They’re bantering about the music, and Jo’s giving orders and Sam’s sort of standing around uselessly for a few moments, until he notices the nearby stool that no one else is using, nudges it over so he can sit on it and lean against the counter with both elbows (because he’s still tired, the kind of tired that makes everything feel slowed down and spinny, and it makes things easier if he can lean up against something, prop his head up, stabilize himself, make things feel a little less like they’re sliding out from under his feet). He’s still wrapped in a blanket - and, yeah, the room is warm, but he’s still shivering. He absently wonders if he’ll ever really stop.
>>--got some of those black bean health burger things stashed away somewhere back there. Had a guy awhile back who was one of those 'my body is a temple against bad energy' nuts, vegetarian or vegan or something so mom had some on hand for him.”
>“Takes all sorts, I guess. Sam'll probably want one. That right, Sammy? Two normal awesome-burgers for me and Jo, and one gay hippie one for you?”
“’M’not a gay hippie,” he mumbles in response, “But that sounds good. I mean, the burger.” He manages a sort of sluggish thumbs-up, and then folds his arms on the countertop and drops his chin onto them. They’re probably going to take a while to do the cooking - and so it’d probably be fine if he just, you know. Rested his eyes, or something, while he’s waiting. He’s tired, surely they get that? He doesn’t want to seem impolite or anything.
He doesn’t really have time to ask if it’ll be okay, before he’s already drifting back off, wading through images and dreams he doesn’t want to have, in search of the welcoming dark of proper restful sleep.