continued from here for @wolfwins
"am i not?" a nuisance to him, he means; not that aleksandr will be questioning it, because this has been regan's problem for as long as he's been alive — burdened with the concept of burden, convinced that he is one forevermore; and yeah, that's to the point of frustration in most every relationship he's ever had. there's a whole litany of reasons why things ended between them, and regan's under no illusion that he isn't the primary cause — assumes that's the case, anyway, even if it isn't true. as far as he's concerned, he is. you can imagine why it is that he can't wrap his head around sasha coming, not to mention why it tugs at his heartstrings that it's him that he's seeing and not the man he's actually with.
the relief that his presence brings him comes with a whole lot of shame, on that note. even as he's struggling to roll onto his side, peering up at his ex with narrowed eyes and he's telling him all the things he doesn't want to hear, he's happy that it's him and not john. "lucky?" he laughs, and there's tears in his eyes, his head rustling against the pillow in a would-be headshake if he had the neck mobility. "i can't afford a new fucking truck — i can't afford any of this?" he laughs, humorless, despaired, and covers his face with the hand that isn't wrapped in cast layer. "...it can't be that serious, right?" this is where the mask of invulnerability finally falters, regan's eyes peeling out of the recess of his palm, locking up on the familiar warmth of aleksandr's face, pleading and wet. it is fairly serious, yeah. broken ribs, removed spleen, broken hand — other fractures on his lower half. he'll be laid out for a while past his hospital stay, and that hasn't yet processed. neither is almost dying, too focused on cost and the stress of being here, in the hospital, his least favorite place. "when am i going home? did they tell you?"
