Dylan took the Gatorade, took a sip, and the resulting wave of nausea felt more like a typhoon. There was nothing left in his stomach, however, so he only retched, shivered, and slumped back against Mac, wary of the contact and yet grateful for the support. The bright red liquid dripped from the sides of the lip of the bottle and he found that when he licked it from the side of his palm, it was just enough to be somewhat satisfying, but too little to trigger his tortured stomach. He sighed and let his eyes close briefly. "I'm not so good with music." He murmured, one hand resting on his abdomen. He was certainly too weak to fly into one of his rages, but a fit was still possible, and so he shook his head. "Music's a bad idea-" He continued, "For that, I need, like, earplugs and I need Dave-" He shook his head and then took a very, very slow sip of Gatorade. He was silent for a minute. Well, he had never shied away from talking about his condition before, so there was no reason to start now.
"I'm not very - normal." Dylan said, and stared at the wall opposite him, "I was living out on the streets before about a month ago." He took another sip of the Gatorade, it was too sweet. "I'm not alright in the head, and I've been using for a while- Dave- my boyfriend's worse than me, though, so I quit 'cause I thought that would get him to quit, but-" His eyes flickered down, remembering Dave's betrayal. "It didn't work. I still want to quit, though, I'm tired- so tired of being a slave to this shit."