Cold Comfort
When Varian was sick, he tended to power through, pretending that everything was the same as usual, just a little tickle in his throat, nothing major. And when he sneezed and dropped a beaker of sulphuric acid, he ignored the blackened spot on the floor and soldiered on.
And when he eventually feel asleep at his work. Quirin would tiptoe in, place a warm quilt around his shoulders and a mug of warm cocoa on the table and a note that read "Go to bed."
And when he did finally stumble into bed, the sheets would be cool and clean and soft. The pillow would be fluffed and his faithful pet Ruddiger would curl up next to him, snoring gently. And if Varian woke up from a nightmare, shaking and drenched in sweat, Quirin would calm him, humming an out of tune but still recognizable lullaby. He'd place a cool washcloth on Varian's fevered brow and tell him to be strong, the sickness would pass, and he could go invent things again soon.
And Varian would sleep again, sure that his father would greet him in the morning, and that a better day awaited.
But that was before the amber. Now Quirin was trapped and Varian was alone, shivering and coughing, in a cold, damp cell. Now Varian had nobody to turn to, and nothing to bring him comfort. All he had was water and stale bread he hadn't managed to eat during the day. All around him were prisoners, full of jeers and jokes about the crazed teenage alchemist turned revolutionary.
There was no help coming from any of them, except perhaps the man with the bun who had smiled at Varian earlier in the day, and said they should talk later. And since the guards had thrown out Ruddiger, who else could Varian talk to? Maybe it would be a good idea to speak to him after all...
THE END
*insert ominous music* We all know Andrew is a predatory guy, offering "friendship" and "guidance" to someone in a weakened state. He's a jerk.