based on this. 

cw :: domestic abuse, blood

Casey’s on the ground with his back against the wall, his mouth hanging open, eyebrows furrowed. Christian’s kneeling before him, a hand on his shoulder, then — when there’s a hint of awareness in him — to the side of his face.

He sees Christian’s lips moving, but the question gets lost in delirium, floating just outside his realm of attention — just outside comprehension. They’re sitting in the hallway of a hotel somewhere in Florida, a last hurrah before the end of the tour gone entirely awry and the whole third floor had to have heard it. He distantly considers what the noise complaint might say, and even scoffs a little laugh at the random idea to hang it on the wall because it’d be the very first one in his whole career.

The floating question finally registers: what happened? He still can’t answer. The blood coming from his nose irritates the top of his lip, trickles down the back of his throat in a way that makes him feel like choking. He’ll throw up if he doesn’t spit it out, but he can’t move, so he sits with the coppery taste, swishing it around on his tongue rather than speaking.

He’s too far gone to feel the pain of it and Sarah’s too far gone to apologize, and the only thing he can think of is Savannah back home waiting. The questions she’ll ask when she sees them both again.

“Case, did she hit you?”

“We’re just drunk, it’s okay,” is all he says, closing his eyes. The blood taste is starting to make him nauseous.

“F***in’ so? I don’t just go around punching people when I’m drunk, dude, and neither do you, right?”

“It was just a fight.”

“A fight that has you on the ground bleeding.” Casey doesn’t answer, but Christian doesn’t give up. “Why do you let her do this to you, man?”

“Can I stay with you?” Casey deflects, glancing at the door to his own hotel room, untouchable at that point. Even if he wanted in there, he doesn’t have a key. “I don’t think Sarah’s gonna let me back in there.”