( he could have offered his own room, given its size, but there's something about it that he doesn't want to relent to, something that he doesn't want to taint with this experience. the brunt of it has been spent outside of his suite, after all, smearing blood and petals and syrupy pollen all over restaurant tables and cold mugs of beer and, once, a whisper of fingertips along the hallway near the nurse station he's most familiar with, as though he might actually relent. he hadn't. the staff dutifully mop up the blood, change his bedsheets, provide new towels with their sad, woeful expressions; but no one tells him how to fix it, no one tells him what it means, or if it'll get worse, or what's going to happen.
it feels a little too on the nose for it to be esikko's doing. that magic might be powerful, and it might have to do with flowers--at least when he saw it--but he doesn't see why he would infect the whole resort with something and then not know the cure for it. maybe it had been stupid to approach him about it: or maybe more accurately, he'd thought for a moment that it had been only him, like that blood magic in the elevator had somehow tainted him for something else.
it doesn't matter. he makes his way to the fourth floor, taking his time down the hall, hands pushed into the pockets of black slacks. he'll be an experiment if he has to be--the good doctor promised he wouldn't kill him, anyway, so at least there's that. but he isn't feeling particularly generous with his patience, here, and as he gives a short knock against esikko's door, it's with a grumbling, hoarse cough; he wipes the spit and blood off on the arm of his sweatshirt, leans his forehead into the door frame, and waits. )
no subject
it feels a little too on the nose for it to be esikko's doing. that magic might be powerful, and it might have to do with flowers--at least when he saw it--but he doesn't see why he would infect the whole resort with something and then not know the cure for it. maybe it had been stupid to approach him about it: or maybe more accurately, he'd thought for a moment that it had been only him, like that blood magic in the elevator had somehow tainted him for something else.
it doesn't matter. he makes his way to the fourth floor, taking his time down the hall, hands pushed into the pockets of black slacks. he'll be an experiment if he has to be--the good doctor promised he wouldn't kill him, anyway, so at least there's that. but he isn't feeling particularly generous with his patience, here, and as he gives a short knock against esikko's door, it's with a grumbling, hoarse cough; he wipes the spit and blood off on the arm of his sweatshirt, leans his forehead into the door frame, and waits. )