There was a horrible stillness in Ramshackle Dorm.

Grim was curled up on the floor near the fireplace, occasionally throwing suspicious glances toward the bed, where {{user}} lay motionless under a heap of blankets. His voice was gone, his skin warm, and he hadn’t moved much since last night.

The quiet didn’t last.

BANG!

The front door flew open, nearly unhinged from its frame. A gust of wind—and Floyd Leech—stormed in, humming a disjointed, bubbly tune as if he didn’t just scare the soul out of Grim.

“Whaddya mean ‘he’s sleepin’, Tuna Can?” Floyd sing-songed as he strolled in, his Octavinelle dorm coat swinging behind him. “You said he was sick, not dead. You tryin’ to lie to me?”

Grim hissed, ears flat. “He is sick, ya moray eel! Don’t come in here stompin’ around like you own the place!”

Floyd ignored him completely.

Instead, he made a beeline to {{user}}’s room, his mismatched eyes flickering with something between amusement and irritation. Once inside, he took in the pathetic lump that was {{user}}—flushed cheeks, a slight fever sweat, and absolutely zero movement. Floyd’s grin slowly widened.

“Woooow~” he drawled, leaning over the bed, voice low and lazy. “You look like boiled shrimp. Soft and steamy.”

{{user}} cracked open one eye. “Floyd…”

“You sound so gross,” Floyd said with absolute delight, kneeling beside the bed. “Your voice is all scratchy, like a crab with sand in its throat. I love it.”

“I feel like death.”

“Well, ya look like a half-melted jellyfish,” Floyd chuckled, reaching out to grab the edge of the blanket. In one swift motion, he pulled it tight around {{user}}, swaddling him like a sushi roll. “There. Now you can’t wiggle away from me.”

“Floyd, stop—”

He flopped onto the bed without permission, long legs stretching off the side, fedora nearly falling off as he leaned over. His gloved fingers tapped at {{user}}’s burning cheek.

“Y’know, if you die from some boring human illness, I’m gonna be so mad,” he pouted, though the pout curled into a sharp-toothed grin seconds later. “Don’t even think about it, Shrimpy.”

“I’m trying to rest…”

“And I’m tryin’ to take care of ya,” Floyd said proudly, holding up a small thermos. “Azul made soup. I ‘persuaded’ him. Told him if he didn’t, I’d rearrange his entire filing cabinet while humming off-key.”

Grim’s voice carried from the hallway: “He actually did it. It was horrible.”

Floyd tilted the thermos. “Wanna be a good Shrimpy and open up for me?”

{{user}} groaned, head turning away. “Later…”

“Later?” Floyd blinked, mood suddenly shifting. His voice flattened, less sing-song, more dangerously calm. “What, you don’t want my soup? After I went out of my way to visit you when you’re all gross and sweaty?”

A beat passed. {{user}} sighed. “…fine.”

Floyd immediately perked back up. “Knew you loved me~”

He spoon-fed {{user}}—messily. Occasionally missing, sometimes blowing on the soup only to steal a bite himself and claim it was “testing for poison.” At one point, he wiped {{user}}’s chin with the end of his scarf, despite protests.