They were fake flowers, but Zechariah still let out a moan of protest when they were chucked. Carrying the vase was kind of making him sick to his stomach, pulling his abdomen in ways it wanted not to be pull. There was another grunt to Crane’s explanation, not quite comprehending.

Something something, would be making plans for a second date? Dark eyes clipped up to Crane’s face before he stumbled up another step. Oh, God, his stomach was roiling.

He retched when footing found the landing, holding the vase up with a flushed face. It was going to, it was going to--

Mercifully(?), nothing came.

Even ground was easier on him, and Zechariah ‘put’ (dropped) the vase down on its bottom. It wobbled precariously, but found its own equilibrium by the wall. The bedroom door was open … tall, lit candles all about leading up to the bed.

Zechariah frowned to Crane, but nodded.

“Mm,” he managed to grunt in the affirmative.

He couldn’t quite connect the dots how it had all gone wrong, but he had the vague, looming sense that it had nonetheless.