He left the couch as soon as he could, intending to head for the kitchen-- surely that's where Foggy would have gone?-- or possibly the patio, where he could at least get some fresh air. But his plan was interrupted by the sudden nausea that found him halfway through the room.
A wave of goosebumps washed over him, followed swiftly by sickly fever-heat. His stomach rolled and it felt like someone had reached inside him and clenched their hand inside his chest. He knew very suddenly that he was going to throw up.
“Oh,” he mumble-moaned. “Oh, God.” He staggered away, bumping into people who shouted and pushed back at him. He didn't care. He searched his alcohol-fogged mind for the directions he got earlier in the evening. Bathroom, bathroom. Where was it? He couldn't remember. He tried to stretch his senses and at least find a wall to lean on, but it was no good. The whole world was just a blur of heat and noise and stench, impossible to separate into individual objects.
No. He clenched his teeth and pushed the nausea down. He could do this. He could do this. He'd dealt with worse than this before, when he was- when he was training. He could deal with this. The mind controls the body. He just needed to- to find the edge of the room. Something solid to ground him. He took a deep breath, doing his best to ignore the whirling masses around him, and focused.
There. The wall of the living room, maybe ten feet to his left. He moved towards it, weakly pushing his way through the people on the outer edge of the crowd. The spinning seemed to be getting worse, because each step felt like there were vines around his feet, reaching out to trip him. His skin was hot but he couldn't seem to stop shaking.
After what felt like ages, his fingers hit the wall and he was able to steady himself a little. He pressed his forehead against the wall and tried to breathe.
It wasn't enough. The ocean of noise was still there, too loud, too close. He needed to find someplace quiet, someplace without any people.
It takes him a long time, too long, really, but he eventually remembers hearing about the bedrooms upstairs. They should be quiet, right? Quieter, anyway.
His head throbbed again, painfully, and he swallowed. Further planning was beyond him at this point. He kept one hand on the wall and staggered toward the stairs and the quiet that (hopefully) waited at the top of them.
Re: [FILL]: "Never Again" 6/7
A wave of goosebumps washed over him, followed swiftly by sickly fever-heat. His stomach rolled and it felt like someone had reached inside him and clenched their hand inside his chest. He knew very suddenly that he was going to throw up.
“Oh,” he mumble-moaned. “Oh, God.” He staggered away, bumping into people who shouted and pushed back at him. He didn't care. He searched his alcohol-fogged mind for the directions he got earlier in the evening. Bathroom, bathroom. Where was it? He couldn't remember. He tried to stretch his senses and at least find a wall to lean on, but it was no good. The whole world was just a blur of heat and noise and stench, impossible to separate into individual objects.
No. He clenched his teeth and pushed the nausea down. He could do this. He could do this. He'd dealt with worse than this before, when he was- when he was training. He could deal with this. The mind controls the body. He just needed to- to find the edge of the room. Something solid to ground him. He took a deep breath, doing his best to ignore the whirling masses around him, and focused.
There. The wall of the living room, maybe ten feet to his left.
He moved towards it, weakly pushing his way through the people on the outer edge of the crowd. The spinning seemed to be getting worse, because each step felt like there were vines around his feet, reaching out to trip him. His skin was hot but he couldn't seem to stop shaking.
After what felt like ages, his fingers hit the wall and he was able to steady himself a little. He pressed his forehead against the wall and tried to breathe.
It wasn't enough. The ocean of noise was still there, too loud, too close. He needed to find someplace quiet, someplace without any people.
It takes him a long time, too long, really, but he eventually remembers hearing about the bedrooms upstairs. They should be quiet, right? Quieter, anyway.
His head throbbed again, painfully, and he swallowed. Further planning was beyond him at this point. He kept one hand on the wall and staggered toward the stairs and the quiet that (hopefully) waited at the top of them.