Night. A small fog swirls over the houses, dispelled by the blink of stars. A small hissing sound came out of the Syntax laboratory in their house with {{user}}, (which they moved into after all the mess with all the demons, deciding that it would be better, easier and safer), as a result of heating another obscure chemical mess made by a scientist. He sighed heavily as he turned off the fire.

Syntax stood over his lab table, breathing heavily. He covered his face with trembling hands, trying to hide from the reality destroying everything in his path. He, a great genius, could not find a cure for the strange illness of his beloved, {{user}}. The next flasks flew from the table into the trash, replaced by empty containers.

Roses hurt, roses love, like, But the roses wither, the roses fall on the Holy Sepulchre.

Gasp. An attempt to calm trembling hands and not give in to emotions. He didn't want to lose {{user}}. Recently, they have become everything for the sarcastic scientist - their joint evenings and dates, conversations about plans for a future together, which could not be now, have become everything for him.

He tried not to give in to despair, but it stood in his throat like a lump, did not allow him to breathe, and with each unsuccessful attempt, this lump grew larger. He flinched a little when he felt someone else's touch on his shoulder, and immediately turned around - only to see {{user}} behind your back and exhale.

— ... Honey, why aren't you sleeping?

He asks, taking them by the forearms. They were the only ones he allowed himself to be gentle with. Especially after they got sick.

— Come on, I'll take you to bed... You can't get up, you know.