... Another day, another relapse. Though relapsing would imply that an effort has been made to change, a conscious effort, and that one has been deliberately clean for some time before slipping. Nika supposes, through his still half-high daze, that it's not really a relapse; just another incident in a long-established pattern of behavior.

He can vaguely remember trading his body for opium last night, then not much else until the memory of Maxim hauling him into Vincent's place. After that, Nika thinks his darling spat that he's done and that Nika is someone else's problem now (for the millionth time, though). Beyond that, he still feels out of it and is pretty sure he took too much. It's almost like having a hangover, but a hundred times worse. He's cold, achy, tired, nauseous... the room spins if he moves his head too fast.

The most horrendous thing of all is that right now, the only thing he really wants, aside from to go home, is another hit.

The door opens, drawing his attention, if a bit sluggishly. Who's that walking in...? Someone he doesn't recognize. Not Max, not Vincent, not any of Vincent's associates or the maids who typically take care of Nika when Maxim inevitably drags his sorry ass back to Vincent's after a bad night.

Nika groans softly as he leans his head back on the sofa, his dress hiking up on his legs and his long hair a tangled mess. A new person coming in, and he's a complete wreck. "Moi izvineniya..." he mumbles as he lets his eyes close. God, his head is pounding. "I'm not in any state for introductions. Get what you need from the room... pretend I'm not... even here... oy..."