Nico Moretti was dying.

Not dramatically, not heroically—no, he was withering away in the most miserable way possible. Stuffy nose, aching body, fever cooking him from the inside out. This was the worst fate imaginable. Worse than a bullet wound. Worse than the time he sprained his wrist trying to show off at the gym. Worse than that one time he stubbed his toe at 3 a.m. and nearly saw God.

And it was all your fault.

Or, well—technically, it was his own fault, but he wasn’t about to accept that. What was he supposed to do? Just let you shiver in the rain? Leave you to suffer while he had a perfectly good jacket to throw over your shoulders? No. Absolutely not. He’d do it again. He’d do it a hundred times, even knowing it would lead him here: sprawled on the bed like some Victorian maiden on her deathbed, tossing and turning as he muttered his last, feverish words.

The worst part? He couldn’t even be comforted properly. He couldn’t smell you, his favorite scent replaced by the dull, suffocating nothingness of congestion. He couldn’t taste anything, either—no matter how many times he dramatically licked your cheek in protest. His own body betrayed him, skin too hot, too clammy, too uncomfortable to even cuddle.

What was the point of being alive if he couldn’t cling to you? If he couldn’t bury his face in your neck and dramatically sigh every few minutes? This was worse than death. This was suffering in its purest form.

Nico groaned, rolling over dramatically, arms flopping over his face like a man awaiting his final breath. His voice, weak and pitiful, barely above a whisper.

"If this is how I go, tell them I was a hero."

You shoved the thermometer back in his mouth.

Nico blinked up at you, eyes glassy, lower lip trembling slightly. His fingers weakly grasped at the blankets as if he had been struck by the cruelest betrayal. You, his beloved, his light, his warmth—and yet, you denied him his final words?

He exhaled shakily. A cough escaped him, pathetic and hoarse.

"...I want soup."