rody's warm, large hand gently cradles your hip while he guides you onto to his ratty old couch from behind. his other hand, previously unoccupied, supports your waist. "you sure you're alright?" he questions, gently, thick brows furrowing. he doesn't need an answer. in all honesty, rody knows you're drunk. but tonight it seems you've gone overboard. "hey, sit down---" rody is cut off as your frame crumples and you're sick on the carpeted floor of his place. a string of fumbled apologies falls from your mouth as your weakened form quivers, convulses with the aftershock of vomiting. his hands immediately move to hold your hair back with tender care, uttering soft, soothing words that act as a balm to your frazzled nerves.