( the door opens, and weary, tired eyes take in the surroundings, first: he needs to know what it looks like, if there's room to escape, or if the only way back out will be the door itself. somehow, the room reminds him a little too much of the man in question: it's not necessarily messy, but more that it's crowded with strange books, strange items, strange tools that he doesn't think he would understand even if he went slowly around the room to take inventory. as always, esi is bright and to the point, and it makes him wince, a little, as he comes inside the room to shut the door behind him.

the only place to sit, really, is the bed: and so he moves towards it, twisting on his heels so that he can sink himself down onto the edge. it's not really esi's fault, at least not if the illness hasn't spawned from his hand--but he can feel his impatience sinking in him, annoyed, frustrated, and he swallows down the urge to cough up another glob of blood. )

Define 'typical illness'. ( he says, but his voice is too hoarse, the act of saying the words too painful, and he brings up a hand to wipe at his mouth again before deciding he has to go along with it all.

taking in a short breath, annoyed: ) ...Kinda feels like the flu, you know?

Hot, achy, like there's a giant rock in your chest and you can't just cough it out. Except instead of snot and shit, I'm just losing all this flower shit when I cough.

( a hard swallow, as he gives esi another look, mild and suspicious. )

Really isn't you, right? You wouldn't do this kind of thing.