Ice? It rings like a bell, confused at the edge of his thoughts.
The first thought it evokes is that his throat is dry from the rasping breathing, and it would be nice to have a piece to suck on, to alleviate that problem. Or a bucket's worth that he could shove his head into so it didn't feel like he was feeling around with his hands in the dark for his glasses at such an inconsequential word, that Victor makes sound important.
Ice for, for, for and then something clicks all at once, and he reaches out like he has to even make sure he has legs still. Only finding he has his hand, and his leg, and his hip, and his knee, and his shins, and that he's got two of every one of these, when his hand lands on the side of his thigh and Oh. Right. Right. Because he fell. For something that wasn't Victor. Except. He's not sure that's true.
Given where he's sitting. Given what made him fall into the ice. Victor's flip. Victor in the garage. There's a crazy, delirious little tip to his mouth, helpless and utterly unaware of itself staring at Victor.
Victor in front of him still looking too bright, too bright even for the flare of continuous pain under his still pressing fingers, and the lesser, but not quieter ones, everywhere else, especially his now rather throbbing shins, and knees, and ankles, and his feet, and he finally gets the question. Even if he thinks he might have lost it for a few seconds in there to even remember what it had been, and why, again, before he's nodding, his voice still slightly firmer but still quiet and wandering a little, "That might be smart."
Ice. Ice would probably be smart. For his hip. And his head. And his mouth.
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Ice? It rings like a bell, confused at the edge of his thoughts.
The first thought it evokes is that his throat is dry from the rasping breathing, and it would be nice to have a piece to suck on, to alleviate that problem. Or a bucket's worth that he could shove his head into so it didn't feel like he was feeling around with his hands in the dark for his glasses at such an inconsequential word, that Victor makes sound important.
Ice for, for, for and then something clicks all at once, and he reaches out like he has to even make sure he has legs still. Only finding he has his hand, and his leg, and his hip, and his knee, and his shins, and that he's got two of every one of these, when his hand lands on the side of his thigh and Oh. Right. Right. Because he fell. For something that wasn't Victor. Except. He's not sure that's true.
Given where he's sitting. Given what made him fall into the ice. Victor's flip. Victor in the garage.
There's a crazy, delirious little tip to his mouth, helpless and utterly unaware of itself staring at Victor.
Victor in front of him still looking too bright, too bright even for the flare of continuous pain under his still pressing fingers, and the lesser, but not quieter ones, everywhere else, especially his now rather throbbing shins, and knees, and ankles, and his feet, and he finally gets the question. Even if he thinks he might have lost it for a few seconds in there to even remember what it had been, and why, again, before he's nodding, his voice still slightly firmer but still quiet and wandering a little, "That might be smart."
Ice. Ice would probably be smart. For his hip. And his head. And his mouth.