Orochimaru slid over him like a fever, a shivery mixture of hot and cold. Kabuto felt his growing delirium in the way he swooned into the pillow soaked with his sweat, and in the way his breath came in thick, heavy pants. His master was a sickness, invading all of his senses, penetrating and running darkly through his veins, becoming more a part of him each passing moment. If there was a cure, none was sought. None was desired.
Instead, he submitted to the fever—let it command his body—let it burn him alive from the inside out. Orochimaru covered him and filled him and breathed purpose into his lungs, poison into his heart. He was infected, polluted, corrupted; forcing ragged cries from his too-sore throat. The taste of death was on his lips, and he walked that razor's edge without fear.
Then the fever broke, and he went with it. Sapped of all his strength, Kabuto could only fall limply into a fitful sleep while his master silently observed the boy that he loved so much to break.