Ivan had finished emptying his stomach and was now dry heaving and gasping for air, having collapsed to his knees with his hands over his mouth to keep himself as quiet as possible. Even as he was, sick and very nearly passing out, what worried him most was that he might be bothering his caravan mates. His coughs wracked his whole body, sending his frail form into near convulsions as he tried to clear his windpipe, which seemed fully intent on strangling itself from the inside. Ivan seemed to be trying to say something that sounded like "sorry", a mix of clear and red fluid running from his mouth down his chin and dripping onto the floor, adding to his puddle of sick. He lurched forward as if to be sick again, but instead just crumpled on the floor, conscious but not really breathing anymore.