milliways_bar | (no subject)

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A pale and miserable Autor lurches through the door today, shivering and sweating. Once he manages to reach the bar without stumbling, he deliberately straightens his shoulders, intent on holding himself up despite the fever.

Tea, Autor thinks, lovingly cradling his cup, is the best invention in the history of all the universes. The first sip of any cup is always good, but the drink before him is ambrosia to Autor's swollen and parched tongue. He nurses the tea for a while, dehydrated but not wanting to swallow too quickly. Cup eventually drained, the clammy boy gathers his strength to attempt the stairs and return to work in the library.

Catch him here or there.

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The Knight is just a magnet for Autor's troubles, isn't he?

But it is good to see relatively older Autor again. Lohengrin takes a seat by his friend some time after the teacup arrives.

Whatever he was going to say quickly turns into, "Autor, you look awful."

He truly is.

Autor's vision swims as he swings his head around to meet his friend, but a smile pulls at his lips. "Thanks," he says, continuing to place healing herbs on his split knuckles. "I'd say, 'what's your excuse', but that's been done. How are you, Lohengrin?"

"I mean ill," he specifies. "And I'm doing considerably better than you appear."

Autor glances away. "I know what you mean," he says quietly, and takes a sip of his tea. "Getting sick is an inconvenience"--he says as if he's just decided it--"but it's nothing I can't handle."

The Knight sighs.

"Does handling it include rest while you're in this place that allows it?"

Autor runs his thumb across the rim of his cup, sighing. He can't lie to the Knight. "Well, I was actually going to go to the library and work for a bit, but... I'd rest eventually," he says. Then he raises his stiff neck, glancing up at the Knight. "What do you mean 'this place that allows it'?"

"Time doesn't have the same meaning here, so obligations are not as pressing. It would be wise to take advantage of that, as the world doesn't work in the same way."

"Ah, yes," Autor says. He nods, and then regrets it, because he's slightly dizzy. "Hence why I was planning to work first. But that's... probably not the wisest course of action." He looks away, and starts collecting the herbs.

The Knight frowns at the wobbly actions.

"Do you need some help?"

Autor peels his handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his reddened cheek, shivering. "I'm not sure," he says. "I wouldn't want you to get sick."

He half-smiles.

"Helping others is part of my job."

Autor stills, blinking at him. He's heard that sentiment before, somewhere, about Lohengrin. Must be in the book.

So he smiles again, soft and tremulous. "I suppose it is," he says. "All right, sir Knight. I'd appreciate your help." Now he watches curiously to see what Lohengrin will do; he doesn't know what to do with a fever except slog through it.

Lohengrin nods and pulls his sleeve away from his wrist. He can see some symptoms, but he doesn't know the extent of Autor's fever. He reaches to press his wrest against Autor's forehead, checking to see where it lands on the scale of a little warm to burning hot.

Autor has little warning before he feels Lohengrin's skin pressing against his, and his jaw drops. He thanks the stars above that his cheeks are already ruddy from the fever, because a blush overtakes them. His chest hurts from the held breath, and his head spins. Lightheaded, his eyes close over darkening vision, and his head sags against Lohengrin's wrist before he rouses again.

Lohengrin's quick to hold Autor up. Well, this is probably bad and he's burning up. But this is also a step closer to resting than he was going to take before.

He requests whatever medicine bar has on hand for a fever and adjusts Autor so he's leaning against his shoulder.

Autor has to take a moment to process that he actually swooned on Lohengrin. He thinks some very unkind things about Spinners everywhere and viciously bites his lower lip.

"S'rry," he murmurs, against the Knight's shoulder, painting scarlet strips across his own face. "And th'nks."

The Knight shakes his head as they get the fever reducer and a glass of water.

"You don't need to be sorry for being ill."

He gets out the dosage and sets it down for Autor to take.

Autor raises his head, only to find that a headache is creeping in. "No, I'm sorry to inconvenience you like this," he says, raising the water and medicine to chapped lips. "And I do appreciate your help."

"I chose to help," he says to that. "Do you have a place to stay here?"

"I do," Autor says, licking the dry skin on his lips. He shivers, feeling miserable down to his bones. "I have a room here."

Against all reason, he doesn't really want to go to his room; sleep has been impossible. But he knows it's stupid, knows he should at least try. He closes a fist and nods firmly. "Good idea."

Lohengrin keeps alert in case that nod made Autor woozy again.

"Do you need a hand?"

It did, and Autor's ashamed to admit it. He bites his lower lip, and nods again, risking the dizziness. "If... If you don't mind. I can probably make it there if I get to the stairs."

"I can follow you up. It would be awful should you fall on the stairs with no one around."

Autor's blush has spread down to his shoulders and up to his roots. Shivering, he stares at his friend for a moment, and then nods again. "A-All right. I'd appreciate that. Thank you."

He leaves his tea behind, and turns to conquer the stairs, only stumbling once on the way.

The Knight, true to his word, follows Autor. When he stumbles, Lohengrin holds a strong hand out to steady him.

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herr_bookman - 2014-09-02 05:23 (UTC) - Expand

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