o god sorry for suck
Fuck the Wright brothers. That, and variations on the theme, had become Benjamin's favorite mantra since roughly ten minutes after his plane had originally gained altitude. The vertigo had lessened in the time since he touched ground, but as far as his stomach were concerned the world was everything but solid.
He'd managed to stay upright long enough, once he reached the apartments, to begin unpacking the kitchen appliances and non-perishables that had been shipped ahead along with his other belongings (an expense that Benjamin was still having internal fits about.) However when the knock came, the young man was laying sprawled in his unpacked living room floor with an arm over his eyes and a cold pack on his queasy stomach. The laptop that had previously been there was sitting within arms-reach in sleep mode.
"Fuck those bastards in their fucking flying asses," Benjamin grumbled softly as he carefully pulled himself to first a sitting position, then a standing one once he'd determined his stomach was being oddly co-operative (the cold pack was left to fall where it may, so long as it didn't hit the laptop.)
"One second!" Thankfully the coffee filters had been among the last things unpacked and ergo were still sitting on the kitchen counter. It took only a second to snatch them up on his way to the door, a blessing as despite his best efforts and the lessening of his vertigo, Benjamin's stride is most definitely more of a stagger than a walk.
He doesn't bother to check the identity of the visitor before opening the door. What would be the point? He doesn't know the guy (he assumes, with a name like that) from Adam. "Sorry about the wait," he apologized, leaning against the doo-rframe. "I'm assuming you're Dominic."