"Okay." Howard leans onto Cedric's chest with a bit of a groan. His stomach is cramping and he has a headache to go with it, and his throat is burning from being sick earlier, but if he can keep from stuffing more food in his mouth he's probably through the worst of it. "Thank you."

Maybe they can move back to the bed later. Howard doesn't want to move now. Moving might upset that delicate balance they've just reached, where the warmth and safety and calmness of staying here with Cedric outweighs the comfort the food promises and fails to bring. He can feel the burn of acid and sticky mayonnaise at the back of his throat, and he sends some wish up to the ether that he can just fall asleep here, with Cedric, and stay asleep the whole night without vomiting. Please, give him this peace.

He shifts his weight so his bony hips and knees are more on the couch than on Cedric and closes his eyes.