You wouldn't suspect it from the outside (or the inside for that matter), but the bathrooms at Scandals are quite nice. Classy, clean. Not ostentatious, of course, but roomy and modern. Given all that goes down there, it's a good thing. Random hook-ups are always better in a big stall, with the walls and the door going from floor to ceiling. The immense counter and wide sinks are appreciated too.

Sebastian used to think that those particular restrooms held no secrets to him. That everything you can imagine to do in that space, he'd done it, in every corner. He isn't entirely right, because he's never done this before. Here or elsewhere.

He rushes to the bathroom, nearly ripping the handle when he pulls the door to him. He slides in, pushes the door closed with his back and fumbles to lock it behind him. Never mind that someone else might need to come in here, they'll just find another option, he figures.

It's silent here. Not much to keep him from hearing his ragged breathing, building up to a cacophony in his head. His hands shoot to his ears, pressing uselessly. No matter how hard, it's not enough to keep the raspy sound out.

It's burning his lungs, scorching his throat. "Relax, Focus, Breathe. Relax, Focus, Breathe. Relax, Focus, Breathe." The mantra is great to keep his asthmatic tendencies under control and prevent a full-blown attack. Usually. Tonight it's not quite doing it.

Dizziness spreads like wildfire in him. He screws his eyelids shut, unable to bear the sight of the room spinning any longer, but it's too late.

The unruly respiration, the frantic beat of his heart, they all merge into the most intense nausea he's ever felt. His eyes snap back open. Within a microsecond, he's bent over the shockingly white porcelain, heaving. His whole body clenches and a whimper escapes his lips. No way can he hold it back.

Sebastian Smythe doesn't throw up. He's in control, immune to such primitive behavior. Tonight, his distressed body disagrees and the entire content of his stomach comes up. He lurches forward, sputtering desperately, and tears breach his closed eyelids under the effort, making them flutter open. When he looks up in a last attempt to regain some semblance of composure, his reflection shocks him to his core.

His eyes look like agitated ponds, patches of red are marring his cheeks and a sheer coat of perspiration coats his entire face, down to his neck. Terrified, and quite messed up, that's how he looks.

Does it matter, right now? No, of course not. However, the sight actually helps, such a surprise that it stills his breathing, almost instantly. Never before has he been able to control a panic attack so well.

He fixes his double in the mirror, lips trembling. "Damn it, Dave. Damn you." he mutters. A shadow goes over his face. "I'm not sorry. I don't care. I'm not sorry. I'm not sorr…" Words are running freely now and he can't even control them anymore. He presses his lips tightly together. Finally the rant is kept at bay.

A buzz in his pocket. Blaine, surely. The texts, update on the situation, have been non-stop for the past half-hour. Enough. He fishes the phone out, contemplates it for a second. 11 new messages.

He sighs, runs an unsure hand over his face. "Fuck that." he says, and lets the iPhone fall into the sink. One twist of the hand and a torrent of cold water rains over it. He flicks his palm under the flow, splashes some on his face and refreshes his mouth before turning the faucet off.

The drowned phone is now silent and he is grateful for that. It reminds him no more; the black screen can't tell him what he doesn't want to know. It's true, he doesn't want to know. He has no interest whatsoever in being kept informed of his state, of whether or not he made it. He doesn't need to know if he regained consciousness, if he talked, if... Suddenly, all is a bit blurry, the pit in his stomach evolving into an overall weakness. The floor is becoming more and more appealing, so he sits down, using the counter as a comforting support.

He draws a deep breath. Forget it. Forget him. So what if he tried to k… It's not your fault. It's nothing to you. You don't know him. You don't owe him anything. He doesn't mean anything to you. He doesn't even know you.

Except he does. 4 encounters and he figured you out, completely.