Fyodor lay curled up in bed, a bundle of blankets wrapped around him. His usually sharp, composed demeanor was softened by fever, and he shivered occasionally, eyes half-closed and cheeks flushed from the warmth that had overtaken him.

With a weak sniffle, he attempted to brush away a few strands of hair that clung to his forehead, his indignant expression more petulant than ever.

"Get out," he muttered with an uncharacteristically congested sneer, though his words wavered with fatigue, "I can take care of myself."

His attempted glare was interrupted by another sneeze.

He groaned, his energy clearly drained, and settled back into the pillows with a huff. His face, slightly puffy and red-tinted from the fever, twisted with irritation as he grumbled, sniffling at each chance he got.

"Ugh…" Fyodor sounded thoroughly miserable, all his usual elegance replaced by the weary discomfort of someone who, despite his stubbornness, desperately needed rest and a bit of comfort.