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Since I will likely not get to update this thing before Tuesday, as I have an essay due in.

Which I haven't started yet.

-woe-

***

The following day, Arthur found Ivan flushed and feverish and recognised the now familiar signs of the boy falling ill. If somebody had told him two hundred years previously that he would be sitting at Russia’s bedside, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth and murmuring quiet words of comfort to him, he would have called them crazy without a second thought. Arthur sighed softly, and stroked his free hand over Ivan’s hair, several strands falling loose to be brushed away carefully. The boy made a low, slightly pained sound and his breathing stuttered as he turned to the older man’s touch, his fingers clenching fretfully to the bed sheets. He was, for the most part, such a lively, cheerful youngster but he became sick so easily, and when that happened, it was as if all his energy just disappeared. Though it had taken time, Ivan had become part of the family, and Arthur hated to see him suffer.

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blood_winged

September 2020

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