Hunter Todd Alexander (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
livefortoday) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamlikenewyork2017-04-25 02:20 pm
livefortoday) wrote in dreamlikenewyork2017-04-25 02:20 pm
"This year's love had better last..."
Who: Just Hunter
What: Digging deeper
Where: California
When: After this and this
Hunter didn't sleep. At least, not right away. He felt a little bit better knowing Darius would be sitting with Cruz for now. Hunter had been battling a crippling anxiety that Cruz was going to die. He couldn't shake the knot in his gut. He knew it was spanning from his past trauma of losing Charlie, but the black and white of it was that Cruz was in a critical condition. He could die. Hunter didn't want him to be alone if he did.
Darius was right. He had to try to sleep. But now the seed was planted querying whether Cruz might have been experiencing a drug-induced psychosis, Hunter couldn't stop thinking about it. He thought back to their argument, and how Cruz seemed like a different person completely. Hunter didn't need to ask him if he had taken something. You could see it. Cruz's eyes had changed. Not just in the bloodshot, dilated pupils sort of way... even if that was present. They were dark, flat, not focusing. The Cruz Hunter loved wasn't there in that moment.
The signs of Cruz's crumbling mental health had already been there. The hyper-sexuality, trying to transfer his uncontrollable cravings onto sex. Trying to force himself on Hunter. Had that been a warning sign he should have acted upon? Maybe. Maybe not. He had given all he had, but he could never be Cruz's therapist or counsellor. Not when he was his lover. Before he left the hospital, he asked if he could have a copy of the triage report with all Cruz's presenting injuries and symptoms. They gave it to him because they thought he was Cruz's husband.
Now, sitting on the hospital bed cross-legged, he was reading the report over for about the tenth time. Cruz had, indeed, sliced close to the femoral artery, but the cut had been messy, like it was done erratically and it actually missed the artery by a sliver. It needed a trauma surgeon to fix some of the damage, but it hadn't been enough to cause Cruz to bleed out quickly. The tox screening threw back a nasty cocktail of drugs in his system. Any number of them could have been a bad mix and triggered a psychotic episode. He also had water in his lungs from being partially submerged in the bath water. It was like a frenzy trying to harm himself.
Cruz only had a couple of bags with him, and everything had been shoved into them in a haphazard way, probably by one of the guys in the band or a member of their management team. Some clothing that would need a wash. Hunter set it all aside to send to the hotel's laundry for him. There was an array of other items, but it was Cruz's songwriting journals he was looking for. They were tucked away in the bottom of one of the bags. Hunter felt like he was about to breach the most private part of Cruz. At first, he didn't want to do it. It didn't feel right.
But he knew he had to. If there were signs in there of what happened, it might mean Cruz wasn't consciously suicidal. It could also mean needed a completely different treatment regime for the addictions. He may need anti-psychotic medication to prop him up to get through it. He ran his hand over the cover of one of them. It hadn't taken him long to realise if Cruz was away in his own world with his journals, he needed to be alone. It was his solitude zone, and the last thing Hunter would ever want was to interrupt his creative flow. Cruz was an incredible songwriter. His mind, body and soul went into those lyrics, along with blood, sweat and tears.
Hunter missed him. He missed him so much, it was aching inside like a burn that couldn't be doused. He wanted to hold him, kiss him, make love to him. Never in his life had he felt this deeply for someone. It was driving him crazy. The first journal he flicked through was mostly random lyrics jotted down, probably to preserve them for later. Nothing was significant there to indicate it was anything but the ramblings of a creative mind. Cruz's handwriting was so unique, the words on the page looked like a work of art.
It was the second and third journals that hit him like a tonne of bricks. One was completely dedicated to Hunter and everything Cruz was thinking and feeling with it. Hunter closed it over quickly and squeezed his eyes shut. That wasn't for him to see. He didn't want to. He wanted to know all that when Cruz could tell him and show him when he wanted to. If he ever did. A lot of it might never come to life. He wasn't going to intrude on that. It felt like another shard of pain stabbed his heart. He fought back tears, hating how much this hurt.
He was scared what the third journal might contain. He turned to the most recent page, and there it was, staring back at him. The handwriting was almost illegible. The words didn't even seem to make any sense when linked together. Nothing flowed like the rest of Cruz's writing. Things were scratched out. Not just once, but to the point the pages were nearly ripped in some places. The words chosen seemed to indicate a fenzied mind. There were some phrases that screamed paranoia and an almost manic desperation. Fuck. Darius hit the nail on the head.
Hunter leafed back through the pages, trying to see if there was any pattern. Was it just one episode that commenced when he hit up on something at Coachella for the first time since he detoxed? Had it been gradually escalating? Did it start suddenly, or was it building momentum from before he even started to withdraw. So many questions, and no answers could be deduced from Cruz's chaotic mind spilled onto these pages. In one way, it was a relief, but it another, it exacerbated more anxiety and concern. What if Cruz still died? What if he didn't want to, it was just his mind launching a battle against himself?
He felt like he was going to vomit. He scrambled off the bed and ran to the bathroom, where he stood dry-retching over the toilet. Nothing eventuated. He lost his breath and his stomach was in pained knots, but he wasn't sick. Instead, he was just going to dissolve in tears, with the sobs echoing off the tiles.
The emotion just got too much. The lack of sleep was making it difficult for him to function. He dragged himself back to bed and got in, pulling the covers up over him and holding them tightly around himself. Cruz's things were all still on the bed. He didn't want to move them. He didn't know how long he laid there crying, wishing he could just hold Cruz and promise him it would all be okay, but eventually sleep came when he had nothing left in him to fight it.
NARRATIVE, COMPLETE
What: Digging deeper
Where: California
When: After this and this
Hunter didn't sleep. At least, not right away. He felt a little bit better knowing Darius would be sitting with Cruz for now. Hunter had been battling a crippling anxiety that Cruz was going to die. He couldn't shake the knot in his gut. He knew it was spanning from his past trauma of losing Charlie, but the black and white of it was that Cruz was in a critical condition. He could die. Hunter didn't want him to be alone if he did.
Darius was right. He had to try to sleep. But now the seed was planted querying whether Cruz might have been experiencing a drug-induced psychosis, Hunter couldn't stop thinking about it. He thought back to their argument, and how Cruz seemed like a different person completely. Hunter didn't need to ask him if he had taken something. You could see it. Cruz's eyes had changed. Not just in the bloodshot, dilated pupils sort of way... even if that was present. They were dark, flat, not focusing. The Cruz Hunter loved wasn't there in that moment.
The signs of Cruz's crumbling mental health had already been there. The hyper-sexuality, trying to transfer his uncontrollable cravings onto sex. Trying to force himself on Hunter. Had that been a warning sign he should have acted upon? Maybe. Maybe not. He had given all he had, but he could never be Cruz's therapist or counsellor. Not when he was his lover. Before he left the hospital, he asked if he could have a copy of the triage report with all Cruz's presenting injuries and symptoms. They gave it to him because they thought he was Cruz's husband.
Now, sitting on the hospital bed cross-legged, he was reading the report over for about the tenth time. Cruz had, indeed, sliced close to the femoral artery, but the cut had been messy, like it was done erratically and it actually missed the artery by a sliver. It needed a trauma surgeon to fix some of the damage, but it hadn't been enough to cause Cruz to bleed out quickly. The tox screening threw back a nasty cocktail of drugs in his system. Any number of them could have been a bad mix and triggered a psychotic episode. He also had water in his lungs from being partially submerged in the bath water. It was like a frenzy trying to harm himself.
Cruz only had a couple of bags with him, and everything had been shoved into them in a haphazard way, probably by one of the guys in the band or a member of their management team. Some clothing that would need a wash. Hunter set it all aside to send to the hotel's laundry for him. There was an array of other items, but it was Cruz's songwriting journals he was looking for. They were tucked away in the bottom of one of the bags. Hunter felt like he was about to breach the most private part of Cruz. At first, he didn't want to do it. It didn't feel right.
But he knew he had to. If there were signs in there of what happened, it might mean Cruz wasn't consciously suicidal. It could also mean needed a completely different treatment regime for the addictions. He may need anti-psychotic medication to prop him up to get through it. He ran his hand over the cover of one of them. It hadn't taken him long to realise if Cruz was away in his own world with his journals, he needed to be alone. It was his solitude zone, and the last thing Hunter would ever want was to interrupt his creative flow. Cruz was an incredible songwriter. His mind, body and soul went into those lyrics, along with blood, sweat and tears.
Hunter missed him. He missed him so much, it was aching inside like a burn that couldn't be doused. He wanted to hold him, kiss him, make love to him. Never in his life had he felt this deeply for someone. It was driving him crazy. The first journal he flicked through was mostly random lyrics jotted down, probably to preserve them for later. Nothing was significant there to indicate it was anything but the ramblings of a creative mind. Cruz's handwriting was so unique, the words on the page looked like a work of art.
It was the second and third journals that hit him like a tonne of bricks. One was completely dedicated to Hunter and everything Cruz was thinking and feeling with it. Hunter closed it over quickly and squeezed his eyes shut. That wasn't for him to see. He didn't want to. He wanted to know all that when Cruz could tell him and show him when he wanted to. If he ever did. A lot of it might never come to life. He wasn't going to intrude on that. It felt like another shard of pain stabbed his heart. He fought back tears, hating how much this hurt.
He was scared what the third journal might contain. He turned to the most recent page, and there it was, staring back at him. The handwriting was almost illegible. The words didn't even seem to make any sense when linked together. Nothing flowed like the rest of Cruz's writing. Things were scratched out. Not just once, but to the point the pages were nearly ripped in some places. The words chosen seemed to indicate a fenzied mind. There were some phrases that screamed paranoia and an almost manic desperation. Fuck. Darius hit the nail on the head.
Hunter leafed back through the pages, trying to see if there was any pattern. Was it just one episode that commenced when he hit up on something at Coachella for the first time since he detoxed? Had it been gradually escalating? Did it start suddenly, or was it building momentum from before he even started to withdraw. So many questions, and no answers could be deduced from Cruz's chaotic mind spilled onto these pages. In one way, it was a relief, but it another, it exacerbated more anxiety and concern. What if Cruz still died? What if he didn't want to, it was just his mind launching a battle against himself?
He felt like he was going to vomit. He scrambled off the bed and ran to the bathroom, where he stood dry-retching over the toilet. Nothing eventuated. He lost his breath and his stomach was in pained knots, but he wasn't sick. Instead, he was just going to dissolve in tears, with the sobs echoing off the tiles.
The emotion just got too much. The lack of sleep was making it difficult for him to function. He dragged himself back to bed and got in, pulling the covers up over him and holding them tightly around himself. Cruz's things were all still on the bed. He didn't want to move them. He didn't know how long he laid there crying, wishing he could just hold Cruz and promise him it would all be okay, but eventually sleep came when he had nothing left in him to fight it.
NARRATIVE, COMPLETE