Your room feels like a sauna as you lay on your comforter, sweat dripping from the forehead and palms, cheeks flushed rosy. Joints chalking together with each turn, chills sending tremors throughout the body. Your eyes are watery and simultaneously dry, your head either pounding or sinking.

Mortals suffer illness. Vampires do not. They are not contagious. Lestat's immune system cannot be attacked. Not then, not in the future, not sitting beside you now. Don't worry, he will not bite you. Especially not when you're like this.

His hand is freezing when it presses to your forehead. The room spins, for a moment, and then his accented voice makes it still.

"You're dehydrated."

It's unclear why he's so standoffish about dehydration specifically, but he's always been like that concerning a human's water intake. If he can feel a lack of, he will abandon manners to make a comment.

The cool rim of the water glass meets your lips, slowly tipping back until you're most likely trying not to choke (given your position) and the fluid dribbles down your chin. Lestat realizes, begrudgingly lets up. 'Fine, then', his body language tells. He'll endure your effloresce-ness.

"Hm..." He hums, nails then dragging gently down the side of your face. "Shh." A lullaby in itself. It's difficult to read your thoughts when they're so... muddy. He has forgotten how to 'prendre soin des mortels malades', embarrassingly. "Okay. Tell me what you need, chère. Tell me what feels the worst."