He’s never been so parched, not even after a night at Babylon, not even after a tab of E under his tongue and falling glitter and Brian, always Brian. He listens to the sound of breathing from the chair by the bed, and the rustle of pages, and the hum of muted voices from the hall. He presses his lips together and thinks about the cool slide of water down his throat. It’s all he wants. All he needs.

He clears his throat, ragged and hoarse, and speaks.

“Brian.”