"I was ... somewhat aware ... of that, yes," Anton managed, and coughed again, then spat. There was more blood in his mouth than had just come up from his chest; he could feel the dull throb of torn lips where his teeth had cut flesh.
His whole body ached, in fact, in a way it never had before. Before, the pain had always been in his chest; once medicine had advanced enough to mark the cause of heart attacks, Anton had always felt that his Gist erupting must be what it felt like. Except worse. At least a heart-attack victim died.
Now, though, it was so much worse. The pain wasn't just in his chest but everywhere; it felt as if something had turned him inside out, had ravaged him from inside. Which was, of course, precisely what had happened. Every aching muscle, every torn joint--he wasn't even moving and he felt them all with every breath. Standing up wasn't going to happen. Not yet.
He could move into a more comfortable position, though. Anton reached out for the wall, but he was shaking so hard that he missed it the first time and didn't fall only because Erskine still had his arm around him. He got it the next and leaned into it, managing to drag himself over so he could turn and lean his back against it. He let his head do the same and closed his eyes.
Which, of course, was when the phone rang. Anton let out a resigned exhale, a slow one so as not to make another cough rise, and let the shaft of his mop drop to his lap. "I don't suppose you could answer that for me?" His lips quirked in something approaching humour. "Far be it for me to tarnish my Hotel's reputation for good service by not answering."
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His whole body ached, in fact, in a way it never had before. Before, the pain had always been in his chest; once medicine had advanced enough to mark the cause of heart attacks, Anton had always felt that his Gist erupting must be what it felt like. Except worse. At least a heart-attack victim died.
Now, though, it was so much worse. The pain wasn't just in his chest but everywhere; it felt as if something had turned him inside out, had ravaged him from inside. Which was, of course, precisely what had happened. Every aching muscle, every torn joint--he wasn't even moving and he felt them all with every breath. Standing up wasn't going to happen. Not yet.
He could move into a more comfortable position, though. Anton reached out for the wall, but he was shaking so hard that he missed it the first time and didn't fall only because Erskine still had his arm around him. He got it the next and leaned into it, managing to drag himself over so he could turn and lean his back against it. He let his head do the same and closed his eyes.
Which, of course, was when the phone rang. Anton let out a resigned exhale, a slow one so as not to make another cough rise, and let the shaft of his mop drop to his lap. "I don't suppose you could answer that for me?" His lips quirked in something approaching humour. "Far be it for me to tarnish my Hotel's reputation for good service by not answering."