@kxrsch sent from prompts.
The television warbles quietly in the background of his thoughts, illuminating his face with different colors where he sits in the dark on the edge of the couch, staring aimlessly past the oceanic picture on the screen. It's early hours. Sometime around 3, the last time Pock checked anyway, when he'd first given up on tossing and turning in bed and stalked himself out to the living room after getting himself a glass of water.
There's no telling how much time has passed since then. He hasn't been counting the minutes. He's hardly been present inside the room that he's sat in, let alone aware of the things that have been going on around it. If he were, then he might have heard the distant flush of his roommate's toilet and realized that he's wandering the halls.
Instead, Pock's back, again, in the middle of a daze that doesn't belong to him. Rushing through a life at light-speed, hearing the same voices that he's heard time and time again, useless behind the hands (his own hands—but they're not his) that he can't stop from moving. No matter how many times that he's been here, no matter how hard he's tried to will with all his being not to... he always shoves.
In the end, he always does.
He shoves and that's it, that's when the moment happens. When borrowed eyes watch as the darkness spills in from up above, with the sudden stench that chokes up in his throat—and he knows what's coming, he can never forget what's coming—but still the horror strikes him to his very core right before the light disappears and—
Jean asks: How long has it been since you’ve slept?
Pock snaps out of his trance with a shock, shooting his head around to the sudden sound with a sharp breath pulled—but it's only Jean—so he lets it go again. Lets his shoulders go lax and his head fall heavily into the palms of his hands while he's at it.
There are signs that he's tried. Evidence in his disheveled hair, the downward fall and wayward curl of his bangs; the designated joggers that he wears to sleep in, just as much a signature around the place as Jean's t-shirt and boxers combo. There are signs that he's failed, too, beyond the fact he's sitting in the dark. He certainly feels like the creature that he must resemble, all hunched over and haggard, like he's just come back from a fight. One that he lost.
"Couple hours ago," he answers, vaguely, from inside his hands as he attempts to wipe the bags from under his eyes. A futile effort, but he's conscious of these things. He's conscious of Jean catching him in the middle of one of his states. Like they don't already have enough that they're still trying to work out with each other right now.
Like he really wants to share all this shit anyway. Like it isn't obvious by the time that it didn't go so well.
"Migraines," Pock mumbles. Since he's often accompanied by those as well, and is only all too aware of the annoying thrum currently palpitating between his ears, he deems it close enough to the truth. Good enough reason for him to be sitting up this late and looking like hell anyway. Makes it easy for him to raise a believable face back up to Jean when he adds, "Can be a real fucking nightmare."