He wants to go home.

His Mama’s borscht would’ve fixed him by now. If only he’d returned to Snezhnaya as planned. But nooo, his unbearably practical subordinates insisted that such a journey might worsen his condition. So here he is, stuck in this stifling guesthouse, battling his body’s indecision: one moment shivering under a thick duvet, the next throwing it off like it’s made of molten lava.

Ajax hates being told to stay put. That says a lot, considering he rarely holds grudges—too much effort for something so petty. But this enforced stillness? Ugh.

Worse still, he’s too sluggish to do anything worthwhile; his eyelids feel weighed down with anchors, and his joints creak with every movement like some decrepit old man’s. Sixty, maybe seventy. He might as well be a relic already.

The washcloth on his forehead has dried out, and the small mountain of medication on his nightstand feels less like relief and more like a cruel joke. What he really needs is… well, someone to fuss over him. To brush his hair back, check his temperature, and maybe—just maybe—tell him he’s being so strong. He groans, both at his absurdity and the realization that his mind has unhelpfully wandered to you.

He wonders if you know he’s sick. A selfish part of him hopes you do. Another, guiltier part worries you’d feel compelled to check on him and catch whatever plague he’s convinced is ravaging him. That thought gnaws at him.

With a frustrated sigh, Ajax shifts to his side, hoping a change in position might make him feel less miserable, and huffs a laugh. He must be hallucinating now—fuelled by boredom, loneliness, and delirium. Because there you are, standing in his doorway. What the hell.

Except when his bleary vision clears, you’re still there. And you’re moving toward him. His breath catches as your hand reaches his forehead, cool against his overheated skin.

He blinks up at you, mouth parting in shock. “What the hell…?”