Elias, with the solemn determination of a man preparing to wage war against his own joints, pushed the blanket down and attempted to sit up.
It was a mistake.
A terrible, legendary mistake.
Every muscle below his ribs screamed in protest, and his spine gave a theatrical twinge like it was personally offended by the concept of movement. He made it halfway, barely, before collapsing back with a hiss through gritted teeth, chest rising and falling like he'd just fought off a small army.
Victor, unhelpfully, looked delighted.
"Oh, that was glorious," he said, chin resting on one hand as he watched from the edge of the bed like a patron at the opera. "Do it again."
Elias didn't dignify that with a response. Mostly because he couldn't breathe.
"I hate you," he wheezed instead, arms flopping uselessly to his sides.
"I'm flattered," Victor murmured, utterly pleased. "But don't strain yourself. You'll be healed by evening."
Elias cracked one eye open. "Evening?"
