin that for himself by using it to do this. He damn well knows his heart is fucked up, just like his little brother's is--" Makism's voice catches, his heart starting to pound in his chest again. Calan. Fuck Calan. Fuck Calan and his dying and his leaving them too. Everyone was too far gone. "--Was. His older brother was fucked in the head... Quinn offed him a few months back. Anything else you'd like to wonder about without actually asking?" Makism hasn't moved, hasn't looked up. His hand is chilly over that of the other man. His thumb strokes softly over the moon pale skin, feeling and touching... he needs so badly to touch.

[driscoll luka renshaw]

The room was cold, but this was no real surprise to Driscoll. He knew what the male could do. Had to, if you decided you wanted to play with shaky genetics from the start. Driscoll isn't too bothered with the chill in the air right now; that's not a concern of his. Yet he does want to know more about what happened to cause Tarquin to be in this state. It wasn't that he did not know about the medical history of it all. Driscoll knew quite a bit that most wouldn't think he did. The amount of information he knew about the patient that lay comatose on the bed would probably surprise Quinn himself. Driscoll's being here was not by accident. Nor was it a coincidence. He kept these things to himself because no one here needed to know, and it did not interfere with his work. He could play both sides of the coin and do quite well with it. So he did.

Driscoll is calm and collected as he regards the male. He has realized by now who it was by the telltale cold in the room, knows what the capabilities are for the most part. He's had to wrangle such things from the blood, as interesting as that was. All these things done to people in this place; it was funny how deeply set these 'abilities' could get. When Makism speaks, Driscoll listens to what is said with a rather blank expression. Most of what was being said he knew already. The drugs and alcohol type had been determined by the pumping of Tarquin's stomach. And Driscoll was informed of the medical records of both Quinn and the two brothers simply by this incident itself, though he already had known it all. He knows how Roman was killed, that Calan was dead from the heart condition. What he didn't know what if this was accidental or not. Until now. Makism's words had confirmed that this was done on purpose. That cracked a code all on it's own.

He set the clipboard down and folded his arms over his chest as he looked at Makism. "You gave me one helpful bit of information; that this wasn't an accident. That helps. What I'd like to know is why. I am aware that Tarquin is not stable, but this isn't really his style, is it, Makism?" He moved slowly to shut the door of the room, leaning against it after a minute. "I was under the assumption that he would have been thrilled that you found him after everything the clan did to cover up where he'd been sent. How ever did you do that?" His smile was wry, but he was curious. The Ellis clan was quite good at keeping things under wraps when the situation called for it. "One has to wonder what the Ellises might do if they knew you were here...." There was curiousity in the words. Then again, Driscoll wondered what the clan would do to him if they had any idea of the things he had done as well.