(Untitled)

[dickgout]

Shit sucks

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[first_worde]

Rupert flicked away the sliver of palm he'd had placed roguishly at the corner of his mouth, and called out to the hut as he strode along toward it.

"Oi, Stackhouse! You're an Ameriwhatsit, yeah?"

As a total afterthought, which was misleading since there wasn't actually any thought involved, he rapped the door frame with the back of his hand.

"Jason?"

[dickgout]

Jason wasn't sure who the hell was knocking at his door until he dragged himself to a place he could look. He'd hoped, just for a second, it was Hoyt.

Not that he wasn't happy, in some tiny fucked up way, that it was Rupert. Because damn, at least Rupert really got him.

"Hey," he said weakly, "come in."

[first_worde]

Rupert did so, and stopped, jaw going ever so slightly slack which, for a de Worde, was a substantial gesture.

"What the hells is... Gods, man," he said, striding in, not bothering to hide the repugnance on his face at the smell and the mess.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, aghast, turning back to Jason to clasp the other man by the shoulder, eyes wide.

[dickgout]

For all intents and purposes, it looked like Jason had been puking up old blood for a few hours. Which he had-- it just wasn't here. "I fucked up," he said, voice cracking. "I really fucked up. I just needed to see if it was still. I have a problem, man."

He kicked at the stupid fucking Steve Newlin book that had been his only company the last couple days.

"Shit, you should go."