Vanitas doesn't remember falling asleep, and he doesn't remember his dream. He's sure he must have had one, because he almost always does. It's rare that he ever has a dreamless, restful night. What he remembers is Bruce at the bar, the way the hands had been pushing and shoving, the shape of Master Xehanort in the corner of the room, he remembers leaving with Bruce—
He rolls over with a low moan, cracking both eyes open to the room tipped on it's side. Pushing himself up, there's a tremble underneath his skin that makes his limbs feel loose and shakey. Like all the fire the liquor from the night before had put into him has fizzled out into nothing but damp embers. There are Unversed crowded around him, little jagged things. A few of them take wing when Vanitas starts to move, flying up toward the high ceiling. Disgruntled, Vanitas frowns as he staggers off the mattress, out of the tangle of sheets. He kicks over an empty bowl that had been next to him. When the Unversed at his ankle doesn't immediately get out of his way, he kicks it aside, too, and it tumbles over itself before hitting the wall.
He breathes laboriously through his nose, looking dizzily around the room, taking in his surroundings— and then heading for the door. He lists into the frame, catching himself on the door jam, and realizes with a cold start that he isn't wearing a shirt when the chill of the wall presses into his torso from hip to shoulder.
That's right. He'd been too hot in all that armor. But he still feels too hot, but now he's thirsty, and he can't figure out if he wants to throw up or find something else to drink more.
Fifteen minutes later Vanitas hasn't thrown up, despite the threatening way his stomach lurches and the way his head feels like it can't decide if it's spinning or pounding. He finds his way to the room Bruce is using as a kitchen, where there's food and there are stacks of half-open bottles scattered across the counter. He looks at the stove he'd been gifted by Robin, the one Bruce showed him how to make pancakes on, and considers the effort required. Then he turns his attention to the bottles on the counter.
When he leaves the kitchen it's with a glass of gossamer black liquid, ice clinking against the edges. When he takes a sip, he can't figure out if the candy burn makes his nausea better or worse, but it doesn't stop him from nursing it regardless. It had made him feel something, before he passed out, so it only stood to reason that drinking more would bring it back.
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He rolls over with a low moan, cracking both eyes open to the room tipped on it's side. Pushing himself up, there's a tremble underneath his skin that makes his limbs feel loose and shakey. Like all the fire the liquor from the night before had put into him has fizzled out into nothing but damp embers. There are Unversed crowded around him, little jagged things. A few of them take wing when Vanitas starts to move, flying up toward the high ceiling. Disgruntled, Vanitas frowns as he staggers off the mattress, out of the tangle of sheets. He kicks over an empty bowl that had been next to him. When the Unversed at his ankle doesn't immediately get out of his way, he kicks it aside, too, and it tumbles over itself before hitting the wall.
He breathes laboriously through his nose, looking dizzily around the room, taking in his surroundings— and then heading for the door. He lists into the frame, catching himself on the door jam, and realizes with a cold start that he isn't wearing a shirt when the chill of the wall presses into his torso from hip to shoulder.
That's right. He'd been too hot in all that armor. But he still feels too hot, but now he's thirsty, and he can't figure out if he wants to throw up or find something else to drink more.
Fifteen minutes later Vanitas hasn't thrown up, despite the threatening way his stomach lurches and the way his head feels like it can't decide if it's spinning or pounding. He finds his way to the room Bruce is using as a kitchen, where there's food and there are stacks of half-open bottles scattered across the counter. He looks at the stove he'd been gifted by Robin, the one Bruce showed him how to make pancakes on, and considers the effort required. Then he turns his attention to the bottles on the counter.
When he leaves the kitchen it's with a glass of gossamer black liquid, ice clinking against the edges. When he takes a sip, he can't figure out if the candy burn makes his nausea better or worse, but it doesn't stop him from nursing it regardless. It had made him feel something, before he passed out, so it only stood to reason that drinking more would bring it back.
It makes sense to him, anyway