[ Vasiliy's there again, touching him, and Konstantin's trying to breathe through his own pained moans, willing himself with every ounce of self-control not to dig his fingers into his stomach in some desperate attempt to stop the thing's movements. It won't work, he knows it won't work, will only make it worse, but every piece of him wants to fight against this unnatural thing within him, including his mind. Even if the flow of thoughts ultimately follow no logic, couldn't possibly be done, and he knows that—
If he could just dig it out, just claw through his own body, dig it out — or maybe plead with Vasiliy to just try cutting it out, take a knife, take any sharp fucking thing and just get it out of him
He turns away from where he's facing the wall, so that his back's pressed against it instead. Breathing labored, he slowly starts sinking down to the bathroom floor, uncaring of the streak of blood that follows him, staining his clothing. Long legs splayed out, he keeps that hand against his abdomen, but his other— his other has caught Vasiliy's arm and then slid down to his wrist as his own body slid down to the floor, and now his fingers are looped weakly around the other man's wrist like that, unwilling to let go. Konstantin holds on, looking up at him, eyelids fluttering. ]
I can't— I can't calm my heart down. I can't. I'm trying, but it's—
[ Spasming just like the little creature writhing fitfully inside of him. Konstantin isn't used to this nearly complete lack of control; he's been able to calm himself any time he needed. It's been part of his training, such an essential part. But it's so hard, and he's already so ill, and he pants for breath, fingers groping for Vasiliy's hand, latching against the younger man's slender digits. It's another display of weakness, vulnerability, things he'd never imagine he would show before. In this moment, so close to panic, they come so naturally. ]
EAT YOUR FOOD, WORMY!!!! you'll feel better... also this Gay Behaviour.....
If he could just dig it out, just claw through his own body, dig it out — or maybe plead with Vasiliy to just try cutting it out, take a knife, take any sharp fucking thing and just get it out of him
He turns away from where he's facing the wall, so that his back's pressed against it instead. Breathing labored, he slowly starts sinking down to the bathroom floor, uncaring of the streak of blood that follows him, staining his clothing. Long legs splayed out, he keeps that hand against his abdomen, but his other— his other has caught Vasiliy's arm and then slid down to his wrist as his own body slid down to the floor, and now his fingers are looped weakly around the other man's wrist like that, unwilling to let go. Konstantin holds on, looking up at him, eyelids fluttering. ]
I can't— I can't calm my heart down. I can't. I'm trying, but it's—
[ Spasming just like the little creature writhing fitfully inside of him. Konstantin isn't used to this nearly complete lack of control; he's been able to calm himself any time he needed. It's been part of his training, such an essential part. But it's so hard, and he's already so ill, and he pants for breath, fingers groping for Vasiliy's hand, latching against the younger man's slender digits. It's another display of weakness, vulnerability, things he'd never imagine he would show before. In this moment, so close to panic, they come so naturally. ]