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He's doing it again tonight.
La Mancha stares up at the faded popcorn ceiling of the motel room, counting each little nodule until he loses count after the guy he's with (name started with a 'T', he thinks. Terence? Probably. Tyler? Most likely. Tobias? Kinda cool.) rams into him particularly violently, nearly shoving the Ranger's head into the shoddy headboard. Terence (or Tyler or Tobias), La Mancha supposes, is alright at this, and might have even been good if La Mancha wasn't so wasted that he could not feel a single thing.
It's that kind of night. Currently, La Mancha is operating under two-thirds of a bottle of rye, a single capsule of an unspecified drug maybe native to this planet that he's never seen before - in which he was offered, slightly threateningly, by a pepeshi tourist in a bar bathroom - four separate brands of painkillers he's taken twice each of throughout the past forty-eight hours, and now? What's he even doing now? He's taken a guy to bed, apparently, and he barely remembers it. He was at a bar- not the same bar that pepeshi was supposedly operating out of, and La Mancha is very sure of this despite the inebriation- what is he doing now, then? He's counting those little fuckin' nipples in the popcorn ceiling above; you know the ones.
Terence or Tyler or Tobias is loud, though, and it disrupts his concentration. The guy's huffing and puffing like he's trying to blow a brick house down, tempo nonexistent, hips stuttering, sweat dripping down his face and onto La Mancha's own, which is disgusting, but the Ranger doesn't care enough to do anything about it. Or maybe he's just tired. Fuck, he really wants to sleep. Why did he decide to do this? He was already numb from the neck down, at that point; he doesn't remember why he humoured this guy and let him take him back to this totally inconspicuous, out-of-the-way, not-a-murder-motel in the middle of nowhere, in a middle-of-nowhere town, in a middle-of-nowhere city, in a middle-of-nowhere planet, in a middle-of-nowhere star system, of which La Mancha had no plans to be in prior, but was just where he ended up after he-
At some point, he will need to stop doing this to himself whenever he's butthurt (read: distressed, distraught, devastated) about failing a commission with lives on the line. At some point, drinking himself to death and drowning in dick won't be his first reaction to holding the last wisps of a life in his hands. It's a little weird, isn't it? He's not the one who died. What a way to mourn the dead, at the end of the day; disrespectfully, with cock and booze and nondescript drugs peddled by pepeshis in bar bathrooms.
(He shouldn't be mourning at all. He doesn't deserve to, does he? If he can't even keep just one person alive for one fucking week, what right does he have to mourn their death? What kind of conceited, self-absorbed, piece of shit-)
Terence or Tyler or Tobias apparently doesn't notice that La Mancha's just laying there like a doll, not saying or doing anything, barely moving, barely breathing - at least, that's what it feels like. The guy's just muttering La Mancha's alias, all rough and hoarse and honestly a little grating, a little nasally, something like, "Ashveil, Ashveil, oh, my god, Ashveil," over and over again, not unlike a horny, broken record, chasing after this orgasm with the urgency of a man who believes it's the last one he'll ever have in his life. La Mancha - or "Ashveil", at least for the time he's on this planet - has his eyes rolled back not because he's just so overcome by pleasure, but because he's so, incredibly, thoroughly, utterly ready to die of boredom. Finally, he closes his eyes, and waits for this to be over.
He doesn't remember if he cums or not, at the end of it, but he does remember being filled up, so at least one of them got to find release that night. La Mancha wishes he could say the same.