Music playing through your Airpods is a luxury. Wes hasn’t felt entitled to one all month, because if there’s anything he’s learned since moving here, even long before, it’s that life is a ballgame. Or is it bargain? Are those even words in that song... no, it’s nightmare.
“True,” he mutters, avoiding the stairs and heading straight for the elevator. Eyebags, while technically genetic and not a product of lack of sleep (at least originally), are something he’d rather talk about than how the weather is (A: I haven’t been able to enjoy it) or what someone’s kid genius nephew is up to (A: Sorry, who again?) at this point. Silence makes company instead, bliss feeling almost foreign as he makes it out the complex.
There’s a corner shop he likes getting gum and canned coffee from, mostly because it’s closer than all the others. Wes wishes he could run, because the sooner they’re in his hand, the better, but who would’ve thought running was a luxury, too? Those who can’t, obviously. He finds it grievous that that’s his case at 27 despite being fairly fit, and sighs when he walks in, as if this is take 35 on set, since that’s how fine and dandy life feels today.
Wes walks to the section containing pain relievers, fever reducers, anything of the sort. It pains him to see another person where he needs to be, partly in case she feels like talking, but otherwise because surely no one needs these pills more than he does (duh, she’s just there because she wants to know what else is in these aside from ibuprofen, obviously). He takes a deep breath and stops inches away from her, eyeing Advil and hoping that’s all he has to make contact with. “Excuse me,” he says, covering his mouth as he’s threatened by another round of nausea. You don’t work here, so I hope you don’t think that I think so. I just need to get a hold of this before this shit continues—
God, another hurl. Wes looks away momentarily, wincing and praying that his head maybe behaves for five more minutes. Can’t even afford to be embarrassed anymore, huh. He crouches down and puts his hand out, pointing vaguely to wherever the Advil is. “Sorry, do you mind passing me a bottle?” Brief enough, no? Please, please don’t make small talk.
