“I can’t ask you to wash my shit,” Brougham moaned, burying his face head-down into the cushion. “It’s humiliating.”

“Yeah, well, you might need to rise above it.”

“I’m sorry.” He peeked over the cushion at me, eyes full of contrition.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather you be here than at your house.”

He cringed, and nodded, and I headed off to fix up his clothing. Finn had offered his own place as a refuge for Brougham as soon as Brougham was well enough to get there. But Brougham hadn’t yet made it a full twenty minutes without vomiting violently, so that option was off the table for now.

Speaking of, from the sound of things he was back in the bathroom. I waited in the living room for him, but when he hadn’t returned after a particularly long time, I went to check on him. Rapping on the door, I asked if everything was okay.

“Yeah.” His voice was small. “You can come in if you want.”

He was on his knees in front of the toilet, resting on our fluffy gray mat, his shoulder flung over the seat and his head resting sideways on it. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, and the color had drained from his face. He didn’t open his eyes as I came in. “I don’t even have anything left in my stomach,” he panted. “I’m just throwing up air.”

“Since when do you drink so much?” I asked, trying to keep it curious rather than judgy.

All I got in response was a hand wave. None of my business, apparently. Okay, fair.

“I don’t think … my head … has ever hurt this much in my life.”

“You took the Tylenol I grabbed you earlier?”

“Yup. Didn’t touch it.” He squeezed his eyes even tighter, then flipped back around to retch into the bowl. Like he said, nothing came out.

It was okay if I rubbed his back, wasn’t it? That was platonic enough. I gingerly reached out and pressed my palm flat against Sparkly Sweater to make small circles.

When the retching stopped, Brougham gave a frustrated sob. “Knock me out until it’s over. It’s cruel to keep me conscious right now.”

“It’s just a bit of poisoning, it’ll be over soon. Our bodies don’t like being poisoned.”

“You don’t say.” He caught his breath and kept his eyes closed. He didn’t shrug my hand off, though, so I could only assume it was helping.

The midmorning sun was streaming through the high bathroom window, casting a warm, bright glow over the gleaming white tiles and porcelain tub and sink. All the white probably wasn’t helping his headache any.

“What happened to your hand?” I asked. The redness on his knuckles from last night was gone, replaced by a purply-brown bruise.

“No idea, but it hurts like a bitch.”