( the only way Matt can keep track of the days is by the calendar function on his tablet. he could tell night from day back home, from the changes in sounds and voices and even the smells changing between night and day. now it's just eternal blackness — there's no obvious changes to their surroundings based on the hour. it's frustrating and a bit disorienting.

no, he can't be too nice. if anything, that he's got the mood in him to tease her is a sign he's not on deaths door, just miserable. the air is sticky and wet standing next to a boiling pot of tea, though it's still better than anywhere else in the a-frame right about now. )

Until these flowers clear up, I'm not bound to smell much better. ( he's had more than a few showers, but it's an impossible battle to fight the cold sweat and the sour smell of consistently losing what little he has left in his stomach. he nods toward the tea, which smells better than it has any right to considering the rotten hellscape pressing in at the windows. ) You should have some of this, you're the only one that could keep it down.