[some of the hand gestures are a bit more difficult when he's high, but he takes the medications that he can find because it helps keep them at bay, which in turn makes it easier to sleep-- or so he'd hope anyway, although it's still hard for him to drift, even with the sleep-aid he'd taken earlier.
first, it stems from the way he's noticed quentin's expression hardening, like something is really bothering him. a lot of people think he's daydreamy or inattentive when he's actually just watching and something he has noticed? how his friend's smile is forced and the magic is lacking, no matter how many poppers they do.
following that comes the disappointment, feeling like he's not good enough (as always), knowing there's no reason to continue doing things while they're lacking results-- which is exactly why he'd begged and pleaded with them for something to help him sleep. if he can't do anything simple, what's the point of being sober at all?
and he does sleep solidly for a few good hours, only to stir at the sound of something (someone?) crying. klaus flutters his eyelashes, blinks into the darkness, trying to comprehend exactly what he's hearing until it does eventually register as sobs.
shit, quentin! the skinny medium rises up from his bunk, still working through his ambien-induced haze, even though that doesn't stop him from leaning over the edge of his mattress to ask,] Q? [his voice is husky, hardly audible through his slight incoherency. he doesn't know if quentin heard him or not, yet rather than wait for an answer, he scoots to the end of the bed and drops down, bare feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump—
then he's flopping onto the bottom bunk, shifting around to look at the other male, one hand groggily reaching for his shoulder.] Hey, Quentin, I'm here. [klaus's fingers squeeze, reassuring as he can manage for now.] What's wrong?
quentin needs hugs... wails
first, it stems from the way he's noticed quentin's expression hardening, like something is really bothering him. a lot of people think he's daydreamy or inattentive when he's actually just watching and something he has noticed? how his friend's smile is forced and the magic is lacking, no matter how many poppers they do.
following that comes the disappointment, feeling like he's not good enough (as always), knowing there's no reason to continue doing things while they're lacking results-- which is exactly why he'd begged and pleaded with them for something to help him sleep. if he can't do anything simple, what's the point of being sober at all?
and he does sleep solidly for a few good hours, only to stir at the sound of something (someone?) crying. klaus flutters his eyelashes, blinks into the darkness, trying to comprehend exactly what he's hearing until it does eventually register as sobs.
shit, quentin! the skinny medium rises up from his bunk, still working through his ambien-induced haze, even though that doesn't stop him from leaning over the edge of his mattress to ask,] Q? [his voice is husky, hardly audible through his slight incoherency. he doesn't know if quentin heard him or not, yet rather than wait for an answer, he scoots to the end of the bed and drops down, bare feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump—
then he's flopping onto the bottom bunk, shifting around to look at the other male, one hand groggily reaching for his shoulder.] Hey, Quentin, I'm here. [klaus's fingers squeeze, reassuring as he can manage for now.] What's wrong?