His eyelids feel thick and heavy. That's always been one of his least favorite things about being sick; they feel thick and heavy and slick, and it's the kind of heat that seeps back into his eyes and then to his head and it's extraordinarily unpleasant. The cloth isn't cool anymore, but it's soothing to put something over his eyes anyway, to feel the cloth there instead of just the heavy heat.

"You'd have to wait your turn," he says, cranky, and sighs through his nose. "He's surely lost himself in the Continent by now." Discussing this doesn't really seem like the best path to him feeling better, and he pushes the blankets further off him, feeling ready to suffocate from how hot he is.