By 2:37 a.m., the fever had officially crossed into criminal behavior.
Tord was no longer sweating — he was radiating. Heat rolled off him in waves, his shirt damp, hair sticking to his forehead, vision blurring at the edges like a badly edited VHS tape.
“This is… fine,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m totally fine.”
“You just tried to intimidate the pillow,” Tom said from the doorway.
“The pillow knows what it did.”
Edd sighed, setting another glass of water on the table. “You need to drink.”
Tord squinted at it. “…Why is it staring at me?”
Matt leaned closer. “He’s not blinking.”
Tord slapped the glass away weakly. “I don’t negotiate with liquids.”
The fever surged again, sharp and dizzying, and the room slid sideways.
Suddenly he wasn’t on the couch anymore.
He was sprawled across something warm, low light bleeding red through the room, his skin hypersensitive, nerves humming too loud. His body felt heavier, slower — every breath dragging heat deeper into his chest.
And then there you were.
Too close. Way too close.
“You look miserable,” you said softly.
Tord groaned. “Fantastic. Hallucination you’s back.”
You leaned in just enough that he could feel warmth — not touch, not really, but almost, and that somehow made it worse.
“Your heart’s racing,” you noted.
“That’s because I’m sick,” he snapped. “And because my brain is actively trying to sabotage me.”
Your gaze dipped — not dramatically, not obvious — just enough for his fevered mind to fill in the blanks.
His jaw tightened.
“Don’t,” he warned. “I swear to god, don’t.”
You smiled. “You’re thinking about it.”
“I am absolutely not—”
The sensation crept up anyway. That frustrating, unwanted awareness. Heat pooling where it shouldn’t. His breath stuttered, traitorous.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “You’re fake. You’re literally neurons misfiring.”
“Then why are you reacting?”
He clenched his fists. “Because I’m sick.”
You hovered closer, voice low. “You’ve always been bad at losing control.”
The room pulsed. The air felt thick. His skin felt too tight, too alive, every inch registering more than it should.
“Get out of my head,” he growled.
“Make me.” you crawled towards him, he gasped, eyes wide and fell backwards
"Stop it. You are just trying to mess up with my brain" he hissed and lifted his gaze to look at you
You giggled and smirked, with your hand, trailing like a walking show with your fingers, from his abdomen to his chest
He stiffened and gulped loudly
"Yeah, this is a dream but y'know I'll never be like this with you." You mused subtly
He frowned and scoffed
"Don't look at me like that, doll" he muttered weekly and sighed heavily
The dream collapsed violently.
Tord jolted upright on the couch with a sharp inhale, blankets tangled, pulse hammering like he’d run a mile.
Tom stared at him. “You just said ‘don’t look at me like that’.”
Edd blinked. “To no one.”
Matt grinned. “Oh this is GOLD.”
Tord pressed a hand to his face, mortified, overheated, furious at his own body. “If anyone speaks, I will die out of spite and take you with me.”
Edd checked his temperature again. “It’s higher.”
“No shit,” Tord muttered, staring at the ceiling. His chest still felt tight, his thoughts buzzing uncomfortably close to places he refused to acknowledge.
He shifted, irritated by his own awareness. “This fever’s doing illegal things.”
Tom smirked. “Your brain or your body?”
“Both,” Tord snapped. “And neither have my permission.”
Another wave hit — softer this time, but lingering. Images threatened again. Sensations half-formed, suggestive in the most annoying way possible.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I hate this.”
Matt leaned over him. “You’re kinda red.”
“Say that again and I’ll haunt you while alive.”
The house settled into uneasy quiet, broken only by Tord’s uneven breathing. Somewhere deep under the fever, under pride and irritation, his mind replayed warmth, proximity, the almost of it all.
“…This is not happening,” he muttered.
But the fever hummed on, patient and cruel.
And it clearly wasn’t done with him yet.