Valen flinched away from Michael's hand, the touch of skin on skin like sandpaper over an open wound. It was too much, too much and the damnable whispering of this man into his pocket device sounded like a thousand bees buzzing around Valen's skull. He couldn't, and forced his eyes shut to deny his existence entirely.
"Gods! N-no," he stuttered and dragged his heavy lids open a moment later to look at Michael, "Men go to die in healing houses--it's but a sickness brother--" he could no more stop his incessant rambling than he could the cramps that seized and twisted and pained him. "It'll p-pass." And by no stretch of desire did Valen want to be carted out of this very church and loaded off to a sick house. They'd discover his twisted interests and there was naught to be done about his disease, he'd tried.
"I'm no dead man yet, though the Ferryman stands behind me." He made no effort to move, no effort to rise and clothe himself. By gods if they were going to drag his sorry corpse from this room they'd do it naked, the clothing burned and seared and torched his skin to the touch.