cherry-flavored | sylus q.
sum: you caught the crud. your roommate played nurse, only for you to request a burger upon feeling slightly better. screw something healthy to replenish your strength. silliness ensues. cw: roommate au, modern au, mild language, self-indulgent, fluff, romance, humor, sickfic (?), reader can fit in a shopping cart, the faintest note of steaminess, does not take place in any particular timeframe in and they were roommates, 2.9k wc track list: hello love - blossom dearie
You don’t feel like death today.
The fever’s gone. The chills have subsided. It no longer takes half a decade to get out of bed to use the bathroom.
You’re a little dehydrated. Still cold, bundled up in layers, socked feet padding over glacial, wooden floors. Blanket around your shoulders to ward off the chill. A beanie on for good measure.
What? You can never be too prepared.
You’re hungry. Ravenously hungry. After two days of drinking broth and tea, it’s understandable why you’re ready to gorge yourself on solid food.
The pantry’s stocked with soup, crackers, and Pedialyte. Courtesy of your roommate, who insisted you eat light. Take it easy and ingest as many vitamins as you could. The fridge doesn’t fare any better.
With a fond quirk of your lips, you recall how Sylus loomed over you like a hoverfly. Obsessively checked your temperature. Buried you in blankets until you woke up, drowning in sweat. Set a timer for your medicine so he could force Robitussin down your throat every six hours.
And the one day he couldn’t be around to play nurse—again, he should really consult his HR about how shitty his hours are—he had his two colleagues keep tabs on you. They were excellent comic relief.
Sylus admittedly wasn’t an expert on caring for the sick, which is why he hovered like you were on your deathbed. He reminded you of a cat, holding its paw near your nose while you slept to ensure you were still breathing.
It was honestly adorable, watching your typically put-together roomie debate between whether to use an oral or rectal thermometer—you told him you’d murder him if he opted for the latter.
You feel brave enough to face the horrors outside (the elements. Traffic. People). And if you don’t get your hands on a burger right now, you might start gnawing on your wrist.
So, you find yourself at the foot of the attic stairs like your body moved here of its own accord. It’s only right to ask the roomie if he wants anything. Today is one of those scarce days he’s home. And he was the sweetest yet most awkward caretaker while you fought for your life (it really wasn’t that bad).
Intuitively, you rap against the handrail. Loud enough to alert him to your presence, but light enough not to wake him if he’s out cold.
“Come on up,” he beckons in that soothing rasp.
Adjusting your blanket around your shoulders, you begin your ascent up the narrow stairway, the floorboards groaning with each step.
His room unfolds like a 4K video game. His posh furniture is a stark contrast to your lived-in things downstairs. Mephisto watches you from the windowsill before returning to organizing his shiny little nest.
Sunlight pours in through the window, casting the attic in a soft, amber veil. The scent of vanilla enmeshed with amber curls around you, nostalgic and homely. Jazz floats from a speaker in the corner, adding to the ethereal ambience.
It hasn’t looked like an attic up here since the roomie moved in almost a year ago. Maybe you’ll bug him for decorating tips when you’re done pondering how he can afford thousand-dollar whiskey.
You find the man of the hour in the room’s focal point, propped against the pillows on his bed, glasses on, book in hand. He sets it down with his lips pulling upward, perking up as you lean against the doorframe.
“What’s up, sweetie?” he asks in that easygoing tone, crossing one ankle over the other, twining his fingers together in his lap after slipping off his frames.
You try not to get hung up on what he’s wearing today. No designer sweaters. No pressed slacks. No red-bottomed loafers that cost more than your car loan.
No.
He looks…really good in everyday clothes. A relaxed, earth-toned hoodie. Matching joggers. He could almost pass for normal if not for the white hair, striking eyes, and the strange way he talks.
Tilting his head quizzically, yet somehow knowing what you’re thinking about, Sylus clears his throat. “Cat got your tongue?”
You scoff, tightening your blanket around you like it can conceal the embarrassment spidering up your chest. “You won’t even let me get a cat.”
Sylus nods, brow raised as if to convey, touché.
“Anyways, I’m starving. I was gonna hit the store, and...”
The words peter on your tongue when Sylus schools his face into a scowl. You can virtually smell the incoming lecture.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to leave the house?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I could honestly fight a bear right now.” To highlight your point, you hop up in a failed attempt at a flying kick.
Sylus’ hands dart out to steady you, but you catch yourself before your face can meet the floorboards, thanks to your blanket getting caught around your ankles.
Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t do that again.
“I’m okay. Really. Not sure how much longer I’ll be good if I don’t eat something that isn’t broth, carrots, and air, though.”
On cue, your stomach growls, eating away at the silence.
“I could cook you something,” your roommate offers. And you can tell he’s about to exhaust everything in his arsenal to keep you home.
You shake your head with a dismissive smile. “Everything’s frozen. It’d take too long for the meat to thaw.”
Glancing off to the side, Sylus’ brows furrow, his lips thinning with thoughtfulness. “Would you like me to order out, then?”
“Nah.”
“How about you stay here and I go pick something up? My treat. Whatever you want.”
“Sylus,” you laugh, exasperated yet flattered, dropping down onto his bed. You bounce a couple of times, blinking until you settle. Did not expect it to be this springy, but—
This is your first time on his bed, isn’t it?
“I’ve been rotting inside this house all weekend. As much as I enjoy listening to you sing lullabies like you smoke a pack a day, I could use a change in scenery.”
He looks like he wants to admonish you for that comment about his singing. Your taste in music is abysmal.
Instead, after considering your request, he nods his head in the affirmative, his smirk returning. “Fine. You can go. But only if I come with you.”
Snorting, you haul yourself up from his bed, an amused look cast over your shoulder. “Am I paying my way to freedom with quality time?”
The mirth melts from your face as quickly as it reveals itself. Insert foot in mouth.
Waggling his brows suggestively, the shit-eating spread of his grin is enough to make you facepalm.
Standing, he prowls towards you like something beastly. His voice drops into a husky whisper near your ear, and he intentionally brushes past you, starting for the stairs.
“I can think of other ways for you to repay my kindness, sweetie. Would you like to test them out?”
He chuckles and flinches reflexively when you punch him in his back on your way down. It hurts you more than it does him.
—
It’s mid-morning and chilly out when you both pull into the grocery store’s parking lot.
It’s thankfully sparse, with only a few cars scattered throughout. No crowds to overwhelm either of you. No loud noises to reawaken your headache.
You’re still a little dizzy and sore from your ailment, your limbs reminding you of your plight as you step out of the passenger side of your car. It really shows when you drag yourself behind your roomie, his unfairly long legs already putting miles between you.
Sylus slows when he senses you lagging, and he peers over his shoulder, trying but failing not to sound like a cocky bastard. “Everything alright?”
You wave your hand dismissively, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. “Good. Just old.”
A huff answers you. “If you’re old, then what does that make me?” He conquers the distance between you, his tone descending with playfulness as he pokes the center of your forehead.
You bat him away like a cat and wiggle your fingers theatrically. “Dust.”
No warning comes before the world tilts and wooshes, your breath abandoning you in a sharp yelp. You think he’s about to fling you into oblivion for your joke, but he instead scoops you up like it’s his favorite pastime.
You turn wide eyes on your roomie carrying you one-handed, your hands automatically perching on his shoulders.
“Sylus, what—”
“Shh. Just enjoy the ride. I may be dust, but at least I can move.”
You’re hit with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. But you shove it to the back of your mind, trying not to get distracted by how rigid and warm he feels pressed up against you.
Your squeal reverberates under the store’s roof when Sylus deposits you into a shopping cart. Blinking owlishly, you clutch the cart’s sides, gawking at him from your shoulder as he shuttles you towards the automatic doors.
He doesn’t justify his actions. Just pushes you beneath the fluorescent halo of lights, the wheels sticking and scrubbing over glittering linoleum.
Laughing incredulously, you give up on quizzing him. You feel like a kid again, garnering a few perturbed looks from the store’s other shoppers as the cold metal of the cart presses against your folded legs.
Drawing your phone from your pocket, you pull up the grocery list you haphazardly keyed in on the drive over. You absently rattle off the things you need, trusting Sylus to be a decent pilot.
“Let’s see. Butter, yogurt, cheese…”
“Got it.” Without missing a hitch, he turns a sharp corner, nearly sending you flying from the cart. He grins sheepishly when you cut your eyes at him.
“Avocado,” you warily call next.
“Mhm.” He’s more mindful of his strength this time, steering you into the produce aisle with a little more grace than before.
“Oatmeal.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Scoffing, you roll your eyes. He’ll allow it, he says, like he’s the grocery store bouncer.
“Next,” he orders with a wink and a smirk that could rob banks. He’s getting the hang of this, clearly having too much fun.
“Pizza rolls.”
For the second time, you nearly careen out of the shopping cart. It lurches to a stop, the wheels comically screeching against the floor.
A judgmental brow lifts, followed by a mouth scrawling into a frown. It takes all of you not to laugh at how cute he is.
“Pizza rolls?”
“Yep.”
Arms crossed and an impatient hip cocked out, he scrutinizes you from down his nose. “And how exactly are pizza rolls supposed to help with your recovery?”
“Moral support,” comes your cheeky reply. You pluck a box of Gushers from the shelf and drop it into the cart beside you, hoarding your wares together like a greedy little treasure troll.
He looks like he might protest. But with you packed in the basket amongst processed foods and organic produce, the fight dies in his chest. Instead, he shakes his head, trying his hardest to keep that smile at bay as you check off the next item on your list.
Domesticity. He wears it well.
—
The worst in all this is that you don’t even eat any of your groceries.
You guilt-tripped your roommate into taking you to a fast food joint for the greasiest, sloppiest burger and fries. Damn you and your adorable face. You could soften the cruelest man’s knees, and you don’t even know it.
You find yourselves sitting beside each other on your bed, your blinds shuttered, and the weight of the world beyond filtered out. A space documentary plays on your TV, the blacks and violets of the cosmos bathing you in its own sort of serenity.
Sylus seems oddly invested for someone who claims your interests are concerning. Normally, you’d comment on how optimistic the narrator sounds. Talking about the state of the universe in a million years like you’ll all be around to witness it. But you’re too hyper-focused on the man beside you, too big for your bed, but willing to put up with it to entertain you.
You’re curled up with your knees towards your chest, clutching one of your pillows, still warm from your food and fighting off the stragglers of your illness.
Sylus sits in a somewhat easy slouch, one leg kicked out, the other bent, his fingers twined together on his stomach like he’s pondering life’s mysteries.
There’s a sliver of space between your bodies. Close enough for static to build between you, yet far enough to be considered safe. You don’t want safe—not with him. And maybe it’s the last vestiges of your illness talking, but you’ve never wanted to hold his hand more. Never wanted to touch him more.
It’s as if the universe heard your desperate pleas for contact. Because, of course, as the orchestral music of the documentary swells to something startling, your hands brush over the remote between you. It’s brief and innocent, yet your skin prickles with the remnants of it.
“Sorry,” you laugh, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. “You got it.”
With his lips rucking into something less wolfish and more disarming, he offers you the remote instead. That pleasant feeling returns when you accept it and your fingers graze, butterflies stirring in your stomach.
You set the remote down, at war with yourself as you study the pattern of your comforter. It would take nothing to prop yourself onto your knees, cant your head this way, and just—
Before you can talk yourself down, you’re moving to complete the thought. Amid the narrator spinning optimistic words of how a star dies, the surprise taking hold of Sylus’ features, and the violent thrum of your heart, you move.
On your hands and knees, you fill his field of vision with nothing but you, so close, he goes cross-eyed trying to figure out what you’re up to. You blink, your hooded gaze flitting from his eyes to his lips. Back up again.
The shift is seismic, like tectonic plates grinding against each other. Almost like the universe orchestrated everything to fall into place at this exact moment on your behalf.
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t push you away. Instead, gentle fingers band around your wrist, the other hand dropping to the small of your back to keep you from tipping over.
“Can I kiss you, Sylus?” you ask on a rasp. And if you weren’t already so hung up on the moment, you would slap yourself for sounding like an anxious teen about to make out for the first time.
He lets out a quiet puff of air bordering a laugh, the warmth of it weaving through your lashes and brushing over your quivering lips. His thumb cruises over the vein throbbing in your wrist, soothing, coaxing.
“Of course.”
The world thins as you pan in. The droning of the TV becomes muddled background noise. He doesn’t lean in, lips purse, eyes dipping into a mysterious shade of garnet. He lets you set the pace, still holding your wrist like a life preserver. Always so considerate, giving you a chance to back out in case this isn’t what you really want.
Your noses brush, and you both stiffen. Your breaths cork in your throats. You press forward after the shock ebbs away, finally conquering the shuddering distance between your mouths.
Your shadows meld against the wall as if they were always unified. Sylus’ mouth opens beneath yours, testing the waters. When you mirror him, your tongue cautiously poking out in search of his, he sighs something relieved, guiding you by your wrist and hips onto his lap.
He kisses like he’s been aching for this. Every late night, every unspoken word, every almost, poured into the slow grind of your lips.
You kiss just as feverishly, your hands framing his cheeks. His palms slide down your waist to roost on your hips, fingers flexing to moor you in place. He holds himself back. Always does. But the need in his movements, like he’s trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his memory, flares beneath his skin.
He drinks you in between kisses, the sticky click of your lips, each one more possessive than the last, like he’s tasted dolce for the first time and he can’t get enough.
You laugh in between, squealing with your head thrown back when he blisters your throat with the brush of his lips.
Once the feeling settles, you gaze into his eyes, your smile wide to mirror his. He can’t stop looking at your mouth. Can’t keep his hands from wandering, like you’re something forbidden he was never meant to touch.
“Since you obviously like me, that means we can get a cat now, right?”
Scoffing, Sylus rolls his eyes, drawing your giggling, squealing self back into a kiss.
The credits of the documentary roll as he presses you back against your mattress, his palms sinking on either side of your face as he looms over you, features boyish and unhindered.
“I’ll think about it,” he husks against your mouth before claiming it once more.
