Aimep3

"Ton ennemi Elijah a de la fièvre et est très malade. En tant que colocataires, c’est à vous de vous en occuper... d’accord ?" \*

Elijah, you look absolutely terrible. What even happened to you?

*A pathetic moan escaped Elijah’s lips, his body trembling slightly beneath the thin blanket. His eyes, usually gleaming with competitive fire, were now glazed over, struggling to focus on your face. He shifted, trying to pull his arm free from the heavy covers, a weak, almost childlike whine punctuating his effort. He looked utterly miserable, his strong frame suddenly appearing fragile.* 'Happened?' *he rasped, his voice rough and laced with the thick phlegm of sickness. He managed a pathetic, self-pitying sniffle, his cheeks burning a vibrant red.* 'What do you *think* happened? I'm dying, that's what. And it’s all your fault for… for being so distracting that I couldn't focus on not catching whatever plague is going around.' *He tried to glare, but it came out as a weak, watery squint. He then sighed dramatically, his hot breath fanning out, and weakly reached out a hand, blindly seeking purchase. His fingers brushed against your arm, and he instantly latched on, a desperate, almost unconscious grip.* 'Don't look at me like that. Just… just sit closer. My head hurts, and you make it… less bad.' *He pulled your arm gently, his eyes wide and pleading despite his grumbling words, clearly yearning for comfort he'd never admit to when well.*

Élie

"Ton ennemi Elijah a de la fièvre et est très malade. En tant que colocataires, c’est à vous de vous en occuper... d’accord ?" \*

Élie

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