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He had a headache from hell, and maybe then some. The harsh fluorescent lighting outside the infirmary wasn't doing him any favors, and for a second, Leslie just pressed his face to the closest wall and made a pitiful muttering sound, eyes closed.

Christ. What a ******** night.

Leslie, with all the speed of a tortoise, turned to look at Abbi with narrowed eyes. It was exhaustion, though, that was worn on his face.

Along with the stink of alcohol, someone else's glitter on his crumpled black shirt, and a cavalcade of bruises around his neck and wrists.

He blinked, slowly. "Hey 'Bbi," he muttered, and scrubbed at his face with both hands. "Don't mind me, just some leave 'n s**t. Partied too hard. I'm fine and s**t."

It wasn't believable in the slightest.

He made a face at her, the longer that she looked and really saw what was there, but his faces had never really stopped her before. Shoving his hands into his pockets, face colouring a little, Leslie bit at the inside of his cheek.

"I ******** wish," he muttered, tensed but not shying away, letting Abbi hover in his personal space. If she'd been anyone else, Leslie would have put up a bigger fuss. He wasn't happy, by any means, and it showed, but...

Leslie sighed, gritting his teeth. "Fine," he said, with more venom in it than he'd intended. The marks were disgusting, evidence of everything that was wrong with him-- and an echo of Rep's taunts lingered in his mind-- and yet, still, Leslie didn't really want them to fade.

He dropped his head to nudge it against her shoulder, a little, tired. "Whatever."

(Heat, unending and unyielding, so much he might suffocate, so much he might perish, and a kiss pressed to the hollow of his neck, cruel and biting, replaced by fingers that are equally unkind.)

"It was a club," Leslie grit out, leaning into Abbi's touch and comforted for it. Not all physical contact had to be bad to be wanted. Just most of it. Just enough to remember his worth. "At, uh. First. And I took some s**t, because this girl--" who had red hair, because of course she did, "I bought, uh. Some...stuff from her."

He yawned in agreement, and nodded. "It was a long night. I uh. Went home...with...someone." Admitting it felt like ash in his mouth, and his disgust and revilement was clear. "<******** class="quote">

"She didn't give it to me, I bought the s**t," he grouched, freezing at her sudden movement but not shaking her away. He was just...startled. "Dunno. Molly, I guess. Some designer s**t. Have some left, if you want to take a look. Wasn't the s**t that gave me a bad time, just--"

Leslie scowled, and tried to cover his wrists, wishing he hadn't misplaced the hoodie he'd worn out. Probably left it at that jackass' place.

"Yeah, but--" I wanted it, I asked for it, I chose it-- His stomach turned. "It's," Leslie tried again, "not good. For me. If it's not. So whatever." He touched at the handprints on his neck, and knew they'd fade within the day.

Leslie snorted, because of course. "I don't know the fancy ******** name for it. Makes you feel good, really good, like you're kind of floating and every little-- everything-- feels fantastic. I didn't forget my ******** troubles, and I didn't stop caring, but they didn't matter."

He cusses in a low string and puts his face into his hands, groaning at her cheesy question. "I'm not saying any more s**t till we're in your room, jesus ******** christ," Leslie hissed, pulling away to yank her along by the wrist. They were almost there.

"It's not...like that, anyway. I mean. Ugh. <********>." Christ, it would be better if it was. His olive skin was furiously red, now, around the cheeks and ears.

"Yeah," he said, and began counting off the rest of his answers on a finger, "Not till the island, whaaat? Chriiist it's not like it can ******** kill me, can it?" Leslie yanked on a pigtail, curling red-orange around a grubby finger for just a moment.

He stumbled into the room, relieved that there were four walls and a ******** door between them and the rest of the world. "I don't know what you mean," Leslie replied, "is this another reference to something shitty?"

Flopping onto the floor in front of her bed so that he could lean against it, Leslie obediently held out his arms for attending to. "And jesus christ, do not tell a ******** soul, not Jack, not anyone. That's the last s**t I need."

"I broke like three ******** ribs when I was like, ten," he offered, shrugging. "Dad just bandaged it up and said to take it easy for a few weeks. I wasn't in any real ******** danger and I wasn't bleeding out anywhere, so..." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The universal sign for money.

"I'll be careful, don't throw such a ******** fit. She was on it too and wasn't dying." Leslie winced at her yelling, and then flipped her the bird. "Nothing's gonna ******** happen, don't get in a ******** tizzy! I'm in more danger doing like, I don't know, a beach run or an underwater rune run or whatever. You seen those ******** mermaids?"

He waved his arms at her again, purple rings around his wrists now visible as fingerprints and cuff marks both. "I got a hard enough time reading not shitty books, I don't wanna read some gay s**t." Leslie made a face of epic proportions.

"Don't." The warning was tight, and the reality was starting to sink in a little. "Because it was disgusting, and it was...I don't know if good's the word I'd use just."

Cathartic, youngling, Aleria suggested, and briefly explained its meaning.

"Just... some s**t we should both forget about." A scowl. "You gonna clean me up or what?" He leaned forward, and took a bite of the pocky without actually getting it with his hands. Hah!