His neck itches. Fingers idly brushing over his skin, he's surprised to feel an almost-healed scab. It's strange. Kavinsky isn't sure how it got there.
He isn't sure about a lot of things.
There's a clatter of wheels in the corridor and another nurse pops in, sunshiny smile on her face as she blinks when the light from the window hits her in the eyes. Kavinsky doesn't mind. It gives him a chance to rearrange his face; decide what expression he's going to wear.
Uninterested or blatantly unfriendly?
If it was one of the few male nurses he might try to flirt, but he can't quite manage anymore. He's so used to flirting with his things, not himself. Shiny steel, burnt rubber speed and faces on plastic. Without his trappings of the past, it's hard to know who he is.
And no one has come to see him.
The food tastes like hospital food, antiseptic for seasoning and mushy cotton balls for texture. Dreams are so much more satisfying, their weight heavy on his tongue. The rust in his mouth and sharpness in his throat when he dreams too fast; his fingers itch for the pills he doesn't have. The nurse frowns at him when she comes to retrieve the tray.
"You need to eat," she says, cranking his bed back down as pain shoots through his chest again. Kavinsky looks away.
The flowers catch his eye. He doesn't know who's sending them, probably something to do with his mother but he doesn't care about that. It's the smell that makes him smile. Just a little.
"I wonder when you'll come back," he whispers to the shadows lurking beneath the creamy petals. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he thinks he can hear familiar footsteps in the hall.
When he looks up, green eyes—or is it blue?—drifting towards the door, what will he see?