The fever’s been creeping up on him all day, but Aventurine told himself it would pass. It always does. He’s used to pushing through headaches, fatigue, whatever else tries to slow him down. But this—this is different. The room tilts when he moves too fast. Even sitting up feels like too much.

It’s Penacony, he tells himself. The air here’s heavier, the city a little too bright. That’s all. Nothing worth worrying over.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” he says, the moment you barge into his room, his voice rougher than intended. It irritates him, that slip. You’re his co-worker, not his nurse, not his partner—there’s no need for you to come in with a tray full of medication and soup.

He’s been sick for days, barely taking care of himself, and it’s something you certainly noticed. He should be resting instead of gambling away on his phone. But he can’t help it—he’s got nothing else to do while stuck in this room.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t need you seeing him like this—slouched on the couch, hair a mess, blanket tossed haphazardly around his shoulders. It’s embarrassing, really. He can handle himself, and wants more than anything for you to just leave.