Sick of all the slippery stuff;; [ivan]

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pixel by tricky

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— Бра́тья Карама́зовы

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    The wrym, the eyes, the spikes. Ivan had told himself he didn't believe in divinity, but this seemed too close to home. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Maybe he had just imagined it. His eyes flickered open, breath stilling in a shaky sigh as he felt Caustic's paw next to him. The weeping fluid was cleared from the corners of his eyes. It might have just been his absolute state of discombobulation, but Ivan felt that his head moved forward of its own accord, welcoming the touch.

    Caustic's face was blurry but it was nothing to worry too much about; he relied on scent most of all, and for reasons quite unknown and bizarre to the young cat, he felt safe. Wanted? Appreciated? He hoped so, from the bottom of his heart.

    "I did ..." He questioned, but he spoke it as if it was a statement. His vision was beginning to settle, but the ache in his head wasn't.

    Ivan winced again. "'m head hurts ..." He complained weakly, unsure if water would cool it or not. He didn't know what he wanted. He never knew what was good for him. "Why'd you do it ... "