Talvos, fevered
Talvos is sick. He’s hot under Iesin’s worried touch, but he clings to the blankets with a desperate, pleading noise when Iesin folds them back, as if he’ll freeze without them, so Iesin tucks them back around him. He hasn’t woken up, not really; he’s caught in a sort of restless, half-sleep, one that doesn’t break for the cool cloths Iesin wipes his face and wrists with, or for the gentle stirring of the air when Iesin fans his wings back and forth. He won’t drink, he won’t eat, and his eyes flicker open sometimes but never with any awareness.
Talvos is sick. He’s not supposed to let himself get sick, he’s supposed to do better, be better. He’ll be punished for this, he knows it. He needs to get up, prove that he’s still useful, but he’s frozen, there’s ice in his veins and ice coating his limbs, and not even the coursing, relentless shivers that judder and shake his body can break him free.
The first time Talvos looks up at him, it’s hazy and distant, his gaze sliding back and forth across Iesin’s face like he’s not quite sure of what he’s seeing.
“Hey,” Iesin says softly. He tucks a sweaty lock away from Talvos’ forehead, lingering to rub a thumb across the spot at corner of Talvos’ temple where he knows headaches tend to linger. “How are you feeling?”