Barry is dying.
Or rather, he feels like he's dying.
Actually, he feels like he'd rather be dead than whatever this is.
After a week of coming and going in Milliways and encountering friends who were sick and all the people who were down with it while he felt fine, Barry had figured he was safe.
But, as it turns out, his metahuman metabolism only managed to combat the bug long enough to lull Barry into a false sense of security, then quit the fight abruptly. Now, Barry is that guy, the one who never gets sick, but when he does get sick he gets it the worst of all.
On a couch near the fireplace, in a nest made up of ALL the blankets and wrapped up to his head, Barry suffers. He had every intention of quarantining himself in a room upstairs, but the trek was too much. So now he's huddled on the couch with his knees tucked up to his chest and just the top of his head sticking out of the blankets, with rats bringing him soup and more tissues to replace those covered in glittering day-glo orange snot overfilling a nearby small trash can.
His tablet is propped on a nearby coffee table, and Barry is watching old episodes of Bill Nye the Science Guy.
Don't judge him, just pity him and his miserable state.
[ooc: open forever although tags will get slow going into the weekend.]