@undeadrelic from this puddle of sick
A case for either of their ends could be made, the tremor through Ivan’s body hitting something worthy of a magnitude rating. A cough, akin to a death rattle, only the weak precursor for another dribble onto his person. The case could certainly be made for Ivan’s passing, but Katyusha would often disagree. Ivan had done this throughout his seven hundred years (and quite a few textra) of existence. There was unstoppable bleeding, fevers, sores, openings, blisters, burns... and nothing managed to kill him while he grew. The world wasn’t done with him, but neither was the nausea.
It probably didn’t help that lifting his head somehow managed to make him feel dizzy, looking at Gilbert’s face, peeled back in disgust like an orange. Trying to inhale through his nose was fruitless, so he just had to blow the remainder of snot and half-digested food into his nose onto the rest of his face. “I-I wasn’t this drunk... I am not..” It was almost disappointing that he wasn’t drunk enough to excuse this massive mess, but he was drunk enough to be held responsible.
It was starting to feel sticky, losing consistency and warmth, at the odd stage of being cold, wet, smelly, and vaguely burning. Not being famous for moisturized skin, it was out of sheer malice that the vomit would infest every crevice of his skin and start activating papercuts and other miscellaneous breeches in skin.
“Take a towel... turn on the hot water, and get half the towel wet... and drop it on my face.” Ivan gave a quiet command, kind of unable to ask very nicely, with a few muscle spasms rendering a few interesting facial expressions. “Please... leave now or help me.”
