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The fire in the hearth stoked just about as high as it would go, Anatoly shuffled back to the sofa as his breath hitched miserably. He sneezed four times, each more painful and congested than the last, and snuffled hopelessly in the aftermath. He heard a noise from the kitchen as he collapsed prone on the cushions, and moaned, his face pressed flat. “Mashka,” he called hoarsely, his voice cracking. “If you open the window, I’ll just cry. I don’t have the energy…”
That much was true; Anatoly was grateful that Lydia had dropped off soup for him earlier, for he was currently using up all his precious little energy on stoking the fire, relieving himself, and sneezing. And shivering. He burrowed into the thick quilt he had dragged from his bed to the sofa and checked to make sure that the cat hadn’t done what she did best after all. Thankfully, Mashka was on the floor cleaning herself and the window appeared firmly shut, meaning the chills were all his own.
Anatoly cast around haphazardly in the cushions until he found the thermometer Lydia had made him use earlier. It was hardly a hygienic mode of storage, but he would put the thing through rounds of boiling and alcohol once he recovered. If he recovered, he thought bitterly as he shoved the glass tube under his tongue. This flu was beginning to feel like it would kill him. He held the thermometer there for what felt like an age, watching listlessly as the fire in the hearth swam across his fevered vision.
The sneeze had struck without warning, and along with a thick strand of mucus, so too did Anatoly expel the thermometer. The tube clinked to the floor and rolled a bit. Mashka took cover behind a chair.
Anatoly groaned, but managed to grab the thermometer without rising from his prone position. He tilted it toward him and was unsurprised when the reading was higher than it had been when Lydia had checked on him.
He let the thermometer fall from his hands, uncaring when it hit the sofa and bounced back to the floor. Luckily, he found the handkerchief more easily than he had found the thermometer, and he blew his nose for all the good it did. One sneeze later and he was completely bunged up again.
“Oh…” He held his temples and waited for the throbbing to back down to more manageable levels. He pulled the quilt up to his jaw, shivering so hard the sofa itself shook.
Anatoly lay there for a miserably timeless stretch, trying to will his body to surrender itself to sleep, but between his bone-deep aches and the way he felt as though a personal ice-wind were blowing on him, it was impossible. He cast a forlorn glance at the closed window again before groaning.
“It’s freezing in-in-in here!” He sneezed and sniffled and blew his nose again, coughing hoarsely into his handkerchief in the aftermath.
Anatoly shut his eyes, but opened them again when felt a gentle weight on his shoulder. “Mashka,” he whispered with what little voice he had left. “What do you want?”
In response, she pawed at the quilt. Not in the mood to be scratched, Anatoly peeled it back for her, and the cat immediately jumped in to plaster herself against his chest with a satisfied purr. Anatoly smiled and replaced the blanket, and she curled in closer, instantly radiating heat like a hot water bottle. He felt his sore muscles relax a bit, the warm weight against his chest like a soft, soothing massage.
“Thank you,” he murmured tiredly, finally warm enough to drift off to sleep.