The first thing Loch became aware of was the sound of running water.
It crept into the blackness like a clumsy predator, stalking him through the back of his mind until he was conscious of the sensation of his eyelids being shut.
He hadn't dreamed.
Fits of self-induced insomnia where common for Loch. When he slept, slept in his damn human shape, he dreamed, and it was never pleasant. So he drank, because it made him dreamless and numbed some of the pain he felt, dulled the hunger, too, and when he woke up the pounding in his head was a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest.
He felt none of that. His body felt tight, his muscles jumbled, as though he hadn't moved once for several hours. He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. Fingers, not hooves; that was a good sign. The bed smelled sweet and clean, completely devoid of the smell of his cologne and spilled whiskey.
It wasn't his bed.
Loch's eyes snapped open and he found his face pressed into a particular soft part of Guinevere's anatomy. She was still beneath him and he couldn't feel the rise and fall of her chest. He propped himself up by his elbows, still hovering over her, and took stock of the room.
His clothes were discarded amongst the floor. He was only wearing his boxers. The last thing he remembered was kissing Guinevere, then doubling over in pain and giving a strangled curse because he didn't think he could hold on anymore. The only thing that would keep him human was--
"Oh no," he breathed.
He didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was right in front of him. There was no way Guinevere would let him go, no way they'd end up in bed like this, unless...
He took one more look at the unconscious girl before him.
He shook his head, "No, No."
His mind whirled. She was probably dead. It wouldn't be the first time.
He rolled off of her and onto the floor and the moment he broke contact with her, Loch began to sweat....but that was it. He was feeling okay. He turned off the shower and wiped off his fingerprints from what he could remember touching, but he supposed it didn't really matter. He stood looking at himself in the bathroom mirror for a while.
He came back and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I'm sorry," he said.
He didn't move. He wasn't ready yet. He wasn't sure what to do with the body.
Eventually, he decided to leave her there. He shut the door softly behind him.
It crept into the blackness like a clumsy predator, stalking him through the back of his mind until he was conscious of the sensation of his eyelids being shut.
He hadn't dreamed.
Fits of self-induced insomnia where common for Loch. When he slept, slept in his damn human shape, he dreamed, and it was never pleasant. So he drank, because it made him dreamless and numbed some of the pain he felt, dulled the hunger, too, and when he woke up the pounding in his head was a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest.
He felt none of that. His body felt tight, his muscles jumbled, as though he hadn't moved once for several hours. He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. Fingers, not hooves; that was a good sign. The bed smelled sweet and clean, completely devoid of the smell of his cologne and spilled whiskey.
It wasn't his bed.
Loch's eyes snapped open and he found his face pressed into a particular soft part of Guinevere's anatomy. She was still beneath him and he couldn't feel the rise and fall of her chest. He propped himself up by his elbows, still hovering over her, and took stock of the room.
His clothes were discarded amongst the floor. He was only wearing his boxers. The last thing he remembered was kissing Guinevere, then doubling over in pain and giving a strangled curse because he didn't think he could hold on anymore. The only thing that would keep him human was--
"Oh no," he breathed.
He didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was right in front of him. There was no way Guinevere would let him go, no way they'd end up in bed like this, unless...
He took one more look at the unconscious girl before him.
He shook his head, "No, No."
His mind whirled. She was probably dead. It wouldn't be the first time.
He rolled off of her and onto the floor and the moment he broke contact with her, Loch began to sweat....but that was it. He was feeling okay. He turned off the shower and wiped off his fingerprints from what he could remember touching, but he supposed it didn't really matter. He stood looking at himself in the bathroom mirror for a while.
He came back and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I'm sorry," he said.
He didn't move. He wasn't ready yet. He wasn't sure what to do with the body.
Eventually, he decided to leave her there. He shut the door softly behind him.