Something caused by motion sickness?
He wishes he could lay down, but there’s not enough room with everyone crammed in the back of the truck, and besides, he hates to look so vulnerable in front of them. Instead, he draws his knees up to his chest and rests his head against them, eyes screwed shut as if it’ll help the way each turn and bump in the road makes his stomach lurch.
It’s not that far, he reminds himself, swallowing hard as the truck jolts over a pothole. Just thirty miles to the next town over. He can manage thirty miles.
“You okay?” Aerith asks beside him, resting a hand on his arm.
“Mm,” he says, nodding slightly. He doesn’t dare open his mouth to say more.
Even without looking, he can imagine the concern on her face. “Are you sure?” she asks. “You look a little pale.”
“I’ll be okay,” he mutters, but no sooner has he spoken than the truck takes a sudden hard turn, and he feels his stomach somersault into his throat. “Ugh—“
“Oh,” she says, sweetly dismayed, as he pushes himself upright and turns over the side of the truck bed, just in time to splatter the road with sick instead of his shoes.