svanha.

He'd tried to sit up—once. His intention had been simple: water, maybe a cloth to cool his forehead. Something, anything to make it feel less like he was dissolving from the inside out. But his arms had buckled under him, useless, and he'd collapsed against the mattress with a sad, pathetic grunt.

The isolation hit him harder than the pain. He had always been alone when it mattered. Sickness, grief, long nights and longer regrets—he'd weathered them all in solitude. That aching part of him, buried under decades of ambition and academic pursuits, had longed silently, foolishly, for someone to care for him when he couldn't care for himself.

But no one ever had. That kind of companionship always seemed reserved for others—and romance, love—that was a dream for younger men.

He closed his eyes, resigned. If this was how the night would go, he'd endure it.

As he always did.

-----

The creak of the door was soft—so soft, he almost thought it imagined. But then a piece of fallen parchment crinkled under a cautious step.

His heart stuttered.

He cracked open one eye, just barely. A figure moved through the haze of his vision—short, lean, with long dark hair tied loosely at the nape. At first, it was too much effort to think.

Then he whispered, hoarse and winded, "Who... who's there?"

The shape knelt beside the bed.

"Just me," came the answer—low, familiar, like the rustle of spring wind through a garden.

Emmrich blinked, slowly.

That voice. Of all people.

Was he hearing things?

"...Scipio?" he murmured. "You shouldn't be here. I could be con—" His eyes rolled shut, another wave of dizziness nearly dragging him into unconsciousness. "Contagious."

"Shhh." Scipio gently pushed his damp hair back, feeling his skin.

His bare hand—rarely ungloved—was cool, and Emmrich let out an involuntary sigh, the sensation a balm through the heat.

"This isn't good," Scipio muttered, his brows drawn in worry. "You're way too hot."

His voice, usually rich with dry wit or polite charm, had taken on a softness Emmrich had never quite heard before—intimate, firm, and without a trace of sarcasm. He looked down at the feeble man like one might gaze at a wounded halla; not with pity, but a fierce, instinctual desire to help.

Emmrich wanted to speak, to ask him why—but the moment Scipio slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted his head to help him drink, the world narrowed to the sudden glass at his lips. The water was blissfully cold—everything he needed. He drank fast, greedily, then coughed, the relief overwhelming.

"Easy," Scipio whispered. "There we go."

He set the glass aside but didn't move away. Instead, he climbed into bed behind him, legs encircling Emmrich's trembling frame. Gently, he pulled the older man into his lap, arranging him so his head rested against his chest, then pressed a fresh, damp cloth to his forehead.

Emmrich stirred, disoriented. "Scipio... what are you—?"

"I'm not leaving you," the elf said plainly. "Not tonight. Not when you're this unwell."

His other hand settled over Emmrich's shoulder, the pressure grounding. Emmrich was still shaking, still burning, but in that moment, a different warmth began to bloom in his chest—gentler than the fever, deeper than the pain.

He let out a faint, disbelieving breath and curled closer. He wasn't sure if any of this was real. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe his yearning had finally conjured something beautiful in the throes of his illness.

But then he felt it.

Scipio's heartbeat under his cheek, steady and calm. A breath near his temple. The brush of fingers sweeping sweat from his hair. He clung to Scipio's arm with one hand, weak but resolute. Whether dream, or mercy, or miracle—he wasn't letting go.

And as the fever ebbed, lulled by the quiet pulse of affection and the protective presence that held him, Emmrich finally surrendered to a peaceful slumber.