#223499

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🔪 for Chris!

🔪 Awake surgery

CW: Referenced hand whump, blood, sadism, reluctant whumper, facility whump, BBU

"You have got to be joking." The doctor dried his hands off on the single-use towel he held, watching through the one-way window as the trainee inside sat, shaking his head at a nurse who was speaking to him in a low voice. He shook it less like he was saying no and more like he was simply denying that she was speaking at all. "Him again? What the fuck is Petrus doing to this kid? It's only been, what, four days since I got him out of the clinic in the first place!"

"I mean, you know what he does to him, he's one of the little sluts." The handler rolls his eyes. "Petrus fucks him stupid, not that any of them have brains to begin with. But this time 223499 dropped a glass during his Mixology class. Can't pin it this one on Petrus, it's all on 499 being a little bitch again. His Mixology instructor says he's a clumsy little shit."

"Great. Okay." Dr. Ross has a headache already. He hates this place, hates the crude, aggressive handlers and the way they talk about - and to - the trainees. He hates sewing the injured trainees up only to see them again, with new wounds needing dressed and new terror in their eyes. He hates everything about this job except the paycheck.

He can't wait to get another job and get the hell out of here.

The Facility gets to him - it works its way down under his skin, seeing the haunted, nervous way the trainees looked around all the time, trying to guess where pain would come from next. Trying to curry favor, to avoid the torture constantly forced on them anyway. He's been seeing their frightened faces and hearing them beg in his dreams far too often. "So he's here because..."

"It's a deep cut." The handler shrugs. "He needs stitches."

Dr. Ross looks back at the trainee. 223499 is holding perfectly still while the nurse turns his hand over. His palm is a mess of blood, darker than the new-penny shine of his hair. The trainee's stained fingers twitch nervously.

He's just a kid.

The same kid who'd automatically gone to his knees just a week ago, ready to do whatever he was commanded to, thoughtless obedience making the doctor's stomach turn.

He has to get out of here.

Dr. Ross swallows, feeling like there's a lump in his throat he just can't quite get rid of it. "Fine. I'll prep something to numb his hand, we'll give him a little bit of-"

"Nah." The handler shrugs, looking bored. "His primary's got a note on his file, didn't you see it? No painkillers for three weeks. Not even topical."

Dr. Ross watches 223499 flinch away from the nurse, who slaps him, making him cry out. The sound is muffled through the one-way window. As is the apology the boy provides immediately, stammering through it, only to be slapped again. This time, he doesn't cry out. He only cringes back, hunching into himself, and keeps his eyes down.

It makes Dr. Ross feel sick.

"... fine," He says, realizing the silence is drawing out too long. "I'll get him sewn up. He can go back to his room once it's done. Tell Petrus to leave him alone for one night, at least?"

The handler snorts with dry humor. "Yeah, good luck on that. But I'll tell him you said so. You want me to help you strap him down?"

Dr. Ross doesn't let himself look at the trainee again. "Yeah. Come in and strap him down while I prep."

"You got it, Doc." The handler gives him a lazy salute.

The kid doesn't fight being strapped down, but it doesn't matter. Once the work begins, the kid's back arches, he screams and thrashes wordlessly, then... even worse, he makes noises after like he's dying, low moaning sounds that seem barely human. He's shuddering, whispering apologies when all he'd done was drop a glass and try to clean it up too fast.

Dr. Ross goes home that night with the trainee's screaming in his ears. He hears the sounds the kid makes once the needle goes into his skin all weekend in his nightmares.

On Monday, he emails his resignation, effective immediately.

He's smart enough to have a one-way ticket booked for a country WRU isn't operating in before anyone reads it.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🧑‍⚕️ for Chris! Cookie treat:

🍪

CW: BBU, sickfic, ableism from Luke Petrus, general Luke Petrus warning, minor whump (OC is 17), brief implied noncon references

-

"What the heck did you do now, Petrus?" The doctor - barely out of med school, still young and learning the twists and turns of the Facility's labyrinth of hallways - sighs. He's been here barely a year, and already learned that Luke Petrus has a reputation for quick turnarounds because he runs his trainees into the ground. Metaphorically speaking.

His trainees aren't generally allowed to actually run much of anywhere at all. Or get out of bed.

Petrus rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Nothing. He was being a little shit this morning, breaking all his rules. I checked and his forehead was hot, so I brought him in here."

"Well... at least you didn't OD him again."

"That was one time, and he should have been fine, it's not my fault his body metabolizes the drugs wrong-"

"Maybe don't use our freaking supplies without speaking to a doctor first to make sure next time?" Dr. Ross glances into the exam through through the window cut into the door.

The trainee lays on his back on the exam table, staring listlessly up towards the flickering florescent lights overhead. His hands are moving, constantly crushing the crinkling paper beneath him or touching himself at the throat, the collarbone, the stomach. He's humming, audible through the door. A toneless, tuneless ah ah ah ah through barely open lips.

"Okay, well. I'll take a look. Any specific complaints other than the fever?"

"Clammy as fuck, coughing, sneezing... all that shit. Complained about his food, earlier, and I know he knows better than that." Petrus narrows his eyes, and Dr. Ross tries not to feel a shiver down his own spine. "He better be burning hot enough to hallucinate or he is going to fucking regret talking shit to me about the food."

Dr. Ross pauses. "The food is pretty legendarily... um, crap, though," He points out. The look Petrus gives him is so derisive he can all but feel it eat into him like acid. "I'll take a look. Probably he'll need an overnight in the clinic."

"I only have a few weeks left to finish him up. So you get him able to take training tomorrow night, got it?"

"I can't promise-"

"This one is going to a personal friend of Karen Renford's," Petrus says in a low voice. "A personal. friend. Got it?"

Dr. Ross swallows, trying not to look unnerved. "Got it."

"Good. Message me once he's good to go back, I'm going to head home for a few hours. If he's faking this..."

"Handler Petrus. How exactly would he fake a fever?" Dr. Ross looks into the exam room again. The trainee is still humming, watching his own fingers as he moves them between himself and the light. His skin is pale, a little grayish. His freckles stand out like paint splatters all over his body.

"Wouldn't put it past him. Trainees figure out all kinds of shit. Get him better and get him to stop doing that... Shit with his hands, making those noises. Punish him if he keeps it up, it's part of his training plan."

"Hm," Dr. Ross says, noncommittal. "I'll send his test results over in a bit. Enjoy your time at home."

He steps inside just to end the conversation, walking idly over to a countertop, where he opens a cupboard above and pulls out a small canister of lollipops. "Hello, 223499."

The boy's voice cuts off like a radio. After a pause, he starts mumbling, too low for Dr. Ross to hear.

"... right. Well. Your handler says you're feeling under the weather. Mind if I take a look?"

The trainee turns his head then. He looks somewhere off to one side of the doctor, blinking a little dazedly. "... take a look?"

His voice is slow, sluggish, but each word is so carefully placed.

"Yes."

The trainee looks away again. Dr. Ross sighs and goes with it, checking his temperature. 101.7, not great, not the worst fever. Hopefully this won't be another flu like the last one. Pneumonia nearly killed three trainees that time. He checked ears, eyes - pupils reactive, ears clear - and then touched at the lymph nodes beneath his jaw. A little swollen.

"Okay. Next up, we need to take a quick look down your throat."

Another slow blink. The trainee seemed to suddenly tense up. "You... want my throat?"

"Uh, well-" Dr. Ross turns away to pick up a tongue depressor and the swab for the test. "Yes, we need to test you."

The paper on the exam table crinkles again. The boy hums, almost wistfully, and then goes silent.

When he turns around, Dr. Ross discovers the boy on his knees in a seamless Position Two, mouth wide open.

His green eyes are empty, somewhere far away.

Dr. Ross's face burns at the sight. His stomach turns sharply, and he has to clear his throat to try and cover the way bile rises. "Uh, n-no thank you-... I just need... you need to be tested for strep throat, Trainee, not that kind of-... back up on the table, please-"

The boy looks confused, in a faded sort of way, but follows orders. He manages to clamber back up, sitting this time, listing a little to one side, then the other. But he opens his mouth again, and Dr. Ross hurries through the test as fast as he can, trying not to think about how most people gag during the strep test, but the Romantics never do.

"Good, made it. Perfect. Now, does your throat hurt a lot today?"

"Yes, sir." The boy's voice is a little raspy, now that he's talking. "A... lot. Earlier, i... cried when my... handler-"

"Don't need to hear the end of that sentence!" Dr. Ross forces false charm and ease into his voice, plucking one of the lollipops at random from the jar. "Here, let me give you this. It tastes a little weird, but it'll numb your throat and keep you from coughing." He unwraps it and holds it out. The trainee blinks at him. He blinks back.

Then he realizes. "... oh. Do you have to be... do I have to..." He leans forward. The trainee opens his mouth obediently for Dr. Ross to place the lollipop inside. Only then does his mouth close.

"'ank 'oo, ir," The trainee says around a mouthful of fake sweetener and the numbing agent already going to work. His eyes are so sweet and so vivid, and he half-smiles around the treat.

"You're welcome, 223499. I'm going to go and do your strep test. I'll be back. You just relax, okay? You can sleep in a clinic bed and get a good night's sleep."

The boy's eyebrows furrow. "Is... is it night?"

"Oh right. We're not supposed to let you know, are we? Well... I don't think it can hurt... yeah, I'm on nights right now, 11 to 9. It's about one in the morning."

"Oh." The trainee lays slowly back down, on his side, closing his eyes as he works at the sucker. "... what, what does night... look, um, look like?"

Dr. Ross swallows.

He's a fucking coward, but he doesn't answer. He just leaves, and he doesn't let himself stop and look back.

He doesn't let himself think about a boy who can't remember the sky.

God, he only has a few weeks left on this residency and he just isn't sure he can make it.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

„Why would you do this for me?“

"Why... Why, why would y'do... do this f'r me?" The trainee's words slur heavily, the drugs moving through his blood leaving him sluggish, slumped against the wall. His face is pale, the smattering of freckles already fading with never seeing the sun.

His head tips back, coppery hair falling over his eyes. His face is so delicately wrought. Almost a sculpture, if it weren't for that nasty sore spot swelling his lower lip.

Well.

Sometimes you lose a battle while absolutely clobbering them in the war, right?

Luke drops into a crouch, ignoring the crack in his knees. He's getting too old for the acrobatics. Needs to leave that flexibility shit to the younger guys and the trainers.

He shakes the paper bag in his hand a little. The smell of it fills the otherwise sterile room. Salt and oil and spice, somewhere beneath it all. "Because I know you want it. You haven't eaten real food in weeks, now have you, pretty boy?"

The trainee shivers, but he licks his lips without thinking. His hands are behind him like he thinks Luke doesn't know he's rubbing his fingers on the walls, seeking sensation of some kind in an empty space.

Well.

Luke can definitely offer sensation.

"I know you want this... And I know you'll do just about anything for it, won't you, 223499? Fresh tortilla chips... Three kinds of salsa... queso with chorizo... Even got some guacamole in here. How bad do you want it, baby, huh?"

The boy's green eyes meet his and then dance away. "I... I want-... What, what do you want me t-to do-"

"Come on. Up you get. One hell of a football game on tonight, bunch of us are watching down in the break room. I want you to join me, that's all."

"Join... Join you?"

The trainee stands. His eyes are still on the bag, the spots where salt and oil are soaking through the cheap paper.

"Yeah."

When he gets close enough, Luke slides an arm around his shoulders, once heavy with muscle but thinning now. He doesn't need those muscles any longer.

"Me... and about six of my best friends."

The trainee closes his eyes, shoulders hunching, but he doesn't protest.

They never fight the idea of chips and salsa, not for long.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"Come on its easy, I'll show you how"

"It's easy. C'mon, I'll show you how."

567445 beckons to 223499, and the younger trainee follows, back of them nervous as they shift around a corner, to a spot hidden from the ever-present cameras and handlers.

The bigger man shows the trainee a pill, opening his hand to flash the small white oval in his palm, then quickly covering it up again. "When they give it to you, stick it under your tongue," 445 whispers. "Drink the water, but keep the pill under your tongue. Then, once they're gone, spit it out."

499 nods, looking down, feeling the press of scratchy nylon around his neck from the shock collar. He can't remember what it feels like to not have one, and besides that, the collar is a comfort.

The collar is safe.

It's only when they take his collar off that they make him feel like there's so much pain he might die.

"What, what, what if th-they find it... in my room?"

"It'll get softer under your tongue," 445 whispers. "Curl up like you want a nap, and crush it under you, where they can't see. Crush it so small it's dust. They'll never know. Maintenance might, but they won't tell. Okay?"

The young trainee nods, eyes wide and solemn. "Okay. Th, thanks."

"Yeah. Better get back before-"

"567445!" A handler's voice calls, sharp as the crack of a whip. Both trainees wince. "Where the hell are you?"

445 and 499 meet eyes, for just one more second, and then the bigger trainee walks away, putting an overconfident swagger to his stride. "Sorry, Handler Samson, the little Romantic wanted some company."

499's face flushes a bright deep red and he hunches his shoulders nearly to his chin as some of the trainees laugh, and even some of the handlers do.

"Oh, when don't they. Fucking whores don't have anything better to do, but you, 445, you are late for cooking class, so move your ass!"

"Yes, handler!"

The laughter dies down, but the young trainee stays hidden, eyes closed tight.

He had to say that.

The handler maybe wouldn't believe him otherwise.

He had to call him a whore.

He is one, anyway.

Right?

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"You deserve this, sweetness." for the five sentence fics?

CW: Pet whump, implied aftermath of dubcon, referenced noncon, referenced torture, vague reference to minor whump

"There we go. Off the table, come on, there's a good boy." Connor helps the trainee, who moves with shaky legs to carefully, hesitantly stand on his own. When Connor's arm goes around his shoulders, the pet leans heavily into his touch, eyes half-closed.

They're both breathing a little hard, flushed and sweaty - Connor's already redressed in his uniform, but the pet is still stark naked - and it's a nice sort of muscle stretch Connor feels as he aids the obedient, pliable trainee moving across the room towards the heated mat in the corner.

"You put up a fight for Collins today, but you're sweet as pie for me, hm?" Connor grins as the pet nuzzles against his neck, the trainee's mouth seeking out spots they've learned through experience help earn a little bit of kindness and favor from the right handler at the right time. "Good boy."

"I like you better," The pet breathes against his ear. "You're the one who does it just right." It's practiced, a performance that never ends, but it's perfect, or nearly so.

It'd perfect if the trainee wasn't shaking as he bites down on his lower lip, looks up from under those beautiful black eyelashes.

"Nice," Connor praises him, helping him to settle onto his knees on the mat and then encouraging him to lay on his side. He takes the folded blanket off to the side and lays that over the beautiful boy as well, watching him curl into a ball, eyes already closing. "You're just about ready for a prospective to take you home, you know that? Out of here and home to somewhere warm."

"I hope so," The trainee says, and reaches out to touch him, just a little, fingers grazing over the back of Connor's hand. He looks up, head tilted just enough to let some of his sweaty hair fall around his face and frame it.

Just... about... perfect.

"Thank you, Handler Manning," The trainee says, and smiles for him. His eyes sparkle mechanically. The act is not quite seamless - not yet.

It will be soon.

"You're welcome, Triple Five," Connor says, and gives his hair an affectionate tousle before he stands and walks away, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. It locks automatically with a soft sssshhh-click that is a sound Connor knows as well as he knows his own breathing.

He leans his back against the wall, staring at the door across from him.

Petrus is using that room right now.

About two hours ago, the sound of screaming came so loud from inside that Connor's trainee was utterly useless and had to be held while he shook until it finally ended. Only after that had Connor been able to take the pet through his paces for the day. And that was the third fucking scream-session this week. They last for hours, whatever's happening in there.

Connor knows what's happening, but-... this kid isn't that kind of Special Request, what's going on in there shouldn't sound like this.

Screaming and screaming, with Luke's laughter layered over the top.

Now, though, the only sound he can hear through the door is a low, hoarse sobbing, a soft thump, again and again. Luke's gone, Connor can tell - the little panel next to the door marks it as 'Lunch - 1 Hour'. He's left the trainee in there.

The pet in Luke's room lets out a muffled wail that must be nearly deafening inside, and the thumping continues.

Back to sobs.

It's the little redhead and Connor knows it.

He's seen Luke leading the kid around, stuck to his side like a terrified little burr, all big green eyes and floppy red hair, hazy and stumbling, hands hanging at his sides with heavy weights attached to make sure he... something or other...

Luke brags about his technique, but fuck if Connor doesn't zone the hell out as soon as the slimeball gets going.

It's drugs, mostly, and they all know it. Luke's a big fan, drugs his trainees to oblivion. It works, well enough, but it's got no finesse, no art. Those trainees learn to move their hips, sure, how to arch their backs and roll just right, but they don't really learn how to want it. Just how to more or less black out while wide awake and come back when it's over.

Plus... the kid...

Kid's too young, too fucked-up too fast, some kind of personal project Director Renford is overseeing for some political big-whig. Connor keeps his nose out of politics, but this...

This is affecting his work.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and dials, putting it to his ear. "Hey, yeah, Hannah? Can I talk to Linda, please?... hey, Linda. How do I put in an HR Complaint against a coworker? Yeah, another handler... no, he's fine to me in person, just... yeah. Affecting work stuff. Can we have a meeting? Tomorrow, 9 am. Got it."

Connor isn't one to talk behind a coworker's back, not to anyone who matters.

But if he has to do another workday listening to the kid across the hall scream himself hoarse, he'll lose his fucking mind.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"I'm sorry. "

"Please, I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Handler Petrus leans in close, so close his face takes up the trainee's entire field of vision. Dread pools cold in his stomach and races hot over his skin. The trainee swallows, his hands in fists bunched in his shirt to keep them from tapping, twisting, moving at all.

"Are you?" Handler Petrus asks in a low voice, threat laced through every syllable. "Are you really, 499?"

"Yes, sir! I am! I am, sir! I, I didn't mean to... I did not mean to spill the food, sir." He carefully slows his voice down. Adrenaline rushes through him, his heart pounds, but he can't show it. He can't.

"Hm. Well, clean it up." Handler Petrus looks up, at the other boys in the dining hall who pretend they don't see.

The trainee swallows. "May... May I have a towel, sir?"

"No. Use your shirt."

"But it's so cold-"

"Did I fucking stutter, trainee?" Handler Petrus fingers the black baton that hangs from his belt.

The trainee shakes his head rapidly, trembling as he slowly pulls the shirt off over his head, balling it up between his hands. Goosebumps pop up under his freckles. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Better. Now clean up your fucking mess."

The trainee drops to his knees, mopping up the spilled shake slowly, feeling against his bruised back the weight of every pair of eyes pretending not to watch.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

≣: hand holding ?

CW: Facility whump, medical whump, BBU, whump of a minor (OC is 17), dehumanizing language

Follows on Accidental Overdose

"There we go, love. That's all right, another couple days and you'll be right as rain again, hm?"

It's the nurse that he likes, the one with the soft voice, who doesn't really use his number, just calls him sweet things like 'love' and 'dear'. They did something to his stomach, put a tube down his throat, and now his throat is aching and hoarse.

The nurse bustles around the room, and 499 manages to open his eyes a little, squinting at them as they write things down on a clipboard they hold in their hand. Machines beep softly around him, and when he shifts, he's aware of the tape pulling at the skin on the inside of his elbow.

He shivers, a thrill of fear down his spine, and makes himself hold still. It's... easier, right now. The soft pastel walls of the clinic room are warmly bright, nothing like the cold light in his cell room.

He doesn't want to get better, he'll have to go back.

"I see you sneaking peeks," The nurse teases him, and they poke at the tip of his nose with the end of their pen. He can't quite help his slight smile in response. "Don't worry, 499, you can stay here all cozy for a bit longer, your numbers still aren't where I want them. You'll be happy to hear Handler Petrus got put on discipline after that accident report was put on Renford's desk."

At the mention of the Director, 499 whimpers, softly. He can barely make the sound, wincing as it aggravates his throat.

There's a silence, and then the shifting sound of the nurse's scrubs as they sit in a chair next to his bed. He feels their hand close around his. His fingers are long and cold even in the relative warmth of the clinic room, but their hand is warm and dry.

"You're all right, 499," The nurse says, soft and affectionate. "You're all right. You've been working so hard, you won't be in trouble for this. Just a few more days here, and you'll be ready to finish up, hm? Right back on track."

He turns his head slowly, opening his eyes fully only with effort to look over their face. They smile, but he can't quite smile back this time.

"L-... like it... here... better." He's careful to keep his words coming out one at a time. Just how they want him to.

The nurse sighs, and squeezes his hand a little. "I know. But that's not how it works, is it? You have to remember, dear-"

"Signed... I signed... up for this."

"Exactly." The nurse smiles at him, and he warms at their pride and happiness. He said it just right, and it's what they want to hear. "Maybe not this, exactly, but... oh, you're such a good boy. You'll be out of here and home with your prospective in no time, huh? Let me go get you something to drink for that throat."

They let go, and 499's hand drops back to the mattress, the scratchy sheets. He watches them leave, and he's so fuzzy he can't remember how to beg them not to, how to ask them to stay.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"Can I tell you something?" for Chris, maybe?

CW: Facility whump, implied whump of a minor, shock collars are referenced, referenced drugging, implied future noncon at the end, warning for Luke Petrus

“Can... can I... tell you s-something?”

The trainee next to him shifts, nervously, and looks towards the door. They’re in Accessories Training, learning how to coordinate colors - choosing a tie that matches a suit just right. 223499 isn’t very good at this, but he’s slowly getting better. He keeps getting distracted by how smooth and silky the ties are, running his fingers over them again and again. 

In Accessories Training, he’s still the youngest but there are a couple others who aren’t too far from his age, he thinks. 223499 is eighteen, they tell him, because all pets are of legal consenting age at time of contract signing. 

The thought makes his chest twist, uncomfortable, but he pushes past it. 

“Can I?” He asks, again.

They’re not supposed to talk, but the handler who does Accessories Training had to go out in the hall, taking some kind of call from someone. It’s just the ten of them in the large training room, now. One trainee, at the end, is still chained by his shock collar to the wall - he’s a runner. The other nine, though, are all very good boys.

The handler said so, and he patted 223499′s head once during class, too.

“Um.” The other trainee looks at the door again. Then he nods. “Yeah, okay. Make it fast, though. He’ll be back any second and I am not going back to being the fucking chew toy for Handler Ferrick’s guard dogs.”

223499 nods rapidly - he’s heard about that, about the bad pets who have to go wear big padding to protect themselves while the Guard Dogs are trained to hurt bad guys by siccing them on bad pets, first.

“Oh, okay. I  just, just, just... look at what I did.” 223499 glances slyly at the door and then opens his hand, keeping it just below the table. There’s half a pill in his hand bitten, a bit of bitter white powder.

The other trainee’s eyebrows rise. “Shit. How’d you do that?”

“This, um, this other... other... one... in my Flexibility class... showed me.” 223499 grins, full of pride. “So, so... I can... think better.”

The other trainee looks down, then back up at him. “Can I have it?”

223499 frowns. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to think a little bit less. You mind?”

223499 shakes his head and the other trainee grabs the half-pill right out of his hand, swallowing it dry. 

“Thanks, kid.”

“I’m, I’m, I’m not a kid,” 223499 protests. “I’m eighteen.”

The other trainee gives him a long stare. “Sure, sure you are,” He says, dryly. 

It looks like he’ll say something else when the runner’s chain suddenly rattles, the signal they agreed on in hurried whispers for when the hander came back. All the boys go silent, straighten their backs, and shift their hands behind themselves into an easy, expert Position One.

It’s not the handler who runs the class that comes in, though. It’s Handler Petrus, 223499′s primary. His eyes scan the class, cold dead blue above his smirk, and land on 223499. “Here, pet. Come.” 

He gestures, and 223499 moves automatically, torn between fear and a kind of terrible, desperate affection. “Yes... yes, sir?” Handler Petrus slides a hand around his shoulders, pulling him close, fingers gripping up into his hair. The boy is trained enough to hold still and let is eyes be raised this way, even though it hurts. “S-sir?”

“I’ve got some extra training for you today,” Petrus drawls, and then he uses the hand in the boy’s hair to shove him through the door into the hallway. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you sleep in a bed tonight.”

223499 stumbles forward, catching himself against the opposite wall before he falls. Two other handlers standing there laugh, and the boy swallows when Handler Petrus gestures at them to follow, too.

Suddenly, he wishes he’d swallowed both halves of the pill.