[ Fenris is in that stage of sickness where his throat feels like a desert and his stomach feels like a roiling pit of acid. He understands that dehydration is not ideal, so he nods mutely--even as his fingers curl against his dread-tight chest. He makes an effort to sit up, and it's a task of mythic proportions; he grips the back of the couch like he's about to slide onto the floor if he lets go. ]
no subject
I suppose that would be productive.