Audemus Dawnspark

2. Breakfast

Never has been one for routine but, inexplicably, has been drawn to a creature of habit.

Before, this manifested as a gentle exchange of whispered goodbyes and half-remembered kisses, the echo of warmth beneath the seed-stitched cashmere as they traded spaces and wakefulness.

Now? He's another step.

A glass of tepid water and two sets of pills. One to purge the last bits of resistant infection from his system, the other a palliative measure to blunt the knife-edge of his discomfort.

It works, in a way. Takes away the point.

Doesn't do much for the still-sharp serrated edges tearing, ripping away at his resolve.

Stitches are inspected with practiced hands as he slouches in the near-dark. Cleansed, doused in petroleum ointment, rebandaged, progress indicated with a pleased murmur about how it's coming along nicely and won't even leave much of a scar. Lips to lips: go back to sleep.

A break from routine. Chaos in the order. Drags the lips down back with him but there's no resistance.

Does he want there to be?

Going to be late. He’s reminded of this, more than once. But there’s no rush — not here. No, the rush will be a not-so-thorough scrub in the shower or quickened pace down a tamped down but still dusty Orgrimmar thoroughfare or a hastily tied knot on a boot that comes undone, later.

Alone, again, he drifts on the choppy tide of his tiredness and pain. Sleep is not forthcoming.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

He should start it off right.