No dreams.

It was a relief on two fronts: his mind had been blissfully blank last night and it had proved that it wasn't Andrew's room that was causing the dreams. It was, however, the only relief as he still felt terrible for what he'd done to Teddy.

So he'd headed for the gym.

He got his stretches out of the way as soon as possible before he walked over to the bag. He looked at it, considered it and the very thought of what he was going to do. Physicality on that level was something that took him a little while to slip into; even with the gooseball games near Munchkin Mousehole, he'd had to watch at first and practice in a corner before he'd asked to join.

Thwock. His knuckles tingled.

Thwock. Thwock. Like the rain slipping through a roof. Plop plop. His muscles shivered at the newness of it, at the psychological implications. At the idea of it.
Thropp Thropp.
He paused, pressing his fingers into the plumy bruises he'd made last night, the line of darkened skin just below his hips. It hurt. He did it again.

Thwock. It burned a little.

Thwock. He turned his hip, used his legs as Appleburn had taught him one night at Red Windmill.

Thwock. He still had to talk to Andrew.

Thwock. Because Teddy had gone so well.

Thwock. He'd understand if Teddy didn't want to talk to him again.

Thwock. He'd understand if Andrew didn't want to either.

Thwock. Not that it wouldn't hurt.

THWOCK. Why did he have to damn everything he touched?

THWOCK. Why did he make everyone leave?

THWOCK. He wished she was here.

THROPP. To sling a caustic remark.

THROPP. To tell him what he was doing wrong.

THROPP. To be there, great and green and Wicked and make the world make sense.

THROPP. Even if it was unfortunate sense.

THROPP. Sweet Lurline, he didn't want to lose anyone else.

THROPP. Even if it was all his fault.

He broke the rhythm, did it again. Hit it again. And again and again and again and it was like a fevered heartbeat, the shock of it shaking him to the core except when he hit it again and again and again. He couldn't hear anything else, but he felt something in his throat, scraping its way out of him every few seconds, painful. Helpful. Again and again and again and the bag rocked and swayed. Again and there was a groan. Again and again and--

He breathed out, wrapping shuddering arms around the giant sandbag, and let his head rest there.

Kumbricia, because he couldn't pray to the Unnamed God, to Lurline, to the Time Dragon, because he needed a Witch. Kumbricia.

[ooc: establishy (and long, jeez *facepalm*) but open]