Time had passed since he'd last been fronting. He knew that much. He just... had no fricking idea how much time that actually was. But it didn't matter just then.
**
The next thing he knew was that everything hurt. He didn't like that. Nobody did. Still didn't matter.
**
Was Layla making coffee? He knew that smell. He liked that smell. Was he hungry?
**
Marc gradually opened his eyes... no, eye. What the frick? He slowly brought a hand up to check why his right eye was refusing to open, but didn't get very far, because it hurt as well. And everything was too bright. And his leg ached like it hadn't done for literal decades.
"...wha?" he managed, although his voice was more of a croak after being unused for a while.
Could he drag the covers over his head until everything was dialed down a couple dozen notches?
No. No, he couldn't.
He settled for groaning, and turning his head so his face was mushed into his pillow a bit more.