Grazing The Sky

Lance spun around, taking in the view of the cabin's main room. Everything was exactly as he remembered it, forcing a massive pang of nostalgia into his c.h.e.s.t.

Why was he here? Why, out of all the possible places they could've gone, why had they gone here?

Lance tried to block out the fact that he'd just come through a wall. He tried to focus on something else, but everything he saw—whether it was an armchair or the hallway or the kitchen area—just triggered the sight of Lisa's fearful face. The knife catching light as she held it to him in defense.

This isn't happening. This isn't real.

He felt these thoughts come through his lips as well, his mind barely registering how hunched over his body was, how tightly his eyes were shut as he tried to fight back a sudden burst of nausea.

This can't be real. But with the memory of his mother, of Cal, of Cassie's laughter, he knew all of it was.

His body responded, stomach lurching upwards and mouth opening to spew out its contents. Fire surrounded him again, and when the flames dissipated, Lance's knees hit the tile flooring of the bathroom. Hands found the open rim of a toilet bowl as the water splashed with deep, solid impacts.

He barely caught the sight of something semi-translucent and white before his eyes shut again, another wave of whatever it was coming out of him.

Quickly, Lance found that he couldn't breathe. His entire existence was being reduced to feeling his stomach clench and another burst of liquid churning out of his mouth, splashing into the toilet again. He tried to curl his fingers, tried to focus on that, but his hands stretched out as a painful burn ripped up from his throat, a strong scent of something unfamiliar invading his nose.

He forced a breath in through his mouth, trying to gather some air before another wave set in. His inhale was interrupted, cut short as he vomited again, nearly screaming out from the pain in his stomach—like the organ was folding in on itself. He couldn't even question why this was happening anymore; he could only focus on his body rejecting whatever substance was inside him, hearing the impacts thicken as the pile reached past the toilet's water.

Lance tried to lift a finger, tried to reach up towards the lever and flush the water down. But another painful burst forced his body to lunge forward, forced his face closer to the pile and his ears closer to the thick sounds of his stomach's contents being splattered against itself.

Eventually, finally, the time between these waves grew longer. Lance forced a breath in, filling his lungs halfway with this disgusting scent. His painful exhale exhalation was interrupted as a few spurts of bile retched from his throat, coughed out of his mouth. His hand curled against the toilets lid, a quiet desperation for all this to stop...

His stomach clenched again, sending out one more burst of stomach acid. He coughed, motions that were reduced to fidgets against his mouth as his eyes shut. Lance focused on forcing the coughs back, focused on not seeing the sight of Cal's face or his mother's. But it was hard to do, with the darkness behind his eyelids.

His eyes opened again, and with shaking legs, Lance got to his feet, bracing himself against the back of the toilet.

"Here."

He looked towards the voice, seeing a damp washcloth extended out to him. Lance took it, his mind too tired and numb to give thanks. He wiped at his mouth before folding it and pressing the cloth to his lips, eyes closing and trying to rid himself of the headache that had set in.

He heard the toilet flush, the sound piercing through his head and causing a slight wince. What had he just thrown up? It didn't even look like anything he'd ever seen before... And definitely not something he'd eaten...

His eyes opened, remaining unfocused as they looked to Zidane. The crossbreed noticed his stare, and through fuzzy vision, Lance watched a light amount of worry come into the space between those dark eyes.

Lance forced himself to speak, feeling the rawness of his throat protest.

"What did I just throw up?"

His voice was quiet; much weaker than he wanted it to be. Lance forced himself to focus, trying to clear his throat as he listened to Zidane's voice.

"If I had to guess, it'd probably be whatever they were keeping you alive with," Zidane replied, looking down into the toilet. "Spiros have reactions to certain human foods, so they probably went with something more pure."

Lance felt his head throb a little bit harder at the explanation. He moved the cloth to his forehead, feeling the blood beat under his skin. He kept his eyes to the floor, not daring to close them again for longer than a standard blink. The coldness of the cloth was something he tried to focus on, and even Zidane's voice was something he latched his attention onto.

"Are you feeling alright?"

"No," Lance responded, "I feel f.u.c.k.i.n.g terrible."

Zidane quickly nodded. "You're right; horrible question to ask." His foot shifted back, stare remaining low to the floor. Lance dropped his gaze away from him again, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the corner of the cloth.

"Thanks for the washcloth..." he muttered, part of his brain yelling at him for even saying something like that. The other part just wanted something of a distraction.

"Don't mention it," the crossbreed replied.

Lance brought the cloth away from his face and folded it again, watching how it diminished under his hands. But again, the distraction was only momentary. He found himself speaking again.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked, bringing his stare to Zidane.

Those eyes rose again, and Lance watched their color deepen further. He tried to fight back the feeling of fear, the darkness rising up from somewhere deep in his gut.