Work Text:
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
Cale tries to keep his eyes open and focus his vision, he really tries, but it's a disgustingly difficult task that only makes his headache worse.
A jolt wakes him up again (when had he ever closed his eyes?), retching and vomit stuck in his throat make him move to the front, away from the stability that sitting leaning against the wall gave him, he expects to fall to the floor, maybe fall on his vomit if he's unlucky enough...
...
The floor shouldn't be this soft.
It takes an embarrassing amount of effort to open his eyes, desperate gasps of air to force the bile into his body ringing too loudly in his ears, the arm? It looks like an arm amidst the black haze of his vision, the edges faded and the shape shaky.
He doesn't have long to think before he buries himself in the stability of another's limb, his forehead pressed hard enough to make him forget for a moment all the rest of his ailments, the darkness consuming the vastness of existence once more.