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Summary
When you have a fever, you go soft.
First the bones give way. The proud frame collapses, the spine curls into the duvet, folding into a small, stubborn shape that refuses to ask for help.
Then the lips soften—the dry, cracked lips that can’t quite manage a cutting remark. All they can murmur is one word: cold.
And finally, the hand. That hand that plays the violin, that conducts experiments, that points at a crime scene and says “elementary.”
It slips out from under the duvet and catches the fabric of his shirt.
It holds on so gently and yet so tightly.
Not with the usual controlled composure.
But the way a drowning man grabs at driftwood—no technique, only instinct.
Clutching his shirttail. His sleeve. His collar.
It holds on all night long. It doesn’t let go until dawn.
All night he calls his name.
And all night the other answers, “I’m here.”
The truth is, the fever has made him half delirious; he doesn’t even know what he’s calling for.
But each time he calls, a warm hand reaches out and rests on his forehead.
It stays there until he quiets, then slowly withdraws.
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Bookmark Notes:
Read Already, very nice
Slow burn
Cute
Platonic -
Bookmark Notes:
Sick fic subtle
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Bookmark Notes:
This was so good aughh I love this kinda dynamic with them
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