“Oh,” murmured Fred to the still mewling cat. “Here we go.”
George retched and Fred winced, only because the splatter of vomit wasn’t all that appealing to listen to. It was ok for a moment until the scent hit him, and he had to raise his arm and block his nose with the rain-wet fabric of his still-worn coat. Otherwise, he said nothing, nor did his eyes. He held no judgement towards George, because blimey, head wounds hurt. Having had his fair share in the boxing rounds, he knew the way they set you off-kilter. The way it made the world swim and make it impossible for you to wade along.
When George seemed to stop, Fred quirked a brow and shifted his wrist to keep the kitten still, squeezing its ribs just gently. It dug its claws into his hand in return.
“You wanna lay down, dude?” His voice was muffled by his coat, but his eyes didn’t waver from their lock on George.
For what felt to him like way more than just a second or two, everything had stopped again and it took a moment to realize he was being spoken to. Everything in his line of sight seemed to be vibrating and it made his eyes hurt, and he was hit with a slight pang like a small child would get when they throw up for the first actual time and they get scared because they’ve got no idea what’s going on, why it feels so gross and why they suddenly want to cry.
He spit into the waste bin sharply to try and rid his mouth of the taste of bile, albeit not very successfully, and he let go of it with one hand to grab the edge of the counter and hold on. Turning his head a little, he gave Fred a watery expression and nodded, wincing at the movement and taking another second to catch his breath. He wished they had paper cups in the bathroom, or something, so he wouldn’t have to lean down and take a drink straight from the faucet how he was thinking he was desperate enough to do, but alas; no cups.
It didn’t feel like he would need the waste bin again for a while, at least, and with a slightly shaking arm, he lowered it onto the floor and scooted it a little more to the side, tucking it in the nook between the toilet and the side of the counter. His hand found his knee again and he braced the other on the counter, moving to stand and finding that it’d be much easier if his limbs didn’t feel like fucking Ramen noodles. Despite how slowly he’d managed to move, the vertigo was instantaneous and he swayed on his feet, fingers scrabbling for a better grip on the edge of the counter and nearly losing purchase on it. He didn’t, though, and managed to almost steady himself by tipping a little sideways and resting his elbow on the counter, muttering swears at himself and cursing his misfortune.