Oh, how he hates illnesses. And how he hates himself for daring to even get sick.

Alastor bites back another wave of nausea as he sits down on the edge of his bed, one hand clutching his stomach and the other holding on tightly to his staff. Eyes half-closed, with his smile plastered on his face, his skin pale and flushed, and a tad green from the sickness. He doesn't even know how he got a fever. All he knows is that he did, and now he has to deal with it. Alone.

So as not to get others sick, of course.

Alastor leans back until his back is pressed against the bed, and he allows himself to close his eyes. He removes his hand from his stomach, instead raising it to loosen his tie. Why is it so hot in here?

He doesn't dare open his eyes, not yet anyway. It's too cold but too hot. If he opens his eyes, another headache spurs on. Alastor groans, lifting his hand to rub it over his face.

His stomach lurches, and he makes an "oof" sound, sitting up quickly. His body glitches, white noise filling the air as his pain intensifies. "Urghh," he groans, closing his eyes. There's a creak, and he doesn't bother opening them.

He knows it's you. "You shouldn't be here, my dear," Alastor says quietly.