Martin rolled over. He was cold. Colder than he thought possible, even though he was in northern Norway. He figured the fuzzy pyjamas from Arthur, and the extra blanket than Douglas had managed to sweet talk the front desk into bringing (of course, he wasn't able to get the heating fixed, typical) would have been enough to ward off the chill, but he was wrong.
Yet again.
He managed to fall asleep, an exhausted body that fell asleep despite the chill in the room. He couldn't be bothered to care anymore.
Martin slept restlessly. He was used to sleeping in unknown environments, it was practically part of the life of a pilot, so that wasn't the problem. His room in the attic wasn't that warm or cozy, so that wasn't it either, even though this was colder than his attic room had ever been.
No, it was something else.
He felt awful. Like it would be better to die than to force air into and out of his lungs. The sheer amount of energy required to breathe was too much. And moving? No, he seemed to have gained an inordinate amount of weight while he slept. There would be no more moving. Ever.
No, Martin figured it would be alright if he died here. After all, what was out there to live for? Snow... snow... snow... Mostly snow.
He must have been feverish, because his thoughts weren't making any sense to him.
He wondered if this was how Arthur felt.
He slept, or maybe not, it was hard to tell because the dreams didn't stop when he was awake.
Maybe he wasn't awake. Maybe he was dead. But if he was dead it should stop being hurting.
No, that's what Arthur said. He wasn't Arthur.
Martin coughed, and coughed, and coughed, and it hurt. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, it hurt to think about doing either.
Perhaps Douglas was right. He may need to go see a doctor.