Who: Alex White & Klaus Hargreaves What: Introductions Where: Outside Alex's Trailer When: Friday night, late Warnings/Rating: General warnings for thoughts of death and specific ways to die.
Eleven is for heart attack. Chest seizing up, pain shooting down his left arm, radiating into back, chest, shoulders. Even his jaw had heart. Breathing became impossible, drowning in the very air he breathed. Dancing black spots appearing in his vision, and tried reaching out and catching them but his arms were strapped down.
Thirty-seven is for hypothermia. Locked in a freezer, no clothing, watching his skin turn red, fingers and toes darkening from red to black. The shivering, the relentless shivering, teeth chattering so hard he thought they'd break. Huddled in on himself, making himself small, trying to keep his hands warm by breathing on them until they didn't want to seem to work, till his arms were just useless weights attached to his shoulders. At least the end had been warm.
"Fuck," Alex whispered to the darkness, closing his phone and putting it back on the bed next to him. He had to work in the morning, and that spam play thing after; he didn't have time to be going over this shit in his head. He was tired, but knew sleep wouldn't come. Not now. He flung one arm over his eyes and gave it another five minutes, but he was still just as awake. "Fuck," he said again.
He got up, combing fingers through his hair as he shrugged into his hoodie and padded barefoot the few steps to the kitchenette, putting water on the stove to boil. Looking around the small trailer, Alex decided yet again that it was a good thing he didn't take up much room. It was…well, cozy was a generous word. But he liked the tight spaces, the lack of really anywhere to go, and the way it kept him from pacing the floors; there wasn't enough floor to pace. It reminded him of home: just as shitty, but less crowded, less tense. The water boiled, and he stirred in the instant coffee and sugar from a handful of packets he'd taken from the coffee shop, grimacing as he sipped. Coffee shop was way better. But this would do.
Alex pulled up his hoodie and took his coffee and smokes out to the porch. "Porch" being a euphemism for the cinder blocks which served as a step, right outside the trailer door. He sat and lit up, taking a drag as he just listened to the sounds of the night around him, exhaling as if the memories would leave his body with the smoke.
They didn't. But they eased, backed off, left him alone for the time being.