Hey there! This is a blog for posting my stories, mainly sickfic (H/C, whump!, caretaking, etc.) and hiccup fic. I've got a variety of OCs (mostly series) and fanfics. Until I get behind schedule, you can find a new hicfic chapter here every Sunday and a new sickfic chapter every Wednesday.
A few housekeeping things:
Replies and reblogs are A-okay! I write fics for myself, but I post them in the hopes that other people like them too. It makes me happy when I hear from other folks, and feel free to share reblogs on your own blog if you want!
If you want to make art inspired by any of my fics/OCs, that's awesome! Please just tag me or reply under the fic with a link, so I can see it (and share it, if you're cool with that!)
If you want to write a fic playing with any of my OCs, please message me about it! It's most likely fine, but I might have a question or two first. :-)
Under the cut, I'm gonna start a master list of my fic links for easy navigation:
Because I'm learning about Tumblr's link-posting limits, multi-chapter fics link just to their first chapter. From there, you'll find a link to the next chapter at the bottom of each one!
Hic Fic
OCs
Abbie & Chantal
"Checklist" (f - Chantal)
Estella & Daniel
"The Interview" (m - Daniel)
"Wallflower Behavior" (f - Estella)
"Conflict of Interest" (f - Estella) - 2/2, complete
Laila & Tariq
"Unfamiliar Magic" (nb - Tariq / m - Aasif / f - Laila, Sita) - 7/7, complete
"Taking It Slow" (nb - Tariq / f - Laila / m - Aasif) - 6/6, complete
"Practice/Experiments" (m - Aasif / nb - Tariq / f - Laila, Sita) - 5/5, complete
Maritza & Eric
"Saturday Morning Solitude" (f - Maritza)
"Friendly Fire" (m - Eric)
"Weekend Visit" (f - Maritza)
"Practice Pasta" (m - Eric)
"Nothing Special" (m - Eric)
"Yo-Yo Hiccups" (f - Lila) - 4/4, complete
"Something in the Air" (f - Maritza / m - Eric) - 4/4, complete
"Butterflies and Hurricanes" (f - Maritza) - 2/2, complete
"Returning the Favor" (m - Francisco / f - Megan) - 5/5, complete
"Rule One of Hollywood" - (m - Francisco) 4/4, complete - not sickfic, still snz fic
Tommy, Jack & Kathryn
"Just Another Way of Caring" (m - Jack, Tommy) - 14/14, complete
"Impossible Words" (m - Tommy) - 3/7, ongoing
Fanfic
I've gotten away from posting my snz fanfics on the blog, but you can find them on my AO3. These links will get you to them:
My Sickfic tag - pretty much all cold/flu stories
My Caretaking tag - lots of overlap with sickfic, obviously, but this will catch the few snz stories from other causes (allergies, caught in the rain, etc.), along with the occasional caretaking or H/C fic without sneezing
As it gets closer to showtime, Kathryn and Jack help Tommy get ready.
Content: Extreme cold misery, with some mess.
It was clear how much Tommy’s cold was bothering him, but between Kathryn’s soft playing and Jack’s gentle attentions, they managed to get him to nod off. Even though it was a shallow sleep that didn’t look very restful, punctuated by sniffles and hard coughs, Kathryn thought it had to be better than nothing.
When Walter’s loud knock came and the tour manager shouted through the door that it was an hour ‘til showtime, Kathryn called back, “All right, we’ve got it!”
Walter rattled at the door handle, which they’d locked. “The doctor needs to look him over,” he pointed out.
“There’ll be time for all that,” Kathryn replied. She reached back to squeeze Jack’s hand, knowing he had to feel anxious about the tender little tableau they’d made—Tommy dozing with his head in Jack’s lap and Kathryn on the floor beside them. None of them wanted Walter or anyone else seeing that.
Tugging at the door handle again, Walter insisted, “Kathryn, I mean it!”
The noise was beginning to rouse Tommy, who groaned and rubbed his face. “Shhh,” Jack murmured, running his fingers softly through Tommy’s hair. “It’s okay.”
Setting the guitar on the floor, Kathryn stood up. “Don’t worry, Walter,” she replied. “He’s been laying down. We’re just getting him up now—give him a little time to wake up properly, and then you can send in whoever you’d like.”
“HAHHHHHHHH-uhhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhhh!” Tommy sneezed into his hands. “Who’s that, Walter?” he mumbled in a low, hazy-sounding voice.
“Yes,” Kathryn told him. She kept her voice raised so Walter would be able to hear. “It’s all right, Tommy, Walter’s gonna give you a chance to wake yourself up before anybody starts poking and prodding at you. Why don’t you sit up?”
Tommy looked a bit shaky as he pushed himself up on the couch—Jack gave him a hand.
Outside the door, Walter warned, “20 minutes. Then we’re coming in, even if I have to break the damn door down.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Kathryn said in the sweetest voice she could muster. “20 minutes ought to be enough.” She glanced down at her watch. “We’ll see you at 6:50, Walter.”
There was some grumbling on the other side of the door, then the sound of Walter’s footsteps stalking away. Turning around, Kathryn found Tommy leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The sight of him could’ve cracked her heart wide open.
But Jack placed his hands gently on Tommy’s shoulders. “What do you need?” he prompted. “How can we help?”
Tommy sneezed a loud “ehhhhhhh…hihhhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHH!” down toward the floor, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand, sniffling as he gave a long sigh. “Water,” he croaked.
Jack reached down to stroke Tommy’s cheek. “Good start,” he replied reassuringly. “That’s an easy one.” He grabbed the pitcher and refilled Tommy’s glass.
Why did seeing Jack’s sweet affection for Tommy just make Kathryn love him more? She didn’t understand how it worked, but she couldn’t deny that it was true.
Tommy took his first few swallows, wincing in obvious pain. He looked at Kathryn, his gaze a bit muddled. “Not just to drink, though,” he explained. Waving a hand vaguely toward a large bowl on the vanity table, he said, “I need that filled up, hot a--” he coughed, grimacing, “--as you can make it. Bathroom’s down the hall.”
“Got it,” Kathryn told him. She walked to the vanity and picked up the bowl, finding a second smaller one inside it. “This one too?” she asked, holding up the small bowl.
Shaking his head, Tommy said, “Not yet. That one’ll be as cold as you can make it. But I’ve gotta do the hot one f-- fir-iiirst…” He fumbled for his hankie. “huhhhhhhhh-CHIOOOOOOO!”
Kathryn winced—those sneezes had to be taking just about everything out of him. “Coming right up,” she promised. “Back in a minute.”
Leaving the small bowl for now, Kathryn left the dressing room and walked down to the bathroom with the other. Most girls, she reasoned, would feel jealous or upset to see their boyfriend looking at someone else the way Jack looked at Tommy. And if it was at another man? Kathryn wasn’t sure if that’d make it better or worse in their eyes, but she couldn’t imagine they’d like it much.
So why was it just the opposite for her? Why did Jack look so beautiful when he smiled at Tommy, when he kissed Tommy, when Tommy held him in bed? And when Tommy’s poor sick misery threatened to break her heart, why did Jack’s soft care for him glue it back together?
In the bathroom, Kathryn let the water run until it was good and hot, then filled the large bowl with it. Maybe it had something to do with seeing Jack’s affections from the outside. Kathryn knew how he felt about her, but it looked different when she was getting his love face-to-face. It got all tangled up in her own feelings—her love for him, her insecurities, her everything—and sometimes it was like she was seeing it through a filter. But with Jack and Tommy, she could see Jack’s love as it really was, none of her perceptions getting in the way.
Maybe it was that seeing Jack open himself to Tommy was like seeing a whole different side of her boyfriend, a side that she and Jack were both learning about in real time. After the second night they’d shared together with Tommy, Kathryn had sat out on the fire escape with Jack the next day, listening to him talk about how he’d had “those sorts of feelings” since he was about 14, and how he’d never understood them because he liked girls too. How he’d filed them away in the back of his mind and taken a look, don’t touch approach to them. How being with Tommy felt like reaching out to a part of himself that he’d thought he couldn’t fully be. Kathryn remembered how he had his handkerchief out—he’d cried a little—and he kept folding and unfolding it while he talked.
And maybe it was that Kathryn knew how she felt about Tommy, and it was only natural that Jack felt the same way. How could he not?
Returning to the dressing room, Kathryn knocked at the door with her foot. “It’s me,” she called, and she waited for Jack to let her in.
When she came inside, Tommy rose from the couch, standing steady but looking dead tired. “Thanks, Kathryn,” he said, sniffling hard. “You can just set it down there.”
Carefully, Kathryn set the bowl of hot water back on the vanity. Tommy plunked himself down in the chair, and even though he’d only been on his feet for a minute, he looked relieved to be sitting again. Grabbing a towel off the vanity table, he lowered his face over the bowl and draped the towel over his head like a tent.
Steam. Effective for clearing up congestion or soothing your throat, but pretty unpleasant to get it that way. Tommy was already feverish—he had to be roasting.
“Huhhhhhhhhh-SHOOOOOOOO-ehhhhhhhhh!” he sneezed, a wet, messy sound from under the towel. He let out a few congested coughs and sneezed again, a “hihhhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHHHHH! Unnnhhhhhh…”
Kathryn rubbed Tommy’s back. “I know, it’s awful,” she murmured. “Just get as much of it out as you can.”
“Uh huh,” came Tommy’s muffled voice from under the towel, sounding thick and stuffed up. More coughing. “C--” he sniffled, “could you get the cold water now?”
As Kathryn started to reach for the small bowl, Jack touched her arm. “I can go this time,” he offered.
“Thanks,” Kathryn replied. She handed Jack the bowl, then walked with him to the door to point out where the bathroom was.
Shutting the door behind Jack, Kathryn turned back to Tommy as he let out another miserable-sounding “haaaahhhhhhhhh-CHIOOOOOOOO!” He coughed, clearing his throat, and it sounded like he spat into the bowl. “I’m sorry…” he moaned.
“Hey,” Kathryn said gently. She squeezed his shoulder. “What did we say about apologizing for being sick?”
“I-it’s just—it’s real ugly,” Tommy explained. Sputtering with a few more coughs, he raised his hands to rub his temples through the towel.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Kathryn told him, slipping her hands underneath his. “I’ve got it. Right here?”
Tommy nodded. “Y-- yeah-hehhhhhh…ihhhhhhh-huhhhhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHHHHH!”
A couple of weeks Tommy had been sick, that’s what he said. Had it been this bad the whole time, or had he just been getting worse and worse?
“You’re staying with us tonight, after the gig,” Kathryn informed him as he rubbed his temples. “What’s your favorite kind of soup? The deli near our apartment is open late—we’ll bring some home for you to eat before you go to sleep.”
“I’m not picky,” Tommy replied.
“Nope,” Kathryn retorted. “I’m not allowing that. You’ve obviously been having a horrible time, Tommy. You need to have your favorites.”
“It doesn’t even matter!” Tommy protested. “I’m too stuffed up to taste anythi--huhhhhhhhh-ehhhhhhhh-SHIOOOOOOO! HEHHHHHHHHH-chiuhhhhhhhh! uhhhhhhhhhh-CHOOOOOOO-ehhhhhhh!” The sneezes burst out of him like a storm. He gave a wet sniffle, but his breath was still hitching. “aaahhhhhhh-hehhhhhhh…ihhhhhhhhh…HAHHHHHHHH-shiuhhhhhhhhh!” With an exhausted groan, he folded his arms on the table and sank down even closer to the bowl.
Kathryn winced. “Bless you, honey,” she crooned, stooping to kiss the top of his head through the towel. “See, that’s exactly why you need it. It’s no fun to eat when you’re feeling awful—you need your favorites to get through it.”
Tommy coughed, then let out a shaky sigh. “...Chicken noodle,” he admitted. “I know that sounds like I’m just making it up to get you off my back, but it’s really true.” He cleared his throat. “Always hits the spot when I’m feeling lousy.”
“That’s good,” Kathryn replied. “We can easily get that. If you’d said something special that you can only get in North Carolina…well, that’d have been trickier.”
A slight chuckle from Tommy brought on a bout of hard coughing, and Kathryn rubbed his back. “You still woulda thought of something,” he observed.
Kathryn smiled. “You know me so well.”
The door opened, and Jack came back in. “I’ve got the cold water,” he said.
“Mmm, you’re a lifesaver, Jacky,” Tommy told him. “Th-the-ere…hehhhhhhhh-CHIOOOOOOO! Unnhhhh—there’s, uh, a washcloth, somewhere on the table here.”
Kathryn spotted it. “Here,” she said, reaching past Tommy to grab the cloth.
“Th-- thanks,” Tommy replied, sputtering with a cough. “If you could just--” he sniffled, “--get it wet and then put it on--” another cough, “--on my neck.”
Jack did just that. He dipped the washcloth in the cold water, wrung it out, and draped it across the back of Tommy’s neck. “Is the steam helping?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, sniffling again. “Just feel like I’m cooking under here.”
Leaning against the vanity table, Jack took Tommy’s hand and squeezed it. “Extra crispy?”
Tommy laughed, then coughed hard. He stifled a groan. “Naw,” he replied. “Well done, though.”
“Why don’t you come out from under there?” Kathryn suggested. “I know you need to see to your throat, but your temperature isn’t doing you any favors either.”
“In a few mihh-- min-uhhhtes…” Tommy told her, trailing off into a strong “HAAAAHHHHHH-ihhhhhhh-chiuhhhhhhh!” He sniffled and cleared his throat. “Steam doesn’t last much longer than that anyway.”
When Tommy finally emerged from under the towel, his face was flushed and sweaty. “Babe, bring him some more water to drink,” Kathryn said to Jack. She took the washcloth off Tommy’s neck, rewetting it before she gently took his chin in her hand and wiped his face with it. Pushing his damp hair away from his brow, she planted a small kiss on his temple.
Jack came over with Tommy’s glass. Sidling up behind Tommy, Jack gave him the water and then wrapped him in a hug.
After going to Nashville for Christmas, they’d both agreed that it felt like something had shifted. It wasn’t the two of them, and Tommy. It was all of them, it was Kathryn and Jack and Tommy together. He didn’t live with them, and neither of them were ever photographed on his arm or holding his hand, but he was just as much a part of their relationship as either of them were.
“Hey, c’mon now,” Tommy told them, and Kathryn caught the hint of a tired smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Y’all start fussing over me like that, a fella could get used to it.”
Jack looked up at Kathryn with a smile that practically melted her, then leaned in to kiss Tommy’s cheek. “That’s the idea,” he said.
A couple new characters today! This story is brought to you by low-level burnout and my fantasies about someone showing up to take care of things for me (it was a long week :sigh:) And of course, I figured, why not add hiccups?
Content: Autistic burnout
ABBIE: Heyyyyyyy guess who has a coupon code for free jalapeno poppers at espiritu del rei????? omw to pick you up
CHANTAL: Sorry not tonight
ABBIE: Come onnnnnn! I got it, clocked it n forgot about it, its the last night I can use it!!!!!!
CHANTAL: I can’t
Abbie Yang frowned down at her phone. Lately, Chantal had been bowing out more and more when Abbie wanted to hang. Sure, turning down plans wasn’t exactly not like her, but it definitely felt like things had been ramping up. Biting her lip, her thumbs tapped rapidly across the screen.
ABBIE: Everything ok?
CHANTAL: I just can’t do tonight
ABBIE: Can I help?
No answer. Abbie sighed. “Dammit, Chantal,” she grumbled.
ABBIE: omw, so unless you full on refuse to let me in, im coming over
As she reached her car, she tossed her bag onto her passenger seat. Abbie was good when she had a mission. On the regular day-to-day life stuff, things could fall through the cracks sometimes, but when it was all hands on deck, that was her time to shine.
Sitting in the parking lot of her building, Abbie opened up her email. Aww, crap—she’d been thinking she could stop by Espiritu del Rei on the way to Chantal’s place, but her coupon was for dine-in only. “Goodbye, jalapeño poppers,” she said wistfully. She stuck her phone in the cupholder and started the car.
Traffic was annoying, and it took Abbie almost 20 minutes to get to Chantal’s. When she got there, she opted to use her key instead of ringing the buzzer. It was her sacred right as a best friend, plus something told her Chantal would prefer it that way.
Chantal only lived on the second floor, so there was no need to bother with the elevator. Abbie galloped up the steps, and soon enough, she was at Chantal’s door. “Hey,” she called, knocking quietly. “It’s me. Can I let myself in?”
There was a long silence. As she waited, Abbie tossed her keys back and forth in her hands. “Tal?” she prompted.
Finally, there was a voice from inside. “...Come in,” Chantal replied.
Abbie unlocked the door and came inside to find her friend sitting on the floor with her back against the couch. Chantal was hugging her knees, resting her head on them.
“Babe,” Abbie crooned sympathetically, “what’s going on?” She hurried over and knelt down beside Chantal.
But as she reached out to give her best friend’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, Chantal shook her head. “D-don’t,” she said. Her voice was quiet, and something about her tone made Abbie feel like it was painful for her to get the word out.
“Okay,” Abbie assured her, scooting back to give her a little space. “Bad day?” Chantal managed a nod. “Did you have a meltdown?” Head shake. “But it was touch and go?” Nod.
“Mmm,” Abbie murmured. “Okay. Can I help you?” Nod.
When Chantal was like this, yes-or-no questions were usually the least hard for her. “Is it all right if I go through your checklist?” Abbie asked.
Another nod. Abbie pulled up her Notes app and tapped on a note labeled “Tal – Meltdown/Shutdown List.” In these instances, she always wanted nothing more than to wrap Chantal in a tight hug, but she knew that wasn’t what her best friend needed right now.
So, even though her arms were itching to hug, Abbie turned her attention to the checklist. “Okay, ‘comfy clothes,’” she began. She looked at Chantal, who’d changed out of her work clothes into a soft T-shirt, pajama shorts, and fuzzy socks. “Check—off to a good start already! Next, ‘lights’...”
Glancing around the apartment, Abbie saw that the lights were switched off, but the blinds hadn’t been pulled across the balcony door. “I’m just gonna get these,” she said, getting up and crossing the room. “Then I’ll turn on your lamp, all right?”
“Lamp,” Chantal repeated.
“Yep,” Abbie replied.
As she grabbed the hand-pull thingy for the blinds, Chantal said, “Lamp,” again.
Abbie turned around. “Huh?” Chantal pointed to her lamp in the corner, then buried her face in her knees.
“Oh, turn the lamp on first?” Abbie asked. Without lifting her head, Chantal nodded. “So it won’t be too dark to see after I close the blinds, duh!” She did as Chantal indicated, flicking on the lamp with its soft pink bulbs, then took care of the blinds.
Consulting the checklist, Abbie said, “‘Comfy spot.’ Are you liking the floor time?” Chantal shrugged. “Would you rather lay on the couch?” Head shake. “How ‘bout lying on the floor?” A pause, then a nod. “Okay. Lemme get your pillow and stuff.” As she headed for the bedroom, she glanced back. “Want a scarf?” Nod.
In Chantal’s bedroom, Abbie collected the cushy pillow with the cooling-whatever, along with one of Chantal’s silk headscarves. She brought it back to the living room, where she asked, “Do you want me to help you with your hair?”
Chantal nodded, and Abbie dropped the pillow on the floor as she sat cross-legged next to her friend. “I’ll be really gentle,” she added.
Luckily, Chantal’s hair was already in a protective style, braided into four large cornrows. Careful not to touch Chantal’s skin, Abbie cradled on the ends of the braids and tucked them into the scarf as she wrapped it around Chantal’s head.
Abbie had just finished tying the scarf when Chantal’s head jerked back. “Is something wrong? Too tight?” Abbie asked.
But Chantal shook her head. It jerked again, this time accompanied by a strong “*huck!*” Abbie winced in sympathy. “Ooh, Tal,” she said. “Here let me get you some water.”
“Won’t h-*holp!*-help,” Chantal replied before Abbie could get up.
“Seriously?” Abbie asked. Ugh, after whatever shit Chantal had gone through today, hiccups she couldn’t get rid of were the last thing she needed.
Another head shake. “Hungr-*hic-erk!*-hungry,” Chantal explained, “I-I th-*hnkk!*-think. *holk!*”
“When did you last eat?” Abbie asked. A shrug and a hard “*hic-ulk!*” Abbie asked, “Did you have lunch?”
Chantal covered her face with her hands. “Mayb-*hmmk!*-be,” she replied, shrugging again.
The fact that she wasn’t sure suggested she probably didn’t—or if she did, she hadn’t eaten much. “Yeah, okay, that would do it,” Abbie remarked. “But if you eat something, they’ll go away?”
“Usu-*hmmllp!*-usually,” Chantal told her. She rubbed her face and lowered her hands, wincing a little as her body rocked with a “*hulk!*”
“All right,” Abbie said with a sympathetic smile. “I’ll make you something. Anything particular you want?”
Head shake. “*huck!*” Oof, she had them pretty bad. Abbie could see Chantal’s shoulders shaking and her head jerking after each one.
“You wanna lie down while I cook?” Abbie suggested. Nod, “*herk!*” Rising to her feet, Abbie grabbed the weighted blanket off the back of the couch while Chantal curled up on the floor. “You want this?”
“Y-*ulk!*-yeah,” Chantal answered.
“You got it, babe,” Abbie assured her. As she spread the blanket over her friend, the base of Chantal’s neck sucked in with her next strong “*hic-ulk!*”
“Can I hug you through the blanket?” Abbie asked. “You can say no.”
A pause, a “*hic-erk!*”, then Chantal nodded. Abbie knelt low to the ground and gave her best friend a squeeze, feeling the “*huck!*” as another hiccup jerked her.
“All right, you chill,” Abbie told Chantal. “Off to the kitchen to make magic.”
Well, probably not magic. Abbie was a pretty bomb-ass cook, but now wasn’t the time for an elaborate dish. One, she didn’t want to risk something Chantal wouldn’t wanna eat. And two, when your best friend is topping off a crappy day with a bad case of the hiccups from not eating, you wanna prioritize speed over complexity or presentation.
Also three, whatever Abbie made, it was dependent on what Chantal had in her kitchen.
The apartment had a big living room/kitchen combo for the main room, so Abbie could keep an eye on Chantal as she raided the cupboards and fridge. It looked like she was curled up in a ball, which Abbie hoped felt safe and soothing, although the hiccups were probably getting in the way of that. “*holp!*...*herk!*...*hic-ulk!*” Awww, poor thing. Abbie might have to move “have you eaten?” higher up on Chantal’s checklist in the future.
Ramen was super quick, and it was pretty easy to doctor it up into something less basic. While the water was heating up, Abbie grabbed a bag of edamame out of the freezer and stuck it in the microwave. She got preoccupied looking for other good stuff to add, stirring up an egg with a little shredded parmesan, and she forgot to take the edamame out just before the timer dinged.
“Shit, sorry, Tal,” Abbie said as she saw movement under the blanket, Chantal shifting so she could put her hands over her ears. “I don’t have to microwave anything else, so the rest should be pretty quiet. But do you want your headphones?”
Through the dim light, Abbie could make out Chantal shaking her head, rocking with a hard “*holk!*” After another “*huck!*”, she added, “It’s okay.”
“Sorry again,” Abbie told her. “Lemme know if you change your mind.”
“Uh h-*hnkk!*-huh,” Chantal mumbled.
Abbie opened the edamame bag and left it sitting on the counter to cool down a bit—she’d learned from experience that her fingers didn’t like shelling hot edamame. When the ramen was ready, she drained most of the water, added a dash of oil to the pot, and poured her cheesy egg mixture on top of the noodles. She stirred everything up as the egg cooked.
Final touches: shell some edamame into the pot, give it all one more stir, then get that bad boy in a bowl.
Abbie brought the food over to Chantal. “Wakey, wakey,” she announced.
“N-*ulk!*-not aslee-*heek!*” Chantal pointed out, sounding sort of hazy as she pushed herself up to a sitting position.
“I know, I was joking, babe,” Abbie replied. “I doubt you could sleep with those hiccups.”
“Mmm-*mmmk!*” Chantal murmured. Her head snapped back.
“Speaking of which…” Abbie went on. She handed Chantal the bowl and ordered, “Eat up.” Setting a glass down beside her, Abbie added, “I brought you some water too. I know you said it won’t help the hiccups, but hydrating will help with, you know, everything else.”
Chantal nodded a little, wincing at a “*huck!*”, and twisted her fork through the noodles. “Is this okay?” Abbie asked, sitting down on the floor next to her.
Another nod. Chantal muffled a “*hkk!*” and a “*hrrk!*” as she slowly chewed her first bite.
“Want me to keep going through the checklist?”
A “*hmmk-llk!*” hit Chantal right as she swallowed. With a grimace, she rubbed her chest. “Later-*herk!*” she finally answered, reaching for the water and taking a drink.
“No problem,” Abbie assured her. “You want me to talk at all?” Jerking with a “*holp!*”, Chantal shook her head. She took another bite.
“Okay,” Abbie replied. She sat cross-legged on the floor in silence while her best friend ate and hiccupped. Although Abbie wasn’t the biggest fan of silence, she knew Chantal could find it comforting in these situations, so she didn’t say anything.
When you thought about it, jalapeño poppers were kind of overrated anyway. No contest to being there when your best friend needed you.
A few minutes later, Chantal inched a bit closer to Abbie and lay her head on Abbie’s shoulder. “Ok-*hkk!*-kay?” she asked.
Abbie smiled to herself. Even though Chantal still had the hiccups, the food seemed to be helping—they weren’t quite as hard now, and it sounded like they were slowing down. “Perfect,” she replied.
Jack and Kathryn do what they can to help Tommy feel comfortable and rest before the show.
Content: Extreme cold misery.
Unfortunately, it was just like Tommy not to have told them that he’d been sick. About six months back, he and Jack had had a heart to heart, and Jack had assured the singer he didn’t always have to brush things off, pretend he was fine when he wasn’t. Tommy had said he’d try.
And for a time, he did. Jack knew they weren’t getting the full The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, but little by little, Tommy was opening up to them more. Jack and Kathryn had gone down to spend Christmas in Nashville with him, and it was like every day had shown them another one of Tommy’s many facets.
But then he started to backslide. It was the damn tour, which was bringing with it all manner of stress—probably how Tommy had wound up getting such an awful cold—and as the weeks went on, the less he’d talked. Didn’t want to worry them, Jack supposed, but knowing he was keeping things from them just made them worry more.
Now, though, having them here with him in the room? It was like the dam was beginning to crack. Although they hadn’t pestered Tommy for many details yet, Jack could tell from his manner and body language that Tommy was just about melting into them, he’d needed them so badly.
They got him lying down on the couch, even though it was too small for him. But he curled his legs up and lay down with his head resting in Jack’s lap while Jack softly rubbed his temple.
Kathryn moved to the floor, sitting with her arm draped over Tommy’s legs. That small bit of touch, sort of like how a cat might curl up beside you with its body just touching your thigh. That quiet way to say, It’s okay, I’m right here.
“I could do a few numbers,” she offered. “Come onstage as a special guest. We could do one together—‘The More You Call,’ maybe—and then I could sing a few by myself, let you sit down and take a breather for five or ten minutes.”
Tommy coughed into his hankie. “Maybe,” he conceded.
His usual baritone had dropped to a cold-deepened rumble, and despite his insistence that he’d be all right to sing, Jack couldn’t see how he was gonna manage a single note, let alone a full show.
“Is there anything that’d be handy for you to have backstage?” Jack asked. “Something I could have ready for you if Kathryn goes on, or even just a quick few seconds after a number?”
“Ehh…” Tommy dabbed at his nose. “A clean hankie. Plenty of water. A-a-uhhhhhh…” He raised the hankie to his face again. “hehhhhhhhhhh-CHUHHHHHHH!” With a low groan, he added, “A damp towel, to wipe my face. A--hahhhhhhhh-ihhhhhhh-SHIOOOOOOO! Mmm…” he wiped his nose. “A chair.”
Jack nodded, repeating the list in his head. “Anything else?”
Tommy let out a small, rueful-sounding laugh. “A pair of friendly faces?”
“You’ve got that anyway,” Kathryn promised him. “Look, why don’t I grab one of your guitars and warm up a little? We don’t need to decide anything right this second, but if you’re out there and it starts feeling like too much, just introduce me and I’ll be at your side in a flash.”
“HIHHHHHHHH-ehhhhhhhhhh-choooooooo!” Tommy sneezed again. “Uh huh,” he mumbled thickly.
Giving his calf an affectionate squeeze, Kathryn rose to her feet. “Be right back,” she said.
She slipped out of the room. “Mmm,” Tommy murmured, a soft sound of comfort at the gentle pressure of Jack’s massaging touch. Given how miserable he clearly was, it made Jack feel oddly special to know he’d brought any small scrap of comfort to the singer.
“You want some more water?” Jack asked. Tommy nodded, and Jack picked up the glass from the end table by his elbow. As he held it to Tommy’s lips, Tommy managed another swallow or two.
“Thanks,” Tommy mumbled, sniffling. “Sorry.”
Setting the glass back down, Jack tsked. “What for?”
“I’d figured I’d be over it by now,” Tommy explained. “Woulda wanted tonight to be a-- a lot specialer tha-an thi-iiis…” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “huhhhhhhhhh-SHOOOOOOOO-ehhhhhhhh!”
Jack winced. It wouldn’t be so bad if Tommy didn’t sneeze to shake the house down. It must’ve been wringing what little energy he had clean out of him. “Bless you,” he told Tommy. “And you don’t have anything to be sorry for—”
As he spoke, the door opened, and Jack felt a momentary surge of panic to be stroking Tommy Barlow’s head while the star lay in Jack’s lap. But it was Kathryn coming back in. Jack let a quiet, relieved exhale draw itself out of him. From the look Kathryn gave him, she knew exactly why he’d been nervous.
“Now, he’d better not be apologizing for getting sick,” she said, stern words in a playful tone.
Chuckling slightly, Jack replied, “Of course he is.”
Kathryn gave Tommy’s knee a little nudge as she sat back down on the floor. “What’re we supposed to do with you?” she teased.
“Well, excuse me for wanting to give y’all a better greeting than listening to me blow my damn nose,” Tommy said, and the fact that he was joking a tiny bit felt encouraging to Jack.
“This is why you didn’t tell us you were gonna be in New York, isn’t it?” Kathryn remarked. “Did you really think you could come through, feel lousy during your entire gig, and then leave town without breathing a word of it to us?”
Tommy only got as far as “I—” before he was cut off by another sneeze. “haaahhhhhh-uhhhhhhh…ihhhhhhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHHH!”
“Shhh,” Kathryn murmured in a soothing voice as she checked the tuning on the guitar. “Bless you, Tommy. I’m just saying, you’re not as sly as you think you are.”
“We’ve got the radio out here, you know,” Jack pointed out. “Newspapers too—even a TV. You’d be surprised what sort of useful information you can pick up there.”
“Like when a certain country/rockabilly star is going to be a stone’s throw from us,” Kathryn added.
“Well, you’re here now, ain’t you?” Tommy said. He stifled a cough. “No point in going on about it.”
Jack squeezed Tommy’s shoulder to say he was through teasing, but Kathryn remarked, “I don’t know about that. I might have to go on about it a little longer.” Softly picking at the strings, she looked over her shoulder and gave Tommy her warmest smile.
When she spoke again, though, her voice was gentle. “Have you had anybody looking after you?” Kathryn asked. “On the road?”
Sniffling, Tommy shrugged. “Like I said, they give me pills, shots, that kinda thing.”
Kathryn’s eyes met Jack’s, and he knew she was thinking the same as him: sounded awfully clinical. “Close your eyes, hon,” Kathryn encouraged. “Try to sleep—you’ve got some time.”
With a sigh, Tommy replied, “Real nice reunion, huh? You get t-- to hear m-me-eeee…” He steepled his hands over his face. “ehhhhhhh-CHOOOOOOO-uhhhhhhhhh!” He stifled an exhausted-sounding groan. “...To hear me sniffle and snore.”
“We don’t mind,” Jack told him. “It’s the best thing for you, and you wanna be as fresh as you can for your gig.”
“Fiiiiine,” Tommy said, sighing again. “I’ll try.” He coughed into his knuckles.
“That’s a good start,” Jack noted. As he reached around to massage Tommy’s chest, the singer let out a low murmur. “Anyway, you’ll have time with us later.”
Once again, Jack knew he and Kathryn were on the same page. First of all, there was no way in hell Tommy was spending the night in a hotel. And second, he’d said he only had six shows left—as soon as he limped to the end of this tour, he was coming home to them, and they’d both spoil him rotten until he was feeling all the way better. No two ways around it. It was just the way it was.
It's time for another unhinged fanfic choice based on the actor I'm currently obsessed with! Description of the story/characters under the cut.
Content: Brief discussion of a dangerously understaffed mental health facility.
You, Me, and the Apöcalypse was a...dramedy series, I guess? Following the announcement that a massive comet will hit the Earth in about a month, mild-mannered bank manager Jamie decides to use the time he has left to search for his wife Läyla, who's been missing for 7 years. It's a complicated quest, involving the revelation that he was adopted and has a twin brother he never knew about.
At this point in the story, a group of international scientists is collaborating on "Operation Saviour" to try and prevent the comet strike, but there are no guarantees. Jamie's just found his birth mother, and he hopes she can lead him to his brother Aríel, who will in turn lead him to Läyla.
Here are our characters:
Dave - Jamie's best friend, who's accompanying him on his search. Although Jamie thinks he's irresponsible and doesn't take things seriously, Dave is also empathetic, optimistic, and fiercely loyal.
Jamie - Tightly wound, set in his ways. Since Läyla disappeared, he's kept his life small, contained, and predictable, so going on a quest to find his missing wife is an enormous change for him.
Mary - Jamie's birth mother. She'd been living in a dilapidated mental health facility (most of the staff stopped coming in after hearing about the comet,) and Jamie and Dave decided to take her with them.
All those apocalypse movies out there, and Jamie was pretty sure not one of them captured the sense of sitting in traffic at the end of the world.
Dave would probably say he shouldn’t complain. After all, at least they had a van this time. True, they’d nicked it from a mental hospital and Jamie had had to drag an unconscious Dave across the car park after he’d been sedated (technically at Jamie’s hand but, Jamie maintained, not his fault.) But the trip down to London had to be better than the trip up to Scotland, because even Dave had struggled to put a positive spin on six days of hitchhiking.
So, van = good. Gridlock? Not so much. Since the announcement about Operation Saviour, things had calmed down a bit, and the government had stepped in to sort out the petrol situation. But the roads were still mad, because there were still loads of people who’d not dutifully trotted back to their nine-to-fives after the announcement—Jamie among them. After all, suppose Saviour didn’t work and the comet still hit? You’d feel like a right tit if you wasted your last days on Earth sitting in an office.
But Jamie wasn’t just chasing thrills and living like no tomorrow. He was on a mission. Läyla was out there somewhere, and with every day that ticked by, Jamie held tighter to the hope that he’d find her.
He had to find her. In case it was the end.
Which was why the traffic was especially bloody annoying. There ought to be a system: dedicated lanes for people on missions while the thrill-chasers made do with whatever was left.
Unfortunately, nobody had set that up, so gridlock it was. Half an hour ago, Dave had hopped out of the van and went on foot to the petrol station up ahead, filling up their cans and grabbing them something to eat. It was bound to save time over pulling off the road into the station and then trying to merge back in.
Jamie could see the petrol station getting close now. It was silly to view it as a sort of trail marker—not like it was a milestone at all. All it would mean was picking up Dave with petrol and food.
But Jamie held onto it, because what else was there? He had to believe that every meter they crept forward was a meter that would bring him closer to Läyla, somehow.
Dave was outside the station, walking along the edge of the curb. Good thing Jamie had thought to tie their two petrol cans to the ends of his belt and sling them round Dave’s neck, otherwise he probably would’ve gotten distracted and set them down somewhere, and somebody would’ve stolen them. But there were the petrol cans hanging over his shoulder, and a plastic bag swung from one of his hands as he held them out for balance. If Dave had bought any sodas, Jamie made a mental note not to let him open them in the van—they were sure to explode.
Jamie tapped on the horn. Once, then twice. No reaction from Dave. Very reluctantly, Jamie tapped out “Shave and a Haircut.”
That did the trick. Dave turned Jamie’s way and caught sight of the van. Grinning, he shouted what looked to Jamie like, “Two bits!!”
Dave sauntered the last 50 meters or so to meet the van, opening his door and walking alongside as he set down his bag and heaved the petrol cans into the back.
“Mate, it was great to get out and stretch my legs!” he enthused. “Did me a world of good. If you ever need to walk for a bit, I can take over driving, and you can just walk next to the van on the side of the road.”
Not likely. Dave was, to put it generously, an inattentive driver. The thought of him behind the wheel in bumper-to-bumper traffic was a headache waiting to happen. Besides, Jamie had stretched his legs plenty during the aforementioned six days of hitchhiking. “I’m good, thanks,” he replied. “Now would you get back in? Shut the door!”
Dave hopped into the van, nearly sitting on their lunch as he pulled the door shut behind him. “The food of travelers!” he announced. “Sausage rolls and crisps.” Setting Jamie’s food on his lap and handing him a bottle of water, he glanced over his shoulder at Mary. “Any, you know, stirring?”
Jamie caught a glimpse of his sleeping birth mum in the rearview mirror and felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach. “No.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Dave remarked, taking a bite of his sausage roll. “The drugs they’ve got ‘em on back there knocked me out flat, and I got just the one dose. She’s been getting that every day for god-knows-how-long. Probably take time to work it all out of her system.”
“Yeah,” Jamie mumbled in reply. He wasn’t ready to think too hard about Mary yet.
“Tell you what, though,” Dave went on. “Like, okay, we only got one word out of her at the hospital. But maybe that’s just ‘cause they kept her drugged up to her eyeballs. Once she’s more alert, she might be able to tell us more about Aríel!”
Jamie definitely wasn’t ready to think about that. It was hard enough to take it all in as it was: the woman who’d left him in a car park as a baby, who’d kept Aríel and abandoned him, snoring in the backseat of the van. The idea of Mary up and about, lucid and talking? Talking to him? Jamie wasn’t nearly ready for that.
Dave took a swig of his own water, then tore open his packet of crisps. He’d polished off his sausage roll in under two minutes, while Jamie had barely started his. Dave popped a couple crisps in his mouth, washed them down with another drink of water, and plunged his hand back in the packet for more.
“*huck!*” Chewing hastily, Dave swallowed a few more crisps, then hiccupped again. “*herk!*”
“You always eat too fast,” Jamie observed. Dave shrugged, jerking with another hiccup. “Hold your breath.”
“Naw, that’s all-*HIC-ulp!*-all right,” Dave replied. “I think-*herk!*-I’ll just le-EA-ve them be.”
“Right,” Jamie said in a dubious tone. “Why?”
Dave ate a couple more crisps.”I was th-*hic-kk!**thinking about this j-*hup!*-just the other d-- day, actually,” he explained.
“About hiccups,” Jamie said. He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Well, not a-*HIC-ulk!*-about hiccups specif-*hic!*-cally,” Dave clarified. He finished the rest of his crisps and wiped his hands on his trousers. “But just-*holk!*-generally, I was th-- thinking. *hic-rrk!*” You know how p-*heek!*-people put a lot of st-*hulk!*-stock in firsts? First k-*hic!*-kiss, first job, fi-*herk!*-rst drink, and so-*HIC-ulp!*-and so on?”
“Yeah,” Jamie replied, frowning. He had no idea where Dave was going with this.
“Well, *huck!* I thought wh-*hup!*-what about lasts?” He settled back in his seat, playing with the necklace he wore with his housekey on it. “Everyb-*hulk!*-body’s got a last-*herk!*-kiss, last job, last dr-*hic!*-drink too. Harder to take-*HIC-ulk!*-note of, since most-*hulp!*-people don’t know wh-*hic-rrk!*-which one their last i-- is gonna be. *huck!* But with th-*hup!*-the comet—barri-*hic!*-ing Saviour, I m-*heek!*-mean—it gives you a-*hulp!*-better idea o-*huck!*-of the timeframe.”
“Right, okay,” Jamie said. “Still not seeing what that has to do with you having hiccups.”
“‘Cause then I-*HIC-ulk!*-I thought, it’s n-- not just the big mo-*holk!*-ments,” Dave told him. “There’s-*hulp!*-a last time for-*herk!*-for everything. *huck!* Last time you g-*holk!*-go for a swi-*hic!*-swim. Last time-*hic-kk!*-you have a stone in yo-*hulp!*-your shoe. Last-*hup!*-time you eat c-*hulk!*-cake.”
“Last time you get the hiccups,” Jamie realized.
Dave gave him a bright smile. “Exactl-*heek!*”
“And that’s something special, is it?” Jamie pressed. “Noteworthy, something to savor?”
“Why n-- not?” Dave said, shrugging. “When you g-*hulp!*-get down to it, *HIC-ulk!* that’s what life i-*hic!*-is, yeah? A series of-*huck!*-moments, big and small a-*huck!*-alike. Might as well appre-*heek!*-ciate them.”
“What is there to ‘appreciate’ about hiccups?” Jamie asked.
“That’s wh-*huck!*-what I get to find ou-OU-t,” Dave replied happily.
Jame sighed. Dave had a point, even if that point meant annoying Jamie when they stuck in a van together. Snores behind him, hiccups to his left: lucky him.
“Fine,” he conceded. “Enjoy your bloody hiccups.”
With a grin, Dave told him, “Will d-*hup!*-do.”
“But if it turns out these aren’t your last ones, this is officially your go,” Jamie said. “If you get the hiccups again in the next 25 days, you’re holding your breath.”
“Yeah, ok-*hic-kk!*-okay,” David said.
As he hiccupped—to his heart’s content, apparently—Dave did his usual van stuff, just with less talking. He played with the air vents, he peered out the window (not that the scenery varied much when you were driving at a crawl,) and he pulled his shirt cuffs over his hands. There was a short stretch where Jamie didn’t hear any hiccups and thought they might have stopped, but when he glanced over at Dave, his head was still jerking back.
“Well?” Jamie asked after a few minutes. “Thoughts, findings?”
“They make a-*huck!*-a lot of different-*hulp!*-noises,” David replied. “More than I’d ever-*herk!*-noticed befo-- before. Like, it’s n-*HIC-ulk!*-not just a ‘hic’ s-*hup!*-sound. If I try, I-*holk!*-can keep them pr-*hic-rrk!*-pretty quiet, but some of-*hulp!*-of them come out quiet witho-OU-t me even trying. *HIC-ulp!*”
He massaged his chest a little with his thumb. “I f-*heek!*-eel them mostly here-*herk!*”, his hand moved a bit lower, more to his sternum, “and-*hic-kk!*-here. They also m-*holk!*-make my head rock-*huck!*-back and my shoulder-- shoulders jump. Oh, and some-*hup!*-times when I talk, the hiccup sor-*holk!*-sort of sounds like th-*huck!*-the word it h-*hic!*-hits on. Like, it almos-*HIC-ulk!*-replaces the syl-- syllable or whatev-*herk!*-r.”
Dave’s face lit up. “Ha! *hulp!* That was one j-*huck!*-just there, did you hear-*hic-rrk!*-it?”
“Er, sure,” Jamie said, although he couldn’t hear anything special. “Glad you’re having fun, I guess.”
“Eh, *hulp!* I dunno about f-*hup!*-fun,” Dave told him. “Just inter-RES-sting is all. I mea-*heek!*-n, I’ve gotten h-*hic!*-hiccups, what, dozen-- dozens of times in-*huck!*-my life? Maybe a-*hulk!*-a hundred or more, *HIC-ulp!* I dunno. But I’ve never-*herk!*-really paid atten-*holk!*-tion to them before. I-*hic!*-it’s kind of n-*heek!*-neat, realizin-*hic-rrk!*-all the little th-- things you’ve never no-*holk!*-noticed.”
“Huh,” Jamie murmured, and he found that he didn’t really have a comeback. What’s more, he wasn’t sure he wanted to have a comeback.
Their chat died away, and as they continued on their agonizingly slow drive, Jamie started paying attention to Dave’s hiccups too. He was right—there were a lot more than just “hic” sounds, and Jamie began to hear the difference between whether Dave had his mouth closed or not.
So when Dave said, “I think they’ve gone,” Jamie nodded in confirmation. He’d not heard any hiccups for a minute or two, and when he’d peeked over at Dave to see if he was just keeping them quiet, Jamie hadn’t noticed any head jerks.
“Yeah.” Jamie glanced at Dave. “Will you miss them?” he joked.
Dave put on a fake laugh. “Go on, think it’s dumb,” he replied. “I know more about what my life was like than I did this morning, so I think it’s cool.”
They were quiet for a moment, then Dave added, “Seventeen minutes, thereabouts.”
“What?” Jamie threw him another glance. “You timed them?”
Dave shrugged. “Looked at the clock when they started. I thought, might as well.” One of his hands sank into his hair. “That’s not so long, is it, seventeen minutes? I wonder how they rated.”
Jamie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not the longest I’ve ever had the hiccups,” Dave told him. “Not the shortest, either. But how’d they compare in general? Was that on the short side for me? On the long end? Perfectly average? I don’t know.”
“Hmmm.” As Jamie pondered this, he thought there was something almost wistful about it. “It feels like we should have a moment of silence or something,” he noted. “‘Here lie Dave’s hiccups.’”
“Naw, that’s just life, isn’t it?” Dave replied. “Like I said, a series of moments. Each one goes by, and then it’s gone. If you try and, I dunno, eulogize them all, you’ll get so bogged down with commemorating that you’ll forget to actually live.”
Was that what Jamie had done for the last seven years, forgot to live because he was too busy commemorating his missing wife? Was he doing it now, spending what might be his last days chasing down Läyla instead of the thousands of other things he could be doing? Not much time to focus or hiccups or cake or stones in your shoe when you were on a mission.
“...Last time stuck in traffic?” Jamie mused.
Dave laughed. “I like the optimism, Jamie, but I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said. “Traffic’s probably just gonna be bad from here on out. Talk to me on Comet Day, and we’ll see about crossing that one off the list then.”
“Just our luck, if the comet wipes us all out, we’ll still be queueing at the pearly gates,” James retorted.
“Yeah, maybe,” Dave agreed. He twisted his housekey necklace between his fingers.
Not for the first time, it occurred to Jamie that, for a layabout who played video games at all hours of the day, Dave coped weirdly well with the thought of the world ending. While others panicked and hoarded and clogged up the motorways, Dave was just along for the ride. Jamie thought maybe he could do with a bit more of that in his life, however long he had left of it.
Tommy's come to New York on his concert tour, so of course Kathryn and Jack go to see him before the show. They find him in rough shape.
Content: A miserable cold, including some mess. Mention of segregation and violence in the South.
Note: The characters use the word "Negro," which was used by Black communities during this time period.
Kathryn and Jack got to the concert hall mid-afternoon. The show wasn’t starting for another few hours, so that ought to give them some good time with Tommy.
“Should we take him out to dinner?” Kathryn wondered as they walked around to the stage door. “Or should we have picked up something for him?”
Jack shook his head. “Tommy always waits until after a gig to eat,” he pointed out. “He’s funny that way.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Kathryn pinched the bridge of her nose. “I knew that. I don’t know why I didn’t—”
Jack squeezed her hand, then raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Hey, it’s okay,” he assured her softly. “He’ll be happy to see us.”
They hadn’t seen Tommy for several months now. He was touring for his newest album, and from the sounds of it, things had gotten intense. Tommy had announced he’dd no longer be playing segregated venues, and for a country singer, that was practically a declaration of war. When the large concert halls in the South refused to allow integrated audiences, Tommy pivoted solely to playing in smaller Negro spots. He’d been somewhat tight-lipped in his calls, so Kathryn didn’t know all the details, but they’d had to implement some strong security measures to prevent threats to the venues.
Certainly, his touring schedule had gotten all turned around. Rather than following the normal logical path and covering each region of the United States in turn, he’d been jumping all over the place, practically playing hopscotch across the Mason-Dixon line. Kathryn got the sense that it was so he was never down South too long, so bad actors wouldn’t catch up with him. She and Jack hadn’t had a chance to make it out to any of his shows, because they hardly ever knew where he was gonna be.
Kathryn knew that Tommy was proud of what he was doing, and he’d been playing alongside some excellent Negro blues and country acts. But it had to be wearing on him. She could hear the strain in his voice whenever he called.
Finally, though, Tommy was in New York, and while Kathryn and Jack would’ve been thrilled to see him just because he was Tommy, Kathryn was especially glad this time—she was pretty sure he needed them.
When they knocked at the stage door, a surprised security guard let them in. “Come on in, Miss Wright,” he said, dipping his head to Kathryn. She exchanged a bashful glance with Jack, and in they went.
She was still getting used to that, her face opening doors. Kathryn supposed it was actually her voice that did it, along with Jack’s songs, but she was getting to be known well enough that people could recognize her without her singing a note. While she wasn’t at Tommy’s level yet, it was still a wild thing to experience.
Taking Jack’s hand, Kathryn and her songwriter boyfriend made their way down the hall. She’d played here before, so they knew their way around, and they headed right to the theatre.
George Rolston, the blues guitarist who was opening for Tommy, was onstage playing. “Still getting a lotta hiss here,” he said into the microphone, looking up into the sound booth.
There was a pause, then a voice from the booth saying, “Try it now.”
Tommy wasn’t out here. Was he backstage? Kathryn craned her neck from their position in the corner of the large theatre.
At that moment, Tommy’s tour manager Walter came striding up to them. “Hey, what do you two think you’re doing—?” He broke off, eyes widening. There it went again, that recognition.
“Kathryn, hello,” he said. He sounded distracted, the voice of a man doing twelve things at once. “Tommy didn’t say you were coming.”
Kathryn threaded her arm through Jack’s—maybe Walter wouldn’t acknowledge him, but she would. “Probably slipped his mind,” she replied coolly. “You know what Tommy’s like.”
“Don’t I know it,” Walter remarked with a sigh.
“Where is he?” Kathryn asked, looking around again. “I’m sure he’s waiting on us.”
“If he’s awake,” Walter scoffed, and Kathryn winced. How much had Tommy been drinking?
She glanced at Jack. “Where is he?” she repeated.
Walter gave a wave of his hand and answered, “Dressing room.” He was already on the move again.
Turning to Jack, Kathryn said, “Let’s go.”
She was usually the one to take charge in situations like this. Kathryn supposed that between the two of them, she had the more take-charge disposition, but it was more than that. It was her name and face and voice clearing a path for them, letting them in places they wouldn’t normally be allowed.
Kathryn thought that wasn’t fair sometimes. After all, her fame was as much thanks to Jack’s music as it was to her singing, but that didn’t change the fact that it was her name, face, and voice people knew. So she didn’t mind being the one to speak up, the one who cleared the path for both of them.
“What kind of a state do you think he’ll be in?” Kathryn murmured as they headed off toward the star dressing room.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Jack noted. “Let’s not worry before we’ve seen what’s what.”
But Kathryn did worry. She couldn’t help it. It was Tommy.
* * *
Tommy lay on his back on the couch in the dressing room. It was too short for his long legs, so he had one knee bent while the other leg dangled over the side. His arm was draped across his eyes.
A bout of hard choking coughs hit him. Groaning, Tommy pressed his fist to his mouth and tried to get a handle on them. There was a bottle on the floor beside him—he rolled over, grabbing it and taking a small, wincing swallow.
“huhhhhhhh-ehhhhhhh-CHUHHHHHHHH!” Tommy bent into the enormous sneeze, which felt harsh on his already-sore throat. Sniffling wetly, he blotted at his nose with his hankie, then rubbed his forehead.
There came a knock at the door, and Tommy couldn’t think of much that was less welcome. “An hour before showtime!” he called in a husky voice. “I’ve told you ten times!” He buried another cough in his hand.
But the voice on the other side of the door wasn’t Walter’s at all. “Tommy?”
Even though his head was feeling hazy, Tommy pushed himself up to sit on the couch. “Kathryn?” he said, but he didn’t need to ask. He’d recognize her voice anywhere. Smoky and smooth at the same time, it drove him wild.
“Can we come in?” Another voice Tommy knew. This was Jacky.
Holding his head in his hands, Tommy nodded, then remembered you couldn’t hear a nod through the damn door. “Y-yeah,” he replied.
He managed to lift his head as they came into the dressing room, and the sight of them was a better medicine than anything he’d been given. “What’re you doing here?” Tommy asked, rubbing his nose.
Jacky, hanging back by the door, offered him a sweet smile. “You think you can keep us away when you’re playing in New York?” he teased softly. His shaggy light brown hair was sticking in every direction like a scarecrow’s. Jacky always looked his best when he was ruffled up and down-to-earth—Tommy had seen him tidy and buttoned-up a couple times, and it felt somehow unnatural on him.
Meanwhile, Kathryn stood looking at him with her arms crossed, her dark blond curls cascading down her shoulders. “What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” she wanted to know. Her words were direct, like they usually were, but there was a gentleness in her tone.
“Ain’t been doing n-- nothi-iiing…” Tommy told her. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he cupped his hands over his mouth. “AAAAHHHHHHHH-shuhhhhhhh! ehhhhhhh…ahhhhhhhhhh-uhhhhhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHHH!” The sneezing gave way to coughing, and he reached for his hankie again.
Before he’d had time to look back up, Kathryn and Jacky had both come over to the couch. Perching on the arm, Jacky rubbed Tommy’s back and kissed his temple while Kathryn sat down next to him, feeling his forehead.
“Oh, Tommy,” Kathryn murmured. “You can’t go on like this.”
“Yeah, I can,” Tommy retorted, sniffling. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”
He caught the look Jacky and Kathryn exchanged from opposite sides of him. Did they think Tommy didn’t notice when they did their little mindreading thing? From what he could tell, it was usually about him. He wished he could say as much with a look as they could—it’d be a big help when he needed to confess something but the words felt impossible to say.
Still running his knuckles up and down Tommy’s back, Jacky asked, “How long have you been sick?”
Tommy rubbed the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. “It’s only a cold,” he pointed out.
“Bad cold, looks like,” Jacky noted.
“How long have you been sick?” Kathryn asked, repeating Jacky’s words.
Another “hihhhhhhh-ehhhhhhh…CHOOOOOOO!” burst out of Tommy, and he stifled a groan as he caught it in his hand. “Couple weeks,” he admitted in a low voice. “Can’t shake it.”
Tsking, Kathryn guided Tommy’s head onto her shoulder. “That’s what happens when you don’t rest,” she chided.
“Whenever I’m not onstage, all I goddamn do is rest,” Tommy protested wearily. “Before the shows, after, in the car heading to the next one…” He sniffled and wiped his nose. “I’ll sound better during the gig. I get by voice warmed up an hour beforehand, and they’ve got shots they give me when I need ‘em.”
“That’s not enough, Tommy,” Kathryn insisted. “You need a real break.”
He coughed hard into his fist. “I’ve only got six more shows,” he said. “Then I’m done, and I’ll--” he coughed again, “I’ll rest to your heart’s conte-- ent.”
As he sputtered with another cough, Kathryn prompted, “Jack, water,” and Jacky got up from the couch to grab a pitcher and a glass off the vanity table. Filling it up, he brought it over to Tommy and sat down next to him.
With a long, wet sniffle, Tommy took a few cool sips. There was a lump in his throat, and his eyes felt kinda hot. He was feeling lousy as hell—with both Kathryn and Jacky being so sweet to him, he was on the verge of falling to pieces.
“It’s okay,” Jacky murmured to him, threading his arm through Tommy’s. “We’ll get you through it.”
Leaning against Kathryn, Tommy didn’t have a good view of her, but she must’ve shot Jacky another look, because the songwriter subtly shook his head. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she sighed, smoothing down Tommy’s disheveled hair. “Yeah,” she agreed quietly. “Don’t you worry about a thing, all right? We’ll get it all taken care of.”
Laila works on a solution, to more than one issue.
This is the end of "Practice/Experiments." Thanks for reading!
“Are you st-*hic!*-still okay?” Tariq asked.
Laila almost nodded, then remembered they couldn’t see her. “Yeah,” she replied. “Besides, if I wasn’t, you’d be able to hear it.”
“Well, I d-*holk!*-don’t know!” Tariq exclaimed. Her next words were garbled through a mouthful of rice. “Maybe you’re k-*heek!*-keeping them quiet--”
“And why would I do that?” Laila asked, chuckling fondly.
“So I don’t f-*hmmk!*-feel bad that i-*HIC-ulk!*-it didn’t work,” Tariq told her.
Raising her eyebrows, Laila asked, “You think I’d be that nice?”
“Of course you wo-OU-ld be!” Tariq insisted.
Laila laughed. “Pretty sure you’re the only person who would think that.”
“Then may-*HIC-olk!*-maybe I just know y-*hoop!*-you better,” Tariq pointed out.
“Maybe,” Laila conceded with a soft smile.
Tonight, Laila was eating outside the room, sitting with her back to the door. Tariq was inside, and it sounded like they were fairly close—either way, Laila could easily hear him, so they could still talk. And so far, it seemed to be holding steady.
“If I had the hiccups and was keeping them quiet, you’d hear the halt in my words,” Laila noted.
“Oh, right-*hulk!*” Tariq mused.
Letting out a small sigh, Laila chewed on her lip. “But we should test if it really works,” she said.
“Do you want m-*heek!*-me to annoy you?” Tariq asked.
If the door wasn’t enough separation to counteract Tariq’s magic and Laila wound up with the hiccups, it’d be from nervousness, not annoyance.
Laila took a deep breath. She set her bowl on the floor and hugged her knees. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, “about…wishes.”
“Reall-*HIC-ulk!*-really?” Tariq cried, and it sounded like he jumped to their feet. “My w-*hic!*-wish is your-*herk!*-command! What-*HUCK!*-do you want t-*hmmp!*-to wish fo-- or?”
“Whoa, slow down!” Laila instructed. “Take it easy.”
“Ok-*hok!*-kay,” Tariq replied, but Laila could still picture them bouncing on their heels. Tariq’s hiccups seemed to be coming faster now—probably the excitement making them worse.
“I’m not wishing for anything right this second,” Laila explained. “I just wanted to run something by you, an idea for my third wish.”
“Yeah, wh-*hulk!*-what is i-*HIC-olk!*-it?” Tariq asked eagerly.
“R-right,” Laila said. She looked down and cleared her throat. “What would you think if I used my first two wishes for stuff I want a-and then used the last one…to free you?”
For a long moment, Laila couldn’t hear anything through the door but Tariq’s hiccups. “Tariq?” she prompted.
“Y-*hoop!*-you don’t have-*HIC-uck!*-to do tha-- at,” Tariq finally said.
“But I want to,” Laila assured him. “I don’t want you to be stuck in the lamp again for god-knows-how-long, and I don’t want you to be at the mercy of some asshole ever again.”
More quiet, except for the “*herk!*...*HIC-ulk!*...*HOLK!*”
Laila frowned. “Say something,” she urged.
“It…*HIC-uck!* It wouldn't b-*HEEK!*-be like y-*hoop!*-you thi-*hic!*-nk,” Tariq told her.
“What do you mean?” Laila asked. “It wouldn’t work?”
“Onl-- ly sort o-*hup!*-of,” Tariq replied. “I-*hmmk!*-I mean, *HIC-olk!* you could seve-*herk!*-sever my t-*hulk!*-tie to the-*HULK!*-lamp, b-*huck!*-but I-I wou-*hok!*-wouldn’t-*HIC-uck!*-be-*heek!*”
Their hiccups were much worse now, but Tariq didn’t sound excited anymore. She sounded…apprehensive. Maybe even sad.
Dammit, Laila had messed up this whole conversation. Although she wished the door wasn’t between them, she didn’t want to mess up the experiment too. So she’d made Tariq unhappy, and she couldn’t even squeeze their hand or put her arm around him.
“You wouldn’t be what?” Laila asked. “Not a genie anymore? You’d be, like, human?” She hadn’t thought about that. Tariq was over 3500 years old. If he became mortal, the time they had left would probably feel like a blink to them.
“N-*holk!*-no,” Tariq said. “*HIC-ulk!* I wouldn-*hmmp!*-wouldn’t be. *HERK!* I w-*hulk!*-wouldn’t b-*heek!*-be anyth-*hic!*-thing.”
Laila was vaguely aware of her mouth falling open. “Y-you mean you’d die?”
“It-HIC-olk!*-it’s not r-*hip!*-really dyin-- dying,” Tariq clarified. “*huck!* It-*hmmk!*-wouldn’t hur-*herk!*-hurt. *HULK!*...*HIC-uck!* Ooh…” Hearing the wince in their voice, Laila wondered if their hiccups were getting painful.
“I w-*HMMK-mmp!*-would just st-*hok!*-stop,” Tariq went on. “Sn-*HUCK!*-snuffed ou-- out, *HIC-olk!* like a-*hup!*-a candl-*hulk!*”
For a second, all Laila could do was bury her face in her knees. But she reminded herself not to let her stupid feelings outweigh Tariq’s, not when those feelings were about him.
“Tariq, th…that’s horrible,” Laila said. “So if I tried to free you, y-you just cease to exist?”
“Y-*holk!*-yeah,” Tariq admitted. “Ge-*heek!*-genies grant w-*HIC!*-wishes, *HIC-ulk!* so if w-*hmmk!*-we can’t do th-*huck!*-that, we d-*hok!*-don’t get t-*hoop!*-to be any-*HIC-olk!*-anymore.”
It almost felt too big to fathom, too much for Laila to take in. “Who the fuck decided that?” she demanded. “Can we complain? How many other genies do you know? Maybe if we get a bunch of you together, we could—w-we…”
They could what? Stage a protest of the heavens? Strongarm whatever celestial force created this horrific rule and make them change their mind? Even as she was saying it, it felt so dumb that Laila’s words just dried up.
“It’s-*HIC-uck!*-oka--” Tariq assured her. “Don’t-*HULK!*-don’t be sa-*hmmp!*-sad.”
The state of Tariq’s hiccups told Laila it wasn’t the least bit okay. But if a genie with so much magic was powerless to break her chains, what could a measly little human do?
You’ll think of something, Tariq had told her. You’re good at that.
And Laila had, hadn’t she? Sitting on opposite sides of the door did work to keep Tariq’s hiccups from spreading, otherwise she definitely would’ve gotten the hiccups over this conversation.
So if she could find a solution for that, why not this?
“G-give me a minute,” Laila said. “Try and cure your hiccups.”
“All-*holk!*-right,” Tariq replied, and Laila heard him bounding across the room.
Unsurprisingly, these hiccups proved tricky to cure—not to mention, Tariq was used to having an assist from Laila on some of their methods, holding her cup while she drank from the wrong side or standing on their head.
All told, it was probably closer to fifteen minutes before there was quiet on the other side of the door. “Okay, they’re gone,” Tariq announced, rushing back over toward Laila. “And you never got them! Having the door between us worked! I like that better than you sitting with your back to me and ignoring me, because this way we can still talk. I knew you could do it! You’re amaz—”
And that was as far as Tariq got, because then Laila opened the door and pulled them into a tight hug. “Oh,” Tariq said, sounding a little confused but content. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Laila said back. She blinked back a few tears.
When she broke the hug, Laila continued, “So here’s what I’m thinking. What if I just make two wishes?”
With a frown, Tariq chewed on his thumbnail. “But you get three.”
“I know,” Laila replied. “If I only use two, though, I’ll still be your master. And I wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. We could just be…you and me.”
“You and me…” Tariq echoed in a thoughtful murmur.
“For as long as you want,” Laila clarified hastily. “Not making you do anything you don’t want to do includes staying. I…” Looking down, she threaded her fingers together. “Okay, let me back up a little. I would make a third wish, but only when you’re ready for me to do it. If you want to leave, or if I’m getting too old, o-or if there was someone else you wanted to be your master. I’d make my third wish, then I’d give the lamp straight over to somebody you chose, or if you didn’t have anyone in mind, I’d give it to someone I know would be good to you.”
Slowly, Laila raised her head to look at Tariq. “But you can stay with me as long as you want,” she said. “I know it’s not perfect—it’s what I could come up with for now, the most freedom I can give you. If we figure out something else, a real way around that awful candle-snuffing thing, then we can do that. Obviously.”
Now it was Tariq’s turn to throw her arms around Laila. “I love you so much,” they said, speaking the words in a way that made Laila feel every inch of them.
Finally letting herself smile a little, Laila hugged the genie back. Although her throat felt tight with emotion, she managed to reply, “...Love you too.”
After shooting, Francisco returns to his apartment, where Megan hears all about the day he had.
This is the end of "Rule One of Hollywood." Thanks for reading!
Content: Sex (fade-to-black style,) complicated feelings at being turned on by someone's dismay.
A smile crept across Megan’s face when she heard the key fumbling in the lock. Francisco’s apartment was a nice place to work on the short film she was sound-editing, with big windows to let light in and thick walls to keep distracting noises out, and she’d been in the zone for the last several hours. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t happy at the sound of her sort-of-boyfriend(!!) returning from work.
“Hey,” she called, not getting up from the comfy chair by the window as Francisco entered. She played nonchalant, still peering into her laptop while only sneaking delicious peeks at him over the top of the screen. “How was it?”
Megan expected an instant reply and was surprised when it didn’t come. That was Francisco’s thing, enthusiastically telling you everything. Her texts from him that day had been even more emoji-and-gif-filled than usual, and she’d found that Francisco abandoning written language altogether was usually a sign of strong emotion. Any emotion would do—excitement, aggravation, joy—and so she figured he’d have walked into the apartment already mid-anecdote, as if he’d started talking in the hallway because he couldn’t wait until he was actually in front of her.
This called for an investigation. Megan hastily saved her file and clicked her laptop shut. “Francisc—?” she began, turning, when all of the sudden, Francisco was flopping down the floor beside the chair and burying his head in her lap. He made muffled noises of indeterminate linguistic meaning.
“Hey,” Megan repeated, running her hands through his sexy-shaggy hair, “what happened?”
“Oh my god,” Francisco mumbled, finally speaking in actual words as he turned his head a bit. “You’d hardly even believe it.”
Megan frowned. “What?” she asked insistently.
* * *
It was Megan’s turn to be speechless. “W-what?” she managed to squeak out.
“Rebecca apologized, of course,” Francisco was continuing. He was still on the floor, but he was sitting up now, leaning against Rebecca’s chair with his arm propped on her knee. “I mean, it’s not like it was her fault, really, but she felt bad about it. And just, there was nothing I could do!”
Megan’s cheeks felt hot, and she wondered how furiously she was blushing. “You mean, you were just—?”
“Sneezing over and over,” Francisco told her. “Badly, like I could hardly even say a sentence. I thought Brandon was going to kill me.”
“W-wow,” Megan breathed, hoping that sounded like a sympathetic “wow” rather than an amazed and lustful “wow.” Come on, Megan, words, her brain urged even as it short-circuited. More words would be good!
“I—that sucks,” she continued. “I’m sorry. What did you do?”
“What could I do?” Francisco replied. “I’m telling you, it was impossible! J-juhhhss…” He drew in a sharp breath, and Megan held hers. “iiiihhhhhh-shhiiuuuhhh!” he sneezed into the back of his hand. “That was all hours ago, and I’m still sneezing a little bit,” he explained, “that’s how bad it was.”
It took all of Megan’s concentration to look like she wasn’t desperate to kiss his nose. “Aw,” she murmured in sympathy. She leaned forward to massage Francisco’s shoulders. “Sounds like a really rough start.”
“‘Rough’ is a very nice way to say it,” Francisco told her. “A better one is ‘ah, fuck!’”
Megan knew Francisco was feeling wrung out by the events of the day, but she couldn’t help smiling at that, just a little. In her experience so far, Francisco wasn’t a huge swearer in English, so it always stood out to her when he dropped an F-bomb.
Now, continuing to rub his shoulders, she urged, “Tell me about it.”
As Francisco launched into a full description of his tumultuous first day of shooting, punctuated by occasional sneezes, Megan did her damnedest to keep her mouth from falling open in gobsmacked horniness, but it was touch and go at times. She completely understood why the whole thing bothered him, beyond the insatiable, irresistible sneezing—she’d gotten to know Francisco enough to discover that Francisco Morales, movie star and certified charisma bomb, wasn’t immune to a little insecurity, and it had to suck royally to have the director rip you a new one in front of everyone on set.
But so help her, his dismay just made it even hotter.
“After we went for a break, Rebecca suggested I go shower too,” Francisco went on, wriggling his nose a little. “‘Cause, you know, we were touching and kissing for the scene, and she thought maybe the lotion was-- was on me-- n-no-ow… huhhhhhh…” He lifted his hand to his face, his frozen expression like that of someone caught mid-laugh in a candid photo. “ehhhhhh-shoooooo! Mmm…”
By now, Megan had joined Francisco on the floor, sitting half in his lap with her arm around him. She could feel his muscles tighten as he sneezed, and she swore her toes curled in tandem. “Salud,” she told him.
Francisco nodded, sniffing. “So I went back to my trailer,” he said, “just sneezing the whole time I’m trying to take my costume off.”
The man could spin a yarn, she had to give him that. “Oh god,” Megan murmured. As a response to his bad-day retelling, it was only borderline appropriate, but come on! What else was she supposed to say?
Relishing Francisco’s aversion to skimping on the details, Megan listened to the miserable, sexy tale and tried to appear cogent and caring. And she was caring, honestly. Hearing about his concern and aggravation over something that he obviously couldn’t help was triggering her wounded-puppy response, and she heard herself saying soft and reassuring things over the sirens going off in her libido. After the fourth sneeze, she kissed Francisco’s temple and said, “Hold that thought,” jumping up to retrieve the Kleenex box from the bathroom.
Francisco smiled sheepishly. “Thanks,” he replied, grabbing a Kleenex and wiping his nose.
When he got to the part about Rebecca calmly destroying Punkass Brandon (the new moniker Megan had mentally given Francisco’s wannabe David O. Russell director,) Megan felt a sudden, weird swell of emotion. Last night, she’d been feeling a little squirmy and insecure about Francisco shooting multiple sex scenes with the can-still-get-it star of Unrealistic Expectations, but now, it was such a damn relief to hear that Francisco had someone in his corner during a crappy day on set. While, yes, she was wildly jealous that Rebecca had gotten to kiss Francisco in between sneezes, she was also glad that Rebecca stood up for Francisco when he needed somebody. There were plenty of assholes in Hollywood, but clearly, Rebecca Soczek wasn’t one of them.
“But you were able to get back to shooting?” Megan asked. “How did it go?”
Francisco laughed a little, then sighed. “Well, I mean, it was okay,” he said. “The sneezing was better, but it didn’t stop all the way. We had to do the scene in little pieces, and it still took too many takes. And I wasn’t strong enough in the character, I—hihhhh-uhhhhh-chiiuhhhhhh!” The sneeze snuck up on him; he buried his nose abruptly in his hands. “I know I can do it better,” he finished, with a wet sniffle.
Dear lord. Megan kissed his neck. “You will,” she promised him. “Tomorrow. You’ll be so good you’ll have Brandon eating hi-- uh, Brandon will regret every shitty thing he said to you,” she amended, opting for the route that didn’t involve an English idiom.
That brought a small smile out of Francisco. “I just have to stay focused on the scene and not sneeze,” he remarked.
Spoilsport, Megan thought. Aloud, though, she said, “Easy. And hey, no matter what, I’m sure you were still sexy as hell.”
“Rebecca might disagree with that,” Francisco said. “At least I never sneezed on her, but I didn’t feel very sexy.”
Oh, Megan would very much be the judge of that. She was already dreaming of the outtakes reel. “Please—you couldn’t be unsexy if you tried.”
“I don’t know, my nose was trying pretty hard,” Francisco told her, looking a bit bashful but with a playful tone. He was starting to perk up, which was good. As delicious as his misery was, Megan tended to get the distinct impression she was going to hell when she drooled over his sad eyes.
“I’m sure it wasn’t bad once you got back into it,” she said. “Speaking as someone who’s had sex with you,” (what even was her life?!), “I bet you fake having sex better than a lot of people do it for real.”
She drew a laugh from him this time, which gave Megan a warm feeling in her stomach. Francisco said, “Here,” pulling them both up to their feet and putting a hand on her waist. He drew her close to him and brought his other hand to her cheek, kissing her softly.
Before Megan had chance to process this sudden good fortune, Francisco was kissing her neck and slipping his hand up her shirt, his fingers fluid and nimble. He’d just started to nuzzle her clavicle when Megan heard a telltale hitch in his breath. “hihhhhh…” With his hand in her shirt, he couldn’t step back from her, but he turned his head, sneezing a nummy “huhhhh-chuhhhhhh!” over his shoulder.
“See?” Francisco said, smiling sheepishly as he turned back to her. “With that every few minutes? I’m not saying it was a disaster, but it was kind of close.”
He made to pull his hand out from her shirt, but Megan grabbed it, guiding him back in. “Hey, from where I’m standing, it’s still sexy as far as the eye can see.” With her free hand, she brushed Francisco’s hair out of his eyes. “So come on,” she encouraged, “let’s see a little more of how this Ramón guy shows a lady a good time.”
Francisco grinned at that. Sniffing lightly, he went in for another kiss, and Megan felt a shiver as his hand traveled up her torso.
He had to improvise a little—“Marissa’s shirt had buttons in the scene,” he explained as he pulled Megan’s shirt over her head—but Francisco took her through the beats of the scene in a decidedly non-acted way. After the first couple of sneezes, he seemed to lose some of his self-consciousness about it. He always turned his head away from her or covered his mouth, and there were a few meltingly-hot breathless “sorrys,” but then he would just give her a lopsided smile and return to the exceedingly important business at hand.
Before long, Francisco was unbuttoning her jeans and hoisting her onto the kitchen island. He kissed her as he made to pull them down, but then he stopped, instead bracing himself against the counter while he broke the kiss.
“Ahhh-hehhhhh-shoooooo!” he sneezed into the back of his other hand. He gave a soft chuckle and offered Megan an absurdly cute whatcha gonna do? smile.
Megan touched his chin, guiding him back toward her, and placed his hand back on her waist. “Now, where were we?” she asked.
Even though they were dating now, Francisco’s smile could still dazzle her at close range. “Right here,” he told her, tugging her jeans down as he kissed her again.
* * *
Best Sex Ever was a tricky qualification to make, and Megan’s brain cells were too thoroughly occupied with certain other matters to be doing any definitive ranking right that second, but this had to be top three, easy. While she went a little weak-kneed at Francisco’s description of his helpless sneezing fit on set and could’ve been persuaded to give a minor appendage to have seen it, she realized that she might have actually burst into flames if Francisco had tried to have sex with her while he was sneezing like that. Which, you know, might’ve been conspicuous.
So she didn’t mind that tonight it was one or two sneezes every few minutes, along with a handful of false starts. Her man still left her wanting to melt into a satisfied sex puddle, and later, when they were in bed and Megan leaned over to kiss Francisco’s neck as he rubbed his nose, she knew she couldn’t have asked for a better night.
“How are you doing?” she asked him softly. “Better?”
Even in the dim light, she could see his smile. “Yes, a lot,” he replied. “Not so nervous about seeing Brandon again tomorrow.”
Megan smiled softly. She loved the way she would ask how he was feeling physically and he’d respond with how he was feeling emotionally. “Good,” she said. “If anyone should be nervous, it’s Brandon for knowing he acted like such a prick.”
Francisco kissed her, then lightly traced the line of her nose with his finger. “Thanks for everything tonight,” he told her. “You’re a good girlfriend.”
At that word, with no hedging or qualifying or label-avoidance, Megan had the opposite of butterflies in her stomach. What would you call that? A basket of puppies in her stomach? Let’s go with that. “Well, you make it easy,” she replied. It was a cheesy line, but “girlfriend” was ringing in her ears too loudly to worry about sounding cheesy.
Her cheesiness made Francisco laugh in a way that made Megan feel invincible. He let her fold into his arms, still sniffling quietly, and Megan prepared to drift off to sleep without a care in the world.
Sita is forced to admit that her brother was right--she hates that.
Content: Embarrassment about hiccups. Intense shyness. Nonsexual nudity (bathing.)
Sita regarded the tub in front of her with apprehension. She’d asked her handmaiden Noor to draw a bath for her that day after lunch. Noor only worked half a day on Thursdays, so this was the last thing she’d done before leaving for her afternoon off. “I’ll find Amira before I go, tell her to come up in an hour and empty the tub for you,” she told Sita.
“Oh, there’s no need,” Sita had assured her. “I’ve kept you long enough already. You go on. I’ll tell Amira myself.”
With a respectful dip of her head, Noor had said, “Thanks, princess,” giving Sita’s hands an affectionate squeeze on her way out the door.
With no one coming to empty the tub, Sita had left the water to cool down for a few hours, then snuck a block of ice from the kitchens to let it get properly cold.
She wasn’t about to experiment with hearth peppers like Aasif. But the sudden jolt of getting into cold water on a hot day? Sita knew from past experience that that always gave her the hiccups.
After Aasif needled her about it, Sita had spent the rest of the day trying to steadfastly ignore the issue. Even if there was nothing they could do to prevent Tariq’s curse from taking effect—and she had to admit, however begrudgingly, that it wouldn’t be kind to refrain from serving food when Laila and Tariq came to the palace—she wanted to believe she could keep herself from catching his hiccups if she was just diligent and careful enough.
Aasif was right, though (Sita wasn’t looking forward to having to admit that.) No plan could ever be entirely foolproof, and eventually, she was bound to slip up. Sita considered the fact that Tariq was Aasif’s paramour, not hers, so really, when you thought about it, why couldn’t she just spend time with Laila while Aasif spent time with Tariq? If they were going to eat, there was no rule that said they all had to eat together.
But that wouldn’t be kind either. Tariq seemed like a lovely person, so Sita didn’t want to be unkind to them. And even more than that, it was clear that Tariq and Laila meant the world to each other. Surely anyone who met them would be able to see that.
“Do y-*hmmp!*-you ever-*herk!*-get the f-*hup!*--*ulk!*-the feeling-*hmmk!*-they’re keeping s-*huck!*-something from u-- us?” Aasif had asked earlier that day, during his daily hiccup “practice.”
Sita had nodded softly. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about them,” she admitted. “Do you think they might be in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m n-*ulk!*-not sur-*herk!*” Aasif had replied with a shrug. “I can’t de-CI-ide if I w-*hup!*-want to ask-*hmmk!*-Tariq abou-*hup!*-out it.”
“You’d have better luck with it than I would,” Sita had observed. “You can finesse things so much better than I can, and—” she glanced down, picking at her nails, “—and Tariq’s much likelier to open up than Laila.”
Sita liked Laila, a lot, but she couldn’t shake the notion that the smart, capable, stunning young woman was holding some major part of herself back. What was it? What did she not want to share with Sita?
But now, standing in front of the tub, Sita could admit that she sometimes held back as well. She retreated into her shyness, because withdrawing felt safer than being awkward or putting her anxieties on display for someone to see.
Sita wasn’t as confident as Laila, she knew that. She could only dream of carrying herself the way Laila did. Still, she wanted to be a good hostess for Tariq, and she wanted to show Laila that her friend was welcome in the palace, that Sita didn’t shy away from the effects of their curse—even if she really did, a little.
And unfortunately, that meant Aasif was right: Sita needed to practice.
The water ought to be good and cold by now. Sita had even spent a few minutes outside on her balcony, letting the sun beat down on her to heighten the contrast in temperature. With a hasty air that suggested she knew she’d back out if she didn’t do it right this minute, Sita undressed and plunged herself into the tub.
“Ohhhhhh!” she cried as the sudden shock of the cold water hit her body. The sweat from the day’s heat was still on her face, but she could feel the goosebumps raising along her skin.
And with that…“*hic-uck!*”
The hiccup sounded loud in her empty bedroom, and the water rippled a little as Sita’s body jerked with it. When a second “*hic-mmp!*” hit her, Sita instinctively snapped her mouth shut, pressing her lips tightly together.
Although she was shivering from the cold, Sita resisted the urge to climb out the tub. She needed to make sure she really had them first. “*hmmk!*” She thought she probably did—Sita rarely hiccupped unless she actually had th-“*hmmk-mmp!*”-the hiccups—but she didn’t want to get out of the water too quickly and realize it had been-“*hic!*”-a waste.
“*hmmk-mmp!*...*hmmk-mmk!*...*heek!*”
As that louder hiccup snuck out of her, Sita covered her mouth and quickly jerked with another muffled “*hmmk-mmp!*” All right, that was good enough for her.
It was getting hard for Sita to keep her mouth closed when her teeth were beginning to chatter. So as she rose from the tub, a “*hip!*” and a “*hic-mmk!*” escaped her. And even though she was alone and they weren’t that loud, Sita felt her face flushing, despite her continued shivers.
“*hic-uck!*” The strong hiccup came right as she was lifting her leg out of the tub—Sita nearly lost her balance and fell back in. They might not have been very loud, but there was quite a bit of force between them. Her chest bounced with each one, and her soft stomach popped out and back in.
Sita knew the day was hot enough that she’d warm up quickly outside of the tub, but for the moment, her dress seemed too thin for her chattering teeth and goosebumpy arms. After grabbing a towel and giving it a cursory run over her body, she slipped into bed and pulled the blankets for her head, still undressed.
For a minute, she just lay there, naked and hiccupping and feeling silly. What was she doing? Sita had far less experience with dating than her brother did, and most of that had been arranged by her parents. She’d never done something as absurd as intentionally giving herself the hiccups for the sake of an attractive woman or man.
It suddenly struck Sita that she might like Laila even more than she thought.
“*hic-uck!*” Giving a soft whine, Sita stuffed the corner of her blanket in her mouth. All right, it was silly, she knew that, and she was making it even more so by hiding in her bed when no one was even here. Deciding that she was sufficiently warmed up now, she (reluctantly) poked her head out under the blanket.
Her hiccups really were quite hard, strong “*hmmk-mmps!*” and “*heeks!*” A bad case, Sita thought. Once she’d made a good effort to get accustomed to them, she hoped she’d be able to get rid of them—she knew Aasif had sometimes overdone it with his attempts and wound up with more stubborn hiccups than he’d bargained for.
Still reluctant but telling herself she was being ridiculous, Sita got out of bed and walked across the room to the chair where she’d discarded her dress and undergarments. All the while, she kept on hiccupping, feeling the jiggle of her breasts and the pooch of her stomach. With a hard “*hic-mmp!*”, Sita picked up her dress. A “*hip!*” hit her as she was pulling it back on, shortly followed by a “*hmmk-mmk!*”
Internally, Sita was urging herself to grab the pitcher of water she’d set out on the desk in readiness. Although she was alone, she couldn’t stop picturing someone bursting into the room. (Okay, Aasif was very right—if she was going to manage having the hiccups in front of Laila without having to hide her face, Sita needed a lot of practice.)
But she pushed through the urge, forced herself not to jump immediately to curing herself. “*hic-uck!*” Clearing her throat, Sita rubbed the backs of her fingers across her lips, then tried to distract herself from the hiccups by meticulously putting on all the jewelry she’d left off before getting in the tub.
It sort of helped. Sita didn’t focus so much on the “*mmps!*” and “*hic-mmks!*” while she was selecting her rings and rhythmically sliding bracelets onto her wrists, although she thought it best not to risk earrings while she was hiccupping. There was something almost soothing in the routine of it, in the cool touch of the metal on her hands and forearms. She’d have to keep that in mind. If she wound up getting the hiccups while she was with Laila, she could remove her jewelry and put it back on to keep her from feeling too anxious.
“*huck!*” Sita lay a hand across her bouncing chest. “*hic-mmk!*”
A loud knock at the door startled her, though evidently not enough to cure her hiccups. “*hmmk-mmp!*” Sita covered her mouth with both hands.
“Sita, are you in there?” Aasif called from the other side of the door.
Sita squeezed her eyes closed for a moment as her body rocked with stifled hiccups. This wasn’t far off from the exact scenario she’d been dreading, but at least it was the one person who would understand. That made it slightly less awful.
“Hello?” Aasif said. “Mother was wondering if you wanted to join me for the council meeting next week. She thought it’d be good practice for you.”
Ugh. Sita was lucky that, as the oldest, Aasif was expected to be the one to inherit their mother’s throne someday. There was talk that Sita might become some sort of advisor for him, so their mother made regular offers for her to take part in the same types of royal training Aasif received. Sita liked reading maps or learning more about Iqara’s history with the neighboring kingdoms, but a council meeting? The thought made her shudder—far too many people, all talking over one another and all insisting that they were right.
After her next muffled “*hmmk-mmk!*”, Sita replied, “No thank you!”
Aasif laughed, and Sita heard him opening the door. “I told her you wouldn’t go for it,” he remarked, “but she seemed to think I could convince y—”
Stepping into the room, he cut himself off as he took in the sight of Sita, at her vanity table with her hands clamped over her mouth. “Looks like my advice is worth something after all,” he observed. “Mother will be so pleased.”
“Don’t tell h-*hic-mmp!*-her about this!” Sita urged. Her cheeks were flushing, she could feel it—she pressed her hands to them.
“Oh, come on, I’m just teasing you,” Aasif assured her. “It’s no fun when you actually get worried over it.”
“*heek!*” Bringing her fingers to her lips, Sita looked away from her brother. “I-I don’t kn-*hic-mmk!*-how you could stand those awfu-*huckl*-awful ones you got from th-*hmmk-mmp!*-the hearth peppers at first,” she admitted. “*hic-uck!* Ugh.” She made a face. “These-*hip!*-are plenty bad enough f-- for me, and they’re not ne-*heek-mmp!*-nearly as loud or as-*hmmk-mmk!*-as fast as yours w-*hmmp!*-were.”
“Plus your mouth isn’t on fire,” Aasif pointed out. He sauntered over to Sita and rested his elbow on the back of her chair.
As she groaned through another hiccup, Sita covered her face. “How long have you had them?” Aasif asked.
“About fif-*hmmk!*-fifteen minutes,” Sita replied, both her words and her hiccups muffled behind her hands.
“I’d say that’s a solid length for your first attempt,” Aasif noted. “Water?” Nodding, Sita took one hand away from her face to gesture toward the pitcher on her desk.
While Aasif crossed to the desk and filled her goblet, Sita slowly lowered her other hand, resting both in her lap. “Look on the bright side,” Aasif went on. “Laila will be very impressed.”
Sita’s eyes widened as he brought her the water. “D-*hic-uck!*-don’t tell her ei-*hmmk-mmp!*-either!” she protested. “Or Tari-*heek!*-Tariq.”
Aasif shook his head with a slight tsk. “You’re too easy,” he scolded, pressing the goblet into her hands. “Now drink.”
Sita raised the goblet to her lips, and she realized, in his own unserious way, Aasif had a point. She was definitely never going to tell Laila about this, but Sita had accomplished something today. Even if it was ridiculous, that didn’t change the fact that it had been really difficult for her. She almost felt proud of herself for getting through it.
If she was through it…. Sita drank the last few swallows of water, then waited, clutching onto the goblet. Finally, she breathed a sigh of relief. “I think they’re gone.”
“Well done,” Aasif said with a chuckle. “Who knows? After this, attending a council meeting might feel like a breeze!”
Rolling her eyes at him, Sita answered, “Don’t count on it.”
Shooting has stopped so they can deal with the scent that's making Francisco sneeze. He's kicking himself over the whole thing.
Content: Embarrassment/frustration over sneezes. Showering while sneezing. Asshole directors. Microaggressions.
Note: Dialogue in italics indicates Spanish.
Success in Hollywood was more than just acting well in movies that lots of people see. It was also very much about the people you worked with, their impression of you. And as an actor who spoke English with a Mexican accent, Francisco knew that an even greater onus was on him to make sure every director, every costar, enjoyed working with him. People talk in Hollywood, a lot, and one bad experience could poison your name across Los Angeles.
Once Brandon begrudgingly gave the go-ahead for everyone to break for an hour, Francisco hurried off the set. His nose was still bothering him, and he had no desire to stick around and remind Brandon of that.
So Francisco left, turning a corner and heading down a corridor, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other rubbed his itching nose. “hihhhhh-SHUHHHHH! Ihhhhh…hehhhh-CHIUUHHHHH!” he sneezed. It wasn’t quite as bad when he wasn’t actively pressing his face into the scent on Rebecca’s skin, but he was still feeling terribly sneezy.
“haaaahhhh-CHIOOOOO!” Francisco sneezed again, explosively, into his hands. With a deep sigh, he leaned against the wall and sniffled.
Rule One of any Hollywood set was Don’t Waste Anybody’s Time, and here was an entire hour of filming lost because of Francisco. (He prayed it was only an hour. Please let him have stopped sneezing by then!) His first day on set, and he’d thrown off everything. Francisco felt awful, and his pestering nose only made it worse.
Suddenly, a voice called out his name. Francisco looked up and peered down the hall, where he saw Rebecca walking towards him. “Francisco?” she repeated.
Francisco let out a sigh. “Who else wou-- ehhhhh-SHOOOOO! Mmm-- who else would I be?” he asked.
Rebecca offered him a lopsided smile as she approached. Francisco noticed that she’d traded her one costume sandal for a pair of sneakers. “Don’t beat yourself up,” she advised.
“What?” Francisco said. He was feeling too stressed to deal with English idioms.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she told him. “It’ll be fine.”
“I’m not too sure a-- about thaaa…” Francisco mumbled, covering his mouth for a strong “huhhhhhh-CHUHHHHHH!”
Rebecca frowned. “Does me being here make it worse?” she asked, taking a step back. “Should I—?”
“No,” Francisco assured her, sniffling. “No, it doesn’t make a difference when you’re just standing here. I was all right when-- when we w-w… ihhhhhh-SHIIUHHHHH! When we were blocking. It wasn’t until w--hehhhhh-SHIIOOOOOO!”
“Until we started actually doing the scene,” Rebecca supplied. “Walking through it fully clothed was one thing, actual skin-to-skin contact was another.” She looked him over as he sniffled, rubbing his nose.
“You’d better get a shower too,” she suggested. “You probably have traces of it on your hands now, even your face.”
When was he going to get a break, just one? Francisco dragged his hands down his face in a gesture of exhaustion, even though, if what Rebecca said was true, he was just getting more of the scent everywhere. “Okay,” he agreed quietly.
Rebecca placed a light hand on his shoulder. “Get cleaned up,” she said. “Get your hair and makeup redone. Then try to relax a little until we’re due back on set. Don’t make yourself more miserable than you already are, okay?”
Francisco headed for his trailer, where he was set up with a small but fully equipped bathroom. Careful to keep his costume in pristine condition as he took it off and hung it on a hook, he stepped into the shower. It was a comfortable 24° outside, but Francisco twisted the knob so the water was as hot as he could take. He hoped the steam would clear his sinuses.
“Hihhhhhh-SHOOOOOO!” he sneezed, water running down his face. “hehhhhhh…ihhhhhhhh…ehhhhhh-CHIIUUHHHHHH!” Swallowing a groan, he picked up a bottle of body wash (everything was blessedly non-scented) and briskly started lathering up his skin.
He scrubbed especially hard on his hands and face, since that’s where he’d been touching Rebecca, but he washed all over. While he’d considered putting on a shower cap to keep his hair dry, making things easier once he got to hair and makeup, he ultimately decided he’d better not take any chances. He couldn’t remember if he’d run his hands through his hair or if Rebecca had touched it, and he didn’t want there to be anything that might make him sneeze when he got back to set.
The steam seemed to be doing its job—his nose was running badly. Good for getting everything out of his system, but messy in the short term. He was hit with a strong “huhhhhhhh-ihhhhhhh-SHIOOOOOO!” as he was lathering his hair, and, unable to cover his mouth, he sprayed the inside of the shower with his sneeze.
“Ay, cabrón!” he cursed, sniffling wetly as he wiped his nose with the back of his wrist.
Messy sneezes or not, he’d have liked to stay there a while longer and perhaps curl up in a ball to feel embarrassed and sorry for himself. But that wouldn’t do. They only had an hour, and Francisco would not hold up shooting a second time. So he washed up as quickly as his sneezing would allow, then stepped out of the shower to towel off.
He was still sniffling a lot, which made Francisco nervous, but his nose, while still feeling kind of sensitive, seemed to be quieting down. That was something. He was going to call it a win, because after the morning he’d been having, he deserved it.
Still undressed, Francisco reached for a box of tissues sitting on a small shelf over the towel rack. Grabbing a couple of tissues, he blew his nose thoroughly, very glad that no one was around to hear this. He sighed, balling up the tissues and dropping them into the toilet.
Francisco rested his hands on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair, which he’d let grow a little shaggy for this part, was sticking out in all directions after he’d toweled it off. There was still just a little wetness around his nostrils, which were looking slightly pink. He plucked another tissue from the box and dabbed gently at his nose.
“hihhhhhh-shhhooooo!” he sneezed, suddenly, into the tissue.
“Shhh,” he instructed sternly. “No more of that. You’ve got to behave now.” He let his breath out in a puff, then made a fierce face at the mirror. “You’re Francisco Morales, you motherfucker. Show them you can do this.” He turned toward the door and reached for his costume hanging on the hook.
Round two of hair and makeup wasn’t a solid success. Francisco sneezed four more times, but as a slight positive, two of them were powder-related. “Sorry,” Penny, his makeup artist, said with a wince after he sneezed for the second time as many minutes.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Francisco assured her, trying not to sound too glum.
Bonnie smiled. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” she asked.
“Over sneezes?” Francisco replied. “Of course not! How can I, when you make me look so good?” Meeting her eyes in the mirror, he flashed her a grin and pretended he felt as good-humored as he sounded.
Penny grinned back and gave his cheek a friendly pat. Francisco had thought Ramón would have a beard, but Brandon had wanted him clean-shaven, to make him look young and emphasize the age difference between him and Rebecca’s character.
Bending down, Penny looked him over carefully. “Okay, your nose looks all right,” she said, “but maybe I ought to stay close by while you’re shooting. If you think you might be sneezing some more, it’s probably gonna need touching up.”
“Aahhh, I hope not,” Francisco told her. “I’ve been sneezing too much.” He turned up the corner of his mouth in a bashful smile. “But yes, I think that would be a good idea.”
Penny nodded. “You got it, compadre,” she replied.
Francisco made it back to set with nearly ten minutes to spare. He’d thought about returning to his trailer for a bit of quiet, to ground himself, but he thought being early instead of on time might earn him back a tiny bit of good will. As he slowly made his way toward his chair, stepping over cables and snaking around milling crew members, Francisco suddenly pulled up short at the sound of Brandon griping to Dante.
“Can you believe this?” he grumbled to the AD. “I know he’s a big star in his home country, and who knows, maybe that’s how they do it in Mexico, but around here, there’s this little expectation called ‘doing the work.’ Let me tell you, after everything I’ve had to put up with, he’d better be fucking brilliant.”
As Francisco hung back, weighing his options—“don’t get fired” unfortunately took precedence over the fun ones involving choice insults for Brandon—he heard another voice break in.
“All right,” Rebecca said, stepping forward. Francisco hadn’t seen her come in, and it startled him a little. “Here’s what’s not going to happen. You’re not going to take your frustration out on Francisco over something that wasn’t his fault. If you need to be irritated with somebody, be irritated with me. I do not want to hear screaming or passive-aggressive little comments, and I don’t want to see Francisco on your shitlist. That’s not how I make movies.”
Brandon’s face reddened, though Francisco couldn’t say whether it was from anger or embarrassment, and his mouth twitched a little like he was itching to reply. But when the director finally spoke, his voice was even. “I just want to get this scene shot,” he said.
“So do I,” Rebecca said, her tone shifting in an instant from commanding to chipper. Her eyes flickered in Francisco’s direction as she noticed his presence, and she beckoned him with a slight nod of her head. “Francisco, do you want to shoot this scene?” she called, raising her voice.
“Of course,” Francisco replied, slipping on an adopted grin as he walked towards them.
Rebecca turned back to Brandon. “Then it sounds like we’re all in agreement,” she said brightly. She looped her arm through Francisco’s, and they headed for their chairs.
“That was amazing,” Francisco told her.
“I took so much crap for so many years,” Rebecca replied. “And not just coming up—I remember having the #1 movie in America and a director shouting out the absolute worst things about my body so I’d cry more ‘convincingly’ for a scene. At some point, I just decided that it was more important to be Rebecca fucking Soczek than to be ‘likable,’ whatever that even means.”
“I don’t know what it means either, but I know I like Rebecca fucking Soczek,” Francisco said.
Rebecca laughed. “It closed a lot of doors for me over the years, but now that they’re starting to open again, I want them on my terms.”
Francisco nodded. “Well, thank you for saying what you said,” he told her. “I’m not having such a good morning, and it was r-- rea-ally…hihhhhh-shhhhhh!” he sneezed softly, clamping his hand over his nose. “It was nice to hear.”
“Any time,” Rebecca assured him. “You good?”
Francisco offered her an uncertain smile. “Brandon won’t like it—I still might be sneezing some,” he admitted. “Not bad like before, the shower helped a lot, but…”
“But Brandon can learn to deal with it,” Rebecca finished. “Now, are you ready to do this or what?”
Francisco let out a steadying exhale. “Let’s do this,” he agreed.
Aasif thinks he's starting to get the hang of this--sort of.
Content: Discomfort from spicy food. Embarrassment about hiccups.
Sita made it clear that she thought Aasif was acting crazy, but over the next several days, he kept experimenting with hearth peppers, and after the first couple tries, he was getting the hang of it.
“All right, here goes,” Aasif announced to Sita, who watched with an expression somewhere between concern and amusement. She had both milk and water at the ready for him.
He cut a sliver off the hearth pepper that was just big enough. At Sita’s suggestion, Aasif had taken to wrapping his small bites of pepper in a scrap of flatbread, to help dampen the heat a little as he swallowed it. “It’s almost like taking medicine,” he observed.
“Strange medicine, that gives you hiccups,” Sita replied.
“If it works, it works,” Aasif told her. He gulped down the bread-wrapped bit of pepper. It bypassed the spice on his tongue, but it hit him halfway down, the heat blooming in his chest. “Ooh!” he winced. Tapping his chest with his fist, his first “*herk!*” came quickly.
“Milk?” Sita suggested. Aasif nodded, making an uncomfortable face, and she pushed a goblet toward him.
Aasif took a few thirsty gulps of milk and was rewarded, not just with a slight lessening of the heat, but with a “*hmmp!*--*ulk!*” He drank another big swallow. “*hup!*”
They’d learned that it was much “safer,” as it were, to take a tiny bite of hearth pepper that was just enough to start hiccupping. From there, Aasif could just generally coax them into a full case by drinking untidily, large swallows that gulped down a bit of air along with the water or milk.
He’d tried that on its own a few times, hoping he might be able to cut out the hearth pepper altogether. But no matter how inattentively Aasif drank, he couldn’t manage to get hiccups that way. If he had the hearth pepper to start him off, though, he found he could rely on milk or water to help the rest along.
Either way, it was much better than trying to gauge the perfectly-sized bite of pepper to give him a good case of the hiccups. It turned out there was a really fine line between enough to hiccup a little and enough to hiccup far too much. And when Aasif was hiccupping too hard or fast to drink at all, the heat in his throat, chest, and stomach could feel unbearable.
By the time he’d drunk the full goblet of milk, Aasif had given himself a case that was pretty close to what his natural hiccups felt like. “All ri-- right, that’s-*hup!*-done it-*hmmp!*” he told Sita.
“Tariq will be so impressed,” she teased.
“Hey, *hmmk!* I’m wor-*herk!*-king on solu-*hup!*-solutions,” Aasif countered. “I don’t-*ulk!*-see what you’re-*hmmp!*-doing abou-*huck!*-about it.”
“I’m stopping you from burning holes in your stomach,” Sita noted.
“Eh, *hup!* fair poin-- nt,” Aasif conceded. He poured himself some more milk, sipping it slowly this time to cool his throat.
“Personally, I think you’re too quick to resign yourself to this,” Sita said. “There are other alternatives.”
“You h-*herk!*-heard Tari-*hmmk!*-iq,” Aasif replied. “They-*huck!*-don’t want t-*hmmp!*-to go to D-*ulk!*-Dina with i-- it.”
“You could try harder to convince them,” Sita retorted.
Aasif shook his head. “He w-*hup!*-was scared,” he insisted. “*hmmk!*--*herk!* I don’t kn-*huck!*-know what sor-*herk!*-sort of hi-IST-tory they have w-*hup!*-with sorcer-*herk!*-ers, but I d-- don’t want to p-*ulk!*-push him.”
Sita sighed, frowning. “I know they’ve already been cursed,” she admitted, “but it’s foolish to be afraid of it. Magic is just a tool—like any other, it can be used for good or bad.”
At a “*HUCK!*” that was louder than he’d expected, Aasif cleared his throat self-consciously, brushing his knuckles across his mouth. “Sorce-- sorcerers-*herk!*-are off th-*hup!*-the table,” he insisted.
“We could just not eat,” Sita pointed out. “That seems to be when Tariq’s curse is most likely to get set off.” With a bemused smile, she added, “The way he eats, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“B-*huck!*-but that’s exa-ACT-tly why we c-*huck!*-can’t depri-- ive him,” Aasif argued. With a self-deprecating smile, he noted, “I’m pr-*hmmk!*-pretty sure they li-*ulk!*-like food mor-*herk!*-than they like-*hup!*-me.” Letting out another hard “*herk!*”, he shook his head. “We j-*huck!*-just have t-*hmmp!*-to get used-*hup!*-to it.”
“Well, no one can say you’re not devoted,” Sita observed. “If you tell Tariq about this, I’m sure they’ll appreciate everything you’ve done to adjust to his curse.”
“I’m sur-*herk!*-sure she w-*huck!*-would,” Aasif agreed. He mused on Tariq’s enthusiasm, which was nearly as contagious as their hiccups.
“Well the-*hmmp!*-then, how ab-*ulk!*-bout you?” Aasif asked his sister. “You mi-- ight want to co-*huck!*-consider-*herk!*-prepari-- ing your-*hup!*-self too.”
Sita raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Because it looks like so much fun when you do it?”
“I’m s-*hmmk!*-serious, *huck!* Sita,” Aasif told her. “I kn-*ulk!*-know you. You get-*hup!*-even mor-*herk!*-embarra-ASS-ed about them-*huck!*-than I d-- do. *herk!*--*hup!* What do y-*hmmp!*-you plan o-*huck!*-on doing th-*hup!*-the next time-*hmmk!*-you get the hi-ICC-cups in front o-*huck!*-of Laila?”
“I plan on not doing that, actually,” Sita informed him.
Aasif frowned. “I t-*ulk!*-I told you—”
“Yes, I heard you,” Sita replied. “No help from Dina, no taking the very rational step of simply not serving food when they come over. We’ll need to deal with Tariq’s curse, I understand that. But just because they get the hiccups doesn’t mean I have to.”
Crossing his arms as he jerked with an “*ulk!*”, Aasif asked, “And how d-*hup!*-do you th-*hmmk!*-think you’ll ma-AN-age that?”
“Once Tariq has the hiccups, I just need to be careful,” Sita explained. She started counting off on her fingers. “No eating or drinking, no talking too quickly, no laughing, no letting myself get too excited.”
Aasif laughed, bringing on a strong “*ulk!**herk!*--*HUP!*” that he felt in his chest. As he made a face and rubbed it, Sita gave him a what did I tell you? expression. Aasif took a few seconds to breathe slowly, making sure his hiccups had calmed back down before he said, “Well, th-*hmmk!*-that sounds like f-*hup!*-fun. No w-*huck!*-wonder Laila-*ulk!*-likes you.”
I just don’t want to take any chances,” Sita told him.
“Look, *hup!* Sita,” Aasif replied, “it’s-*huck!*-a very impr-*herk!*-impressive-*hmmk!*-list. It might eve-*hup!*-even work for-*herk!*-you most o-*huck!*-of the time. *hmmk!*--*herk!* But you know wh-*hup!*-what it can’t do-- oo? *ulk!* Work all-*huck!*-the time. Soone-*herk!*-er or later, *hmmp!* one of your safe-*hup!*-guards will fa-*ulk!*-fall through, *herk!* and you’ll ge-*hmmk!*-get the hiccups. What ar-*herk!*-are you going t-- to do the-*hmmp!*-then?”
“I won’t,” Sita insisted, although Aasif knew what it sounded like when uncertainty crept into his sister’s voice.
Aasif leaned over to pat Sita on the shoulder. “Think a-*huck!*-about it--” he advised. Rising to his feet, he forced a small smile. “All-*ulk!*-right, I-*hup!*-I’m going,” he said. “Wish m-*hmmp!*-me luck.”
“Good luck,” Sita replied.
Yesterday was the first time Aasif had braved leaving his room with the hiccups, although he hadn’t been too brave about it. He couldn’t bring himself to let his lips part, instead muffling them as best he could. He walked around for about ten minutes, but while he passed by numerous servants, he doubted any of them had even noticed his hiccups.
This time, Aasif was determined to push himself further. It was one thing to get more accustomed to having the hiccups, but it wouldn’t do him much good if he still chafed at having them around other people.
Stepping out into the hall, Aasif brushed his knuckles self-consciously across his mouth. Instinctively, he muffled his first few hiccups. No, that won’t do, he told himself. Come on now—don’t be a coward.
Breathing as evenly as he could between his hiccups, Aasif forced himself to relax his jaw. While he didn’t go so far as to open his mouth, he wasn’t clamping it so tightly, and his hiccups, though still muffled, were audible. “*hmmp!*...*hmmp!*...*llk!*--*hmmk!*”
Aasif breathed slowly through his nose. He could do this.
Hiccupping every few seconds, Aasif began to walk down the hall. Although he knew they were still relatively quiet, he couldn’t stop imagining that they were echoing off the walls.
When he saw Jamilah coming around the corner, Aasif had to fight the urge to clamp his mouth again. She was carrying a bundle of laundry, and as she saw him approaching, she stepped aside, backing against the wall to let him pass.
“Good day, my prince,” she said softly with a duck of her head.
Ugh, damnit, Aasif couldn’t get himself to speak. As a “*hmmk!*” made his head snap back, he managed a friendly smile and a nod of acknowledgement. “*hmmp!*”
Raising his head again, Aasif saw an uncertain look on Jamilah’s face. “Is…is everything all right, your highness?” she asked.
It took all of Aasif’s effort not to grimace. After he’d jerked with his next “*hmmp!*”, he hastily replied, “Yes.”
Jamilah frowned. “...A-are you sure?”
Again waiting for a hiccup to pass, Aasif told her, “Yes, I’m fine-*ulk!*” He couldn’t hold back the grimace this time.
Aasif reminded himself that this was what he wanted. He needed to practice talking to someone when he had the hiccups, ideally without wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.
So, with a sigh, Aasif managed to say, “I’m a-*hmmp!*-all right, *hmmk!* really. It’s j-*hup!*-just these damn-*hmmp!*-damned hiccu-UP-ps.” He looked away, clearing his throat.
When Aasif risked another glance at Jamilah, he found the servant standing with her eyes lowered respectfully to the ground. “Would you like me to fetch you some water, your highness?” she asked in a timid voice.
“No, tha-*hmmp!*--*hup!* That’s all right,” Aasif replied. “*hmmk!* Thank y-- you, though-*ulk!*” Wincing, he added, “Excus-*hmmp!*-me.”
“Not at all,” Jamilah assured him. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Aasif took a breath. “They’re rathe-*herk!*-stubborn, *hmmp!* I’m afrai-*mmp!*-afraid,” he said. As far as he knew, that wasn’t true, but it was much simpler than saying he wasn’t trying to get rid of them.
“Really?” Jamilah looked up at him. “Should I fetch the physician? Or perhaps the sorceress has a remedy for—”
“N-- no, please,” Aasif rushed to reply. “You-*huck!*-don’t need t-*hmmp!*-to trouble your-*herk!*-self about it. *hmmk!*” He mustered up what he hoped was less of a wince and more of an encouraging smile. “They’re a-*ulk!*-a little annoy-*mmp!*-annoying, *hup!* that’s all. I-*hmmk!*-I’m sur-*herk!*-they’ll go a-*huck!*-away soon enou-- enough.”
“If you’re sure…” Jamilah murmured hesitantly.
Aasif nodded. “Ver-*hmmp!*-very sure,” he promised her. “*huck!*--*hmmp!* Don’t let m-*ulk!*-me keep you, *hmmk!* really.”
Jamilah bowed her head again. “Of course, my prince,” she said. “I hope your, um…your affliction passes quickly.”
Although it was small, Aasif’s smile this time was genuine. “Thank-*hmmk!*-you,” he said. “G- good day.”
“Good day,” Jamilah echoed. She continued on down the hall.
For a minute, Aasif stood watching her go. Once Jamilah disappeared around another corner, he let out a long sigh that was interrupted by a “*HERK!*”
He clapped a hand over his mouth—he couldn’t help it.
Deciding he’d given himself enough practice for today, Aasif made his way back to his bedroom and the water that Sita had left waiting for him.
On set for his first day of shooting, Francisco's nose decides to start acting up.
Content: Embarrassment about sneezing fits. Asshole director who takes his frustration out on others.
Francisco was in an odd position in Hollywood. He’d been in a few big films where he had very small parts, films that most Americans saw but that few would remember him from, and he’d starred in one wonderful independent film that never got a wide release. The people who saw Papi’s Stories from Sundown would know him well, but there weren’t too many of them.
Semi-Fixable was a next step for him. He was third on the call sheet, and while it was another indie film, it was one starring Rebecca Soczek and Jason Bateman: people would see this film, and see him in it. And if he wanted to keep making movies in the States, that meant he had to be great in it.
When he got to set that morning, he decided he was mostly the good kind of anxious, the sort of heightened awareness that would keep him present and grounded as he worked (whether that was true or not, it helped to tell himself that.) As he was getting ready, he alternated between chatting in hair and makeup and preparing to mentally slip into his character.
On set, Rebecca greeted him warmly, with a slight, winkingly self-conscious air. “You ready to do this, lover?” she teased.
“If I’m not, it’s too late now,” Francisco joked back. “If I got down and did more pushups, it wouldn’t help.”
Rebecca gave a hearty laugh. “Right. And you’re how old?” she asked.
“31,” Francisco replied.
“God, you’re a baby,” she remarked. “Don’t worry, you’re fine. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be.” She stretched her neck with a slow roll and shook her arms out a little.
There was an intimacy coordinator on the film. Francisco had never worked with one before, but almost immediately, he decided he liked it. Andrea walked him and Rebecca through the beats of the scene they were about to shoot and had them rehearse some of the different touches and interactions while they were still clothed. “How’s that?” Francisco asked Rebecca a few times, placing his hands where Andrea directed him. “Is this okay?”
Part of the scene had to be reblocked from the director’s initial plan. Brandon wanted Rebecca’s legs wrapped around Francisco’s waist once they got going, Francisco holding Rebecca up against the wall, but it quickly became apparent that that wouldn’t work. Rebecca was a good three inches taller than Francisco, and while there were techniques to disguise that in the film, Francisco wasn’t going to be able to hold Rebecca up very well.
“What about the counter?” Andrea suggested to Brandon, pivoting in the set made to look like the tight quarters of a boat cabin (they’d film on an actual boat for the interior shots, but it was cheaper to build a set of the cabin than try to figure out how to fit the cameras inside a real one.) “Francisco, you could boost Rebecca up onto the counter, and the two of you could do it there.”
“Let’s try it,” Rebecca said, and she and Francisco went through the motions. They hadn’t even started shooting yet, but Francisco could already tell she was a very thoughtful actress.
Once everything had been planned out and Francisco and Rebecca both felt as comfortable as it was possible to be when you were about to take your clothes off in front of your coworkers, they moved to their marks, ready to begin.
By the time Brandon called action, Francisco had placed himself into his role, Ramón, a well-traveled sailor who wasn’t one to plan for the future. Ramón lived each moment he was in—he didn’t overthink things or worry, but you might not know where you stand with him tomorrow. A good reason why Rebecca’s character Marissa would be drawn to him, and an understandable reason why she ends up back with her husband instead of Ramón.
As Ramón, Francisco rooted through a storage compartment in the cabin. “Don’t worry about it,” he assured Rebecca’s Marissa. “I’m sure I have more in here—somewhere.”
Rebecca watched him, standing lopsided in only one platformed sandal. Her stance was self-conscious. She was wavering, considering whether or not she should bolt. “You have extra pairs of women’s shoes?” she asked.
Francisco flashed her a grin, immodest but not obnoxious. “Well…” he replied, playful.
“Honestly, I-I should just go,” Rebecca insisted, turning to leave the cabin.
“Hey-hey-hey!” Francisco exclaimed. He sprang nimbly to his feet and took her hand, drawing her back around. “It happens, okay? It’s not a big deal.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he slowly lowered himself down until he was kneeling before her. “No need to ruin our day over something so small.” Gently, he lifted her foot and pulled the sandal off.
Rebecca’s face broke into a smile, relief and abandon and desire all in one. Her dark blond hair, with soft waves in it for this character, fell artfully down to her shoulders. “That’s one way to do it,” she remarked.
Francisco rose again, brought his hand to her cheek. “Better?” he asked, his voice low and husky.
“Better,” Rebecca agreed. She leaned in to kiss him, drawing her own hand into his hair.
When their lips parted, Rebecca said, “You know, on balance? I think shoes are overrated.”
Francisco grinned. “Wildly overrated,” he agreed. He brushed her hair behind her shoulder to kiss the crook of her neck.
“I can always buy more,” Rebecca mused.
Francisco lifted his head to make his reply, which he was supposed to deliver as he slipped his hand into her shirt, but a fierce itching sensation suddenly flooded his nostrils. He turned away, sneezing a strong, “Haaahhh-CHUHHHHHH!” into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, sniffling as he reemerged.
“Don’t worry, you’re good,” Rebecca replied.
“Still rolling!” Brandon called from his director’s chair.
Francisco gave his nose a quick rub, then returned to his grin. “Wildly overrated,” he said. Brushing Rebecca’s hair back, he kissed the crook of her neck.
“I can always buy more,” Rebecca mused.
Francisco lifted his head. “I’ll buy you more,” he vowed, his hand sliding into her shirt.
Rebecca smiled, half amusement and half arousal. “Is that right?” she asked.
Francisco considered. “I’ll fish more for you,” he decided. “The bay is full of shoes from women wh- who…” The line was supposed to be, “…from women who struggle with the concept of boat-appropriate footwear,” a mouthful of a line that had taken Francisco ages to learn (didn’t they know that English wasn’t Ramón’s first language either?) But there, as he was slowly undoing her shirt buttons and nuzzling her clavicle, another itch overtook him.
“W-ai-it…” Francisco had a chance to mumble before he sneezed again, jumping back so he wouldn’t sneeze on Rebecca’s half-unbuttoned chest. “hihhhh-ehhhhh-SHIOOOOO! Ahhhhhhhh…hehhhhh-CHIAAHHHHHH!”
“Gesundheit,” Rebecca said as Brandon called cut. “You okay?”
“Sorry,” Francisco repeated, sniffing. “I’m not sick, I promise. My nose is-- it’s just itching.” He scrubbed at his nose with his knuckles as he felt another tickle starting to build. “Heh-hehhhhhh….”
“Let’s just take a minute, then,” Rebecca suggested. “Let you get it out of your system.”
Francisco nodded, sneezing a hard “huhhhhh-ihhhh-CHIUHHHH!” into his fist. He sniffed again, but carefully—he could still feel the heady itching sensation. Biting back a sigh, he said, “One bidute,” before stepping aside, cupping his hands over his mouth against sneezes that bent him at the waist. “uhhhhhh-SHOOOOO! …hihhhhhh-CHIIAAHHHHH! Ihhhhhh…ahhhhhh-hehhhh-CHUHHHHHHH! Mbb….”
Sneezing so many times so quickly made Francisco feel almost lightheaded for a second, and he exhaled slowly as he straightened back up. “…Better?” Rebecca asked.
Francisco took in a long breath and let it out, waiting to see if his nose was going to act up again. He tried not to contemplate how embarrassed he probably looked. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, I think I’m good.” His gaze flickered to Brandon, chastened. “I’m sorry about that,” he said again.
“Let’s take it from the top,” Brandon announced in a clipped tone. He didn’t acknowledge Francisco’s apology, but as Kendra, a PA, scurried up to Francisco to offer him hand sanitizer, he could read the director’s annoyance in the tightness of his jaw.
As they returned to their original marks, Rebecca gave Francisco a quick wink. “We’re gonna knock ‘em dead this time,” she predicted.
Francisco nodded along, but he knew his smile was both a little forced and a little confused. The States had a lot of expressions about killing that were apparently really positive. It was a weird thing about this country.
When Brandon called action again, Francisco and Rebecca restarted the scene. Francisco knew he wasn’t quite as present as he’d been on the first take. His own thoughts were intruding on Ramón’s a little, worries about annoying Brandon and embarrassment about having a sneezing fit in front of Rebecca Soczek and the whole crew.
Not that it mattered that he wasn’t as good on this take—they barely made it to the first kiss when Francisco’s nose started tickling again. He hurriedly broke the kiss and stepped back from Rebecca, not having time to apologize before another sneeze hit him hard. “hihhhhhh-SHNNNNFFHHH!” he sneezed, clapping a hand over his mouth.
“Goddammit!” Brandon exclaimed, plucking his headphones off and throwing them to the ground.
But Rebecca put her hand on Francisco’s shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“I-- like I told you, I-I-aaaahhhh…” Francisco trailed off, lifting a hand to his face. “huhhhhh-CHIOOOO-ehhhh! Mmm, fuck! I’m not sick, really.” He sniffed, rubbing his nose hard.
Kendra hurried back up to Francisco, holding out a tissue box. “Thank you,” he mumbled, giving her a nod as he took a tissue and wiped his nose.
“Something’s bothering my nose,” he went on. “I-- I don’t know what. hiiihhhhhh-ehhhhh-SHOOOOOO!” The sneeze snuck up on him, and he only had just enough time to turn away.
“Oh my god,” Brandon grumbled, shaking his head in a disbelieving sort of way.
“I’m so sorry,” Francisco said again. “This ha-haasn’t--haaahhhh-CHUHHHHH! It’s never happened to me before.” He sniffled into the tissue.
“Do you think you’re allergic to something?” Rebecca wondered.
Francisco shook his head. “Just d-- dogs,” he replied. “Bu-uhhhh-ihhhh-SHIIAAHHHHH!” He pressed his nose to the back of his wrist, cringing. “But even if a dog was here, it’s not bad li-- like thi-is…”
Kendra handed him a second tissue just in time for another “Hahhhhhh-CHIOOOO!” Francisco sniffed again. “B-besides,” he added, “my allergies make my throat and eyes itch too, but this is-- it’s just…hihhhhhh-uhhhhh-CHUHHHH! Just my nose.”
“Well, something’s definitely setting you off,” Rebecca mused. “You were fine a minute ago.”
Even as Francisco’s furiously itching nose loudly demanded his attention, he still heard Brandon mutter, “Try five minutes ago,” under his breath. Francisco’s nose was the most irritated thing on set at the moment, but the director was a close second.
“I don’t--hihhhhh-SHUHHHHHH! Iiihhhhh-huhhhhh-CHOOOO!” Francisco sneezed rapidly. “I don’t know,” he confessed. His nose felt like it was beginning to run a little. He sniffed, holding a tissue to his nose.
Rebecca was peering around the set as though she would find a conveniently labeled sign saying “That Thing That’s Making Francisco Sneeze.” For his part, Francisco wasn’t much help. Besides the sorry state of his nose, his brain was a jumble of nervousness and embarrassment, making it hard to think too closely.
“You didn’t start sneezing until…oh god,” Rebecca said suddenly, her eyes widening.
Francisco sniffed, giving his nose a wipe. “Wha-aaat…?” he started to ask, lapsing into another “hihhhhh-CHIIUUHHHHHH!”
Rebecca pushed up her sleeve and held her arm out to Francisco. “Try and smell this,” she said.
It was so bizarre that, for a second, Francisco was sure he was misunderstanding her English. “I…what?!” he said.
“I just wanna see,” Rebecca prodded.
Very aware that the whole crew was standing around watching this strange little episode, Francisco hesitantly took Rebecca’s arm in his hand, lifted it to his nose, and inhaled.
The effect was instantaneous. “huhhhhhh-SHOOOOO!” Francisco sneezed, letting go of Rebecca and whipping around so he wouldn’t sneeze on her. “hihhhhh-CHHUHHHH! Ahhhhh…hehhhh-SHIIOOOOO! Ehhhhh-SHUHHHHHH!” Mmm…” He was grateful that Kendra held a fresh tissue right in front of his face, so he could grab it without raising his eyes to look at anyone.
“What?” Isaac, the boom guy, remarked. “He’s allergic to you?”
“It has to be my lotion—dammit!” Rebecca said. “It’s a new brand, scented with lavender and…I don’t even know what else. I’m so sorry, Francisco, I had no idea.”
“No,” Francisco insisted. “Ih-hihhhh…hehhhhh-ihhhhh-SHOOOO! It’s not your fault.”
“You know,” Brandon called, in a conversational tone with a dark edge to it, “I could’ve sworn we were here to make a movie, not play south-of-the-border Scent Detective.”
“I-I’m sorry--” Francisco started to say, but his nose wouldn’t let up. “hahhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHH!”
Rebecca faced Brandon, but she lightly touched her fingertips to Francisco’s shoulder. “He can’t help it,” she pointed out.
“Great,” Brandon drawled. “It’s still a waste of my time.”
He was right, of course. Americans said “time is money,” and in Hollywood, it was really true. All those people, each one with a union that said how and when they got paid. Every moment of wasted footage meant lost dollars, and every minute not shooting or setting up a shot meant lost time, which amounted to the same thing.
But Rebecca wasn’t finished. “You heard him—this has never happened to him before,” she told Brandon. “What do you expect him to do? He can’t shoot like this.”
“ihhhhhh-SHHHNFFFFF!” Francisco sneezed, biting back a cringe as he clamped his hand tightly over his nose and mouth. Rebecca glanced over at him, as if to say, See?
“So we’re out a whole day of shooting because Francisco’s delicate nose can’t handle scented lotions,” Brandon remarked. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
“I--I don’t--I can--” Francisco began, not that there was much point in trying. “hihhhhhh-SHIIAAAAHHHHHH!”
“What if we break for, like, an hour?” Rebecca suggested. “I can take a shower, try to scrub this scent off, then get back into hair and makeup. It’s worth a shot, right?”
Francisco’s nose, though still itching, was giving him a brief reprieve. Holding a tissue to his nose, he quickly broke in, “That sounds good!”
Brandon sighed deeply. “I suppose anything’s better than standing around here with our thumbs up our asses,” he grumbled, a visual that was as perplexing as it was disturbing. “One hour.”
As Dante, the AD, called out instructions to the crew, Francisco sneezed yet again, a hard “huhhhh-CHOOOO-ehhhhh!” that made his head snap forward. He was badly stuffed up and felt weary from all the sneezing. Trudging off the set, he fantasized about how delightful it would be if a giant sinkhole opened up beneath his feet and swallowed him whole.
While Aasif is getting in some hiccup practice (with an assist from Sita,) Laila and Tariq are experimenting.
Content: Uncomfortable/somewhat painful hiccups.
“Ready?” Tariq asked. Even from across the room, Laila could see the bowl of rice in the genie’s hands shaking with anticipation.
“Ready,” Laila replied. That was all the encouragement Tariq needed, and they practically dove headfirst into the bowl.
Laila had to say this for Tariq: the genie knew how to enjoy himself. It was no surprise that the sumptuous dishes at the palace drove them wild, but Tariq had basically the same level of unbridled excitement for the meager meals Laila managed to scrape together. Rice or flatbread, a sauce if they were lucky, some kind of meat if they were very, very lucky. And yet, Tariq would attack her meal like it was made from the finest ingredients by the best chefs in Iqara, even licking their bowl clean when they were done.
“It’s delicious!” Tariq groaned happily through a garbled mouthful of rice. “Mmmmm-mmmmmm!”
Laila wished she could let herself feel such unvarnished enthusiasm like that.
Several more bites, and…“*HIC-olk!*” Right on cue came Tariq’s hiccups. They barely slowed the genie down as she gobbled up her food.
Laila could feel herself smiling a little. “I’m glad you like it.”
“You’re th-*huck!*-the best!” Tariq cried. “I’ve said-*HIC-ulk!*-thank you for letting m-*heek!*-me have food, ri-- right?”
Okay, she was definitely smiling now. “Every time we eat,” Laila replied. “Now come on, stress me out or make me mad.”
“Sur-*herk!*-re,” Tariq agreed. “How?”
Laila rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
In truth, though, the longer their acquaintance, the less the genie annoyed her. To be sure, he still annoyed her, undeniably—but they annoyed her less. Laila sometimes caught herself thinking about wishes, wondering if it worried Tariq that she wasn’t fulfilling her duty as their master. Wondering what would happen to them if Laila used all three of her wishes. She supposed Tariq would have to go back into the lamp and wait for his next master to find it. And Laila had heard enough about Tariq’s past masters that she didn’t like the thought of them having to make that gamble again.
A hard “*hulp!*” hit Laila, and she lay her hand across her chest.
“Hey, I di-*hic!*-did it!” Tariq exclaimed.
“I told y-*hmmp!*-you you would,” Laila replied softly. “*hic-ulk!*” Wincing, she rubbed her chest with the side of her hand.
“Ooh, do th-*hup!*-they hurt?” Tariq asked. “I don’t-*HIC-uck!*-like those.”
“Kind o-*hulp!*-of,” Laila admitted.
Tariq wrinkled their nose. Stuffing the last scoop of rice into her mouth, she got to their feet and asked, “Can I c-*hup!*-come over ther-*herk!*-now?”
“Yeah, that’s-*holp!*-fine,” Laila told them. “Once I’ve g-*hulk!*-got the hiccups, *HIC-ulp!* it doesn’t rea-- really matter any-*HOLK!*-more.”
As long as money didn’t get too tight, they ate twice a day, and Laila and Tariq had come to an arrangement about their meals. In the morning, Tariq would do her best to pace himself, at least attempting not to scarf and avoid ending up with contagious genie hiccups. That was…iffy. So far, they’d only managed to do it once.
In the evening, meanwhile, Tariq was free to gobble away. Knowing that hiccups were pretty much inevitable there, Laila instead focused on testing the reaches of the strange interactions Tariq’s body had with his magic. She wanted to find out what the limits were, if there was anything either of them could do to avoid Tariq’s hiccups spreading. Tonight, Laila and Tariq had seated themselves at opposite ends of her one-room hovel, seeing if that could be a way to avoid the effects of the magic.
Sitting on opposite sides had worked once before, but Laila hadn’t interacted with Tariq at all—she’d not spoken to them or looked at them, even going so far as to turn her back to him. But those were pretty extreme measures, and it didn’t seem fair to put Tariq through that, so this time, Laila had hoped the distance alone would be enough to prevent catching the genie’s hiccups. Apparently not.
“You’ll th-*hic!*-think of something,” Tariq encouraged as they came over to sit down beside Laila. “You’re g-*hoop!*-good at tha-A-at.”
Laila gave them a soft bump with her shoulder. “Thanks. *HIC-ulk!* Ooh…” With a grimace, she rubbed her chest again.
“Here-*herk!*-let me get r-*HIC-olk!*-rid of mine,” Tariq offered, readying to hop right back up again. “*HIC-uck!* That way, *hulk!* you can c-*hup!*-cure yours.”
“In a-*holp!*-a minute,” Laila told her. She grabbed Tariq’s arm so they couldn’t scurry off. “You d-*HIC-ulk!*-don’t always have t-- to jump to do-*HIC-ulp!*-doing things for m-*ulp!*-me.”
“But I wa-*holk!*-want to!” Tariq pointed out eagerly.
Laila sighed through another hiccup. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “I kn-- know,” she said. “*HIC-ulp!* You can take-*hulk!*-a second, though, o-*holk!*-okay? I won’t b-*ulp!*-be mad if you don’t in-*HIC-ulk!*-instantly fix everyth-*hmmk!*-thing.”
“Okay,” Tariq agreed, although they didn’t look convinced that this was a valid option. “I-*huck!*-I don’t like i-*hic!*-it when you hur-*herk!*-hurt, though.”
“It’s not tha-*holp!*-that bad,” Laila promised her. “Just a li-*HIC-olk!*-a little uncomforta-- able, that’s-*ulp!*-all.”
“Hmm-*mmp!*” Tariq murmured. After a beat, his face lit up hopefully and they asked, “Can I hel-*hulk!*-help?”
“I’m good-*ulp!*” Laila said. She rested her head on the genie’s shoulder. “Just sit wi-*HIC-ulp!*-with me. We-*holk!*-we can get the water-*hulp!*-in a few mi-IN-utes.”
“All ri-*HIC-ulk!*-right,” Tariq said. Settling in, she rested their forehead against Laila’s. Both their hiccups jostled one another when they were sitting so close, but Laila didn’t mind.
“It’s okay i-*hic!*-if nobody looks-*HIC-uck!*-at me or talks t-*hoop!*-to me,” Tariq offered. “I kn-*holk!*-know getting the hiccu-*huck!*-ups can bother the rest o-*hup!*-of you.”
“No,” Laila told them firmly. “*HIC-ullk!* We’ll find somethi-- ing else that wo-*holp!*-works. And if not, *ulp!* we humans will j-*hulk!*-just suck it up.”
“Mmm,” Tariq murmured, jerking with a distracted-sounding “*HIC-ulk!*” He chewed on their thumbnail. “You don’t h-*hmmk!*-have to do that, *HIC-uck!* though.”
“I wan-*hulp!*-want to,” Laila insisted. “And the o-*hulk!*-the others will too-- oo, at least m-*HIC-ulk!*-more than they-*hmmp!*-want you to be lef-*holp!*-left out.”
Giving a contented sigh, Tariq said, “You’r-*herk!*-the best.”
Laila chuckled. “*hulk!*--*HOLP!* So you keep t-*HIC-ulp!*-telling me.”
If she told Tariq she’d been thinking about wishes, they’d probably be ecstatic. The genie had stopped pestering Laila about it, but only because she’d ordered him not to. A few weeks ago, the thought of using a genie’s wishes as a shortcut had almost felt like an affront to Laila. Now, it seemed silly to scrounge and steal to keep her and Tariq fed when a genie could ensure that she never went hungry again. And as she faced the prospect of pursuing Sita in a genuine way, Laila knew how much Tariq’s magic could help with the logistical challenges: she couldn’t keep wearing the same two nice dresses if she was supposed to be a noblewoman. (If this was to become something real, Laila knew she’d eventually need to come clean, but she wasn’t ready for that yet.)
Even so, for all that a genie’s wishes could do for her, Laila was rapidly finding herself unable to imagine her life without Tariq in it. She didn’t know how she could say goodbye.
Laila let out a strong “*HIC-ulp!*”, a hard thump in her chest. “*HOLK!*” With a little grunt of discomfort, she rubbed her chest with her knuckles.
“You’ve g-*hulk!*-got them really b-- bad this time,” Tariq noted. Before Laila could argue with her, the genie jumped to their feet. “H-*heek!*-here, let me!” Tariq fetched the water pitcher, filled their cup, and bent over to drink from the wrong side.
He was getting pretty good at that now. Despite their hiccups, Tariq emptied the cup without spilling a drop. When they straightened back up, curiosity danced in her eyes as she waited to see if they were cured—Laila watched in amusement.
“Hey, it worked!” Tariq said, and the delight in their voice made Laila feel warm.
Coming back over to sit beside Laila again, Tariq urged, “Now you!
Laila held her breath, but she could still feel herself hiccupping through it. “I don’t th-*HIC-ulk!*-think that’s gonna d-*holp!*-do the trick,” she admitted. “I-*holk!*-need some wate-*HULP!*-water.”
“Wait here!” Tariq cried, scrambling up again.
It would’ve been logical to just bring the pitcher and both their cups over the first time, but Tariq wasn’t exactly the most logical of beings. Laila looked on as she ran back to the pitcher, realized they’d forgotten to grab Laila’s cup, went to pick that up, then returned to the pitcher again and filled it.
Finally, the genie brought the cup over to Laila. “I really hope it helps,” they said, and he managed to inject more sincerity into those few words than Laila thought she’d ever felt in her entire life.
How could she go back to life without them?
Laila drank the water with slow continual swallows. When she finished, she couldn’t help grinning at the eager hopefulness in Tariq’s eyes. “Give it a second,” Laila told them. She waited, but there were no more hiccups.
“Yeah, that did it,” she said, and Tariq pulled her into an exuberant hug.
“Oh, good!” he exclaimed. “Always tell me if they hurt, okay? I want to stop mine as soon as possible if yours are hurting you.”
Although Laila made herself roll her eyes, drawling back, “You worry too much,” she was genuinely touched by the genie’s concern.
“No I don’t!” Tariq pointed out. “Because you worry way more than I do, and you don’t worry too much. You worry just the right amount.”
Laila laughed. Was there anything they didn’t think was perfect about her? “Fine, have it your way,” she replied.
Wishes or no wishes, there was no way she could just send Tariq back to his lonely lamp, Laila realized. Not an option.
One thing Tariq did have right—Laila would think of something. She always did.
I'm back with another Megan & Francisco story! This one isn't sickfic, but it's still snz fic, although the sneezing doesn't start until chapter 2. For this first chapter, we're catching up on what's been happening with Megan and Francisco since the last time we saw them.
Content: Light sexual references. Mild body image issues.
Most of the time, life seems to happen in ways you’d expect. You book jobs or you don’t, the weather is always just slightly off what your app tells you, your old roommate from college is gonna give her ex one more chance (for the last time, she swears!), and you get a discount email from that slightly-too-pricey takeout place exactly three days after you’ve been there.
It was a lot like movies that way, where you know the couple isn’t getting together until the last minute, the ragtag team of scrappy underdogs is gonna win the championship, and the hero is gonna walk away calmly as the bad guy’s lair explodes behind them. Seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all, right?
But life, like movies, was still capable of surprising you every now and then. Megan could’ve never imagined getting an Oscar nod for Best Sound Editing at 33, and even though she didn’t win, it was thrilling just to hear her name share space with some of the best folks in her industry. That was a big ol’ surprise right there. And then, of course, there was the very unexpected turn that night took and the wildly improbable sequence of events that followed.
Francisco Morales—bona fide Mexican movie star, Hollywood up and comer, and star of the indie film she’d sound edited—sought her out in the awards show crowd to congratulate her on her nomination. He wound up taking her to a party after the ceremony, and within a week, she had legit hung out in his hotel room, not once but twice, and they were DM-ing on the regular. How do things like that happen?
(Did she mention that he had a cold the whole time? Because he had a cold the whole time. Be still her goddamn kinky heart.)
Since then, most of Megan’s day-to-day life had ticked back over into ordinary. And the Francisco Morales part of it? Was somehow becoming incorporated into her ordinary, which Megan wasn’t sure if she’d ever fully get used to. It had happened gradually but astoundingly. Talking movies and work over DMs and video chats had turned into sharing memes and food pictures, then funny stories about their days, then honest admissions of deeper stuff.
And somewhere, in all that, it became more than DMs and video chats. Megan had practically been making heart eyes at Francisco from the moment she met him, so nothing unusual on her side, but he kind of bowled her over that night when they were chatting and he stopped and said, “I want to hear your laugh every day.” Megan, who happened to be obliging him at that moment, grew serious at the something in his tone, the sincerity of it, the way she felt like his gaze was about to set her phone screen on fire.
Megan hadn’t been in a long-distance relationship since just after she moved to LA (that had crashed and burned in, what was it? three months? maybe four?), but when Francisco Morales is into you and he lives in Mexico City, you make it work.
And it worked, better than Megan would’ve thought. Francisco’s fame back home kept him busy, but they found time for video dinner dates, Netflix watch parties (exchanging gifs and emojis during the show or movie, then calling to dissect it afterwards,) and late-night phone discussions while Megan sat out on her balcony, imagining the stars behind the light pollution.
Weirdly, it was kind of an ideal way to start dating. Away from the immediate vicinity of Francisco’s thousand-watt smile and dangerously-perfect jawline, Megan was better able to handle her freak-out reaction to being with him in the first place. When he was on her phone and not standing in front of her, she had time to contextualize him, not as Movie Star Francisco Morales, but as Francisco the person who just happened to be utterly gorgeous and a damn talented actor, the guy whose written DMs were about one-third emojis (his English was fantastic, but he was self-conscious about it in writing) and who was apt to send her pictures of incredible-looking meals with multiple exclamation points and zero context.
Thanks to that initial distance, when Francisco came out to LA seven weeks later for a few auditions and three days filming a bit part in big-budget zombie movie (“Spoiler—I die so bad!” he confided,) Megan was able to be like 80% girlfriend-ish and only 20% fangirl.
(But the sex. Good lord, the sex!)
Now, Francisco was in LA again—he was almost always working, which took up a lot of his time but conveniently helped in closing the distance between them—this time for close to a month. He’d booked a pretty decent-sized part in Semi-Fixable, a small film with some big actors. It was about a couple in an unhappy marriage, which nearly falls apart until the wife has an affair with a sexy young sailor (a.k.a. Francisco.) This makes the husband realize he still wants to fight for their marriage, and rather than deciding to live with Francisco on his boat forever and have sex every day (like a person with eyes would,) she ends up going back to her husband in the hopes of working it out.
At this point, Megan and Francisco had been seeing each other for a little over four months, and while they knew each other intimately through their long-distance arrangement, being in the same room was still in the new-and-deliciously-exciting phase. When Francisco broached the idea (almost shyly? bless him) of staying with her while he was in town, Megan pointed out that her cheap-ass apartment was prohibitively far away from where he’d be shooting, but it worked out. Being Mexico-famous made you kinda LA-middle-class, and Francisco scored a sublet on a small but stylish furnished apartment much closer to the action. Megan had been staying over pretty much every night since Francisco had arrived, and since she could generally work on sound editing anywhere her laptop was, it was way better than making Francisco shlep across zip codes every morning to get from her place to his set.
They were in bed now, sharing a post-sexytimes cuddle. “Are you excited?” Megan asked, walking her fingers lightly across Francisco’s bare chest.
He smiled at her, a sleepy sort of fondness and maybe just a hint of ticklishness. “Mostly excited,” he confirmed. “A little nervous too.”
His days so far had been spent on some pre-production stuff, but tomorrow was his actual first day of shooting. “You’re gonna kill it, obviously,” Megan informed him. He frowned at her and, realizing the phrase might not translate well between English and Spanish, added, “You’re gonna be awesome.”
“I hope so,” Francisco replied. “I’m glad I had a little time with Rebecca before, you know, before we shoot it tomorrow.”
Rebecca Soczek (pronounced “SO-check”) was a rom-com queen of the early 2000s, an actress with the kind of attitude that refused to change her name and the kind of clout that made people learn how to say it anyway. She’d fallen a bit off the radar since her heyday, and from what Francisco said, playing the wife in Semi-Fixable was something of a passion project for her, a complex leading role for a woman over 40 and a chance to stretch acting muscles a lot of people probably didn’t realize she had.
The last time Francisco had been in LA, he’d gone in for a chemistry read with Rebecca, and in the lead-up to shooting, the film’s director had arranged a few lunch-date type meetings between Rebecca and Francisco before they had to film scenes together that were going to be, like, 80% wild monkey sex. And last weekend, Rebecca had actually paid for a spa day for her and Francisco, and to hear Francisco tell it, they spent the entire day getting to know each other over massages, facials, and body scrubs.
Full disclosure, Megan was a bit nervous about the whole thing. Obviously, sex scenes in a movie were worlds apart from actual sex—“You’re standing there with your dick in a sock and 50 people staring at you!” Francisco told her—and Rebecca Soczek was equal parts happily married and 18 years Francisco’s senior, but there was still just that little something that snagged insecurely in her brain when she thought about Francisco and Rebecca acting wild monkey sex together.
Like, for instance, they would be doing tomorrow.
“It’s—I mean, always it’s awkward,” Francisco was continuing. “And for the first day of me shooting! You know how, in the early days of CGI, there was so much greenscreen that there was nothing for the actors to hold onto, they didn’t know what to do? This is like that for sex scenes.”
Megan winced sympathetically. “I honestly can’t imagine taking my clothes off in front of a camera,” she said.
Francisco leaned in to kiss her neck. “You would have nothing to worry about,” he assured her, grinning cheekily as he lifted the sheet to take a peek at her.
Megan couldn’t help grinning back, even as a small part of her mind was trying to remember how Rebecca Soczek looked (besides flawless) in her less-than-dressed scenes from a few of her old romcoms. “You tell the most charming lies,” she replied.
Francisco cupped his hands around her thighs, which he could somehow do without making her feel self-conscious about her body. “I’m only telling you what I see,” he insisted.
Megan wondered if he could sense her nerves, if he was trying to make her feel better even though he was the one that was going to be naked on a film set tomorrow. But in a weird way, his nerves did make her feel better about her own.
“Oh,” Francisco went on, “but I was going to say, it’s better if you’ve met the person. Even if you haven’t acted together before, it’s good to talk and understand each other a little, not just say, ‘Hello, so great to meet you! I’m going to put my hands on your breasts now.’”
He managed to make Megan laugh with that one. “Yeah,” she agreed, “feels like you’ve missed a few steps there.”
“Just a few,” Francisco said, his smile brightening the dim room. He moved his fingers gently through her curls, then gave a resigned sigh. “I should sleep,” he admitted. “I have to be on set early tomorrow.”
“Absolutely,” Megan replied. “Gotta be ready for action.” And even though her stomach still did a bit of an odd flip to think that the next person in Francisco’s arms would be Rebecca Soczek, she gave him one last kiss and then rolled over to switch off the lamp.
I thought I'd switch things up a little for this next Laila & Tariq story, see what the characters get up to before they all meet up again. It'll also be the first one I've written that includes POVs from Aasif and Sita!
Content: Extremely fast/strong hiccups, pain/discomfort from spicy food.
Aasif walked briskly back from the kitchens, his quarry tucked into his sleeve. No reason to advertise—the servants or guards would only wonder why he was carrying such a thing through the palace, and he really didn’t see why anyone else had to know.
He returned to his bedroom and set his prize on his desk. For a moment, he just eyed it, wondering about the best way to begin. Should he just go for it?
At that moment, his door opened, and Aasif let out a long-suffering sigh. “What do you want, Sita?” he called over his shoulder. It had to be his sister. Any of the palace staff would’ve knocked, and his parents didn’t come to him—they’d send one of the servants to fetch him.
Sita hung back in the doorway, holding up a vase of cut flowers. “I got these from the gardens, thought you might like some,” she explained.
Well, how was Aasif meant to be annoyed with her when she was all thoughtful? It was one of the most aggravating things about his sister. “Yes, thank you,” he said in a resigned tone. “Come on in.”
He stood in front of the desk to block her view, but Sita didn’t seem to be paying much mind anyway. “What are you up to?” she asked, fussing with the (admittedly very pretty) flowers as she walked into the room.
“Oh, you know—plots, schemes, the usual,” Aasif replied.
“Huh?” She looked up at him.
Aasif chuckled. “Nothing, Sita.”
“Mmm.” She nodded. “Right.” As she looked around the room, Sita murmured to herself, “Now where to put you?”
“Maybe over by the—” Aasif started to say, gesturing to his bedside table, but Sita approached the desk instead.
“What about here?” she asked in the same breath as Aasif. Slipping past him, Sita set the vase down and was pulled up short by what she found on the desk.
“That’s a hearth pepper,” she said.
Aasif gave the thing a glance. “Is it?” he mused, as if he’d only just noticed himself.
“Why do you have a hearth pepper in your room?” Sita wondered.
No, she was annoying. Definitely annoying. “It brightens up the atmosphere,” Aasif drawled back.
“Aasif,” Sita said.
Aasif’s sister could be meek and withdrawn in company, but if she felt comfortable enough with you, she could be downright stubborn. With another sigh, Aasif admitted, “I need…practice.”
Sita frowned. “Practice at what? Eating the hottest food that grows in Iqara?” Rolling her eyes, she asked, “Is this a bet? With who, Rashad from the stables?”
“It’s not a bet,” Aasif told her. “It’s…” Between the two of them, it was very rare that Aasif was the tongue-tied one. He wondered if Sita was enjoying the role reversal. “Look,” he finally said, “it’s to help me get ready for seeing Tariq again.”
“But why would Tariq want you to—?” Sita began, and Aasif saw the exact moment she realized what he was doing. Her eyes widened in surprise, and a small laugh escaped her.
Aasif gave a small huff and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Go on, say it.”
“You’re trying to get the hiccups?” Sita asked.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Aasif retorted. “I always get so embarrassed and cranky when I have them. Tariq’s curse is non-negotiable, so I have to figure out a way to get used to them. And I thought, practice—this is the first thing I could think of that might work.”
As she thought this over, Sita cocked her head. “Wait here,” she told him. “You’d better at least have some milk ready for yourself, or you’ll regret this fast.”
All right, so Aasif couldn’t be annoyed at Sita’s smarts either, not when they saved him from his own impulsivity. “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding. “Good idea.”
Heading for the door, Sita added, “I mean, you might regret the idea anyway. But at least you can prepare yourself for the fallout.”
“Thanks, Sita!” Aasif called after her.
While he waited, Aasif discovered that he was starting to feel apprehensive about the whole thing. Whenever the cooks served dishes made with hearth peppers, it never took more than a few mouthfuls for him to start sweating, and that was when they were blended into a sauce. They were supposed to be even hotter when they were raw, weren’t they?
That was the trouble with Sita’s pragmatism—when she pointed out all the logic, it gave you time to second-guess yourself. If not for her, Aasif would have done it already. Of course, that might’ve meant he’d be curled up on the floor with his mouth on fire, so there were pitfalls on either side.
A few minutes later, Sita returned with a pitcher of milk and a goblet. “You didn’t tell anyone what you needed it for, did you?” Aasif asked.
“Of course not,” Sita replied. “I didn’t think you’d want the servants to know the man you like is cursed, so you’re giving yourself the hiccups to help you cope with it.”
Was Aasif stalling? Hard to say. “Didn’t you hear Laila the last time they were here?” Aasif said. “She used ‘he,’ ‘she,’ and ‘they’ when she was talking about Tariq.” With a playful grin, he just nudged his sister. “Or when Laila talks, are you too busy getting lost in her eyes to hear what she says?”
“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Sita informed him, making a face.
“I happen to be an excellentjudge of my own humor,” Aasif countered.
“Fine—the person you like is cursed then,” Sita said. She sank down so she was eye level with the desk and looked at the hearth pepper. “Are you stalling?”
“I would never!” Aasif exclaimed. Sita raised her eyebrows at him and he realized that, if he talked much longer, he’d wind up backing out. If he wanted to go through with this, it would have to be now.
So, taking a breath, Aasif said, “I’m ready.” As he picked up the pepper by its stem, Sita filled the goblet with milk for him.
Just raising the hearth pepper near his face was enough to make his eyes water. Aasif told himself that that was good—it meant it had a good chance of working.
Okay, now or never.
Somehow reckless and cautious at the same time, Aasif took the smallest bite possible of the hearth pepper. It gave him about half a second of grace before it assaulted his tongue. By the time Aasif managed to swallow, he was already sweating.
“Oh-oh-oh!” he panted, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.
“Aasif,” Sita prompted. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she held up the goblet.
Aasif seized it with both hands and gulped down a few swallows. “Oh my g-*ulk!*-god!” He downed the rest of the milk and handed the goblet back to Sita. “More, pl-please,” he begged. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he fanned at his tongue.
“Yes, I have it,” Sita assured him.
Another hiccup hit him while she was refilling the goblet, a hard “*huck!*” God, his throat and chest were burning now too. “Hurry!” Aasif insisted, his eyes streaming.
Sita gave him the goblet and watched as he tried to quench the fire he’d just swallowed. “Aren’t you glad I came along?” she asked.
“Shut up,” Aasif replied between gulps of milk. It was helping a little—the heat wasn’t unbearable—but he still felt like, if he breathed too hard, his desk would go up like kindling. “*hup!*”
“At least it worked,” Sita offered, giving Aasif a sympathetic smile as she took the empty goblet from him and refilled it again.
Aasif wasn’t so sure. After four goblets of milk, he was feeling slightly more human again, but in that time, he only counted six hiccups.
“I don’t think I have them,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Sita argued. “You started hiccupping as soon as you swallowed it.”
“It made me hiccup,” Aasif conceded. “But I don’t think it’s given me the hiccups. It’s like th-*hmmk!*-they haven’t fully taken.”
Looking with grim resignation at the hearth pepper, Aasif realized, “I need to try again.”
Sita gave him an incredulous look. “Do you seriously want to put yourself through that a second time?”
“I’m nearly there,” Aasif told her. “At least, I think I am. I bet one mor-*herk!* bite would put me over the edge.”
Sighing, Sita refilled the goblet in readiness. “Have it your way.”
It took a firm resolve to back go for a second round when Aasif’s tongue still felt tender from his first attempt. But he reminded himself of Tariq’s sunshiny face and gorgeous black curls. If Aasif was going to get over his damn embarrassment over getting the hiccups, he’d have to face it head on.
The second bite was, if possible, even smaller than the first, but it packed just as much a wallop. Aasif’s poor beleaguered tongue, mouth, throat, and stomach staggered like wounded troops being told to get ready for the next bout.
Sita was on hand with the goblet, and Aasif doused his mouth with a few swallows before the first “*HUP!*” hit him. Another swallow, a “*HUCK!*--*ulk!*”, then a rat-a-tat of “*hmmp!**ULK!**HUCK!*” kept him from drinking any more.
With a wince, Sita offered, “Well done?”
Aasif nodded weakly through a “*HERK!*--*HUP!**HUP!*”, hiccupping too fast and too hard for much else. He’d never had hiccups this badly before, and he was all but at the mercy of them. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, he grimaced at the unforgiving drumbeat of hiccups slamming against his throat and chest, which were still searing from the heat of the pepper. “*HMMK!**HMMP!**hmmp!*--*ULK!**HMMK!*”
“Sit tight,” Sita told Aasif, squeezing his shoulder. She emptied the goblet back into the pitcher and ran to fetch a different one, the water pitcher by his wash basin. Hurriedly, she returned to the desk and refilled the goblet with water.
Aasif gave up—he was barely eking out his words anyway, and from Sita’s expression, she was having trouble following him. Fumbling on his desk for paper and ink, he scrawled a hasty note in a hand that jerked from his hiccups.
The whole point is to have them, not cure them
Sita read his note, then looked back up at him. “I know,” she said. “But frankly, I doubt water would cure them right now. I was just thinking that it might slow them down a little, let you catch your breath.”
There she went again—logical. With a “*HMMP!**HERK!*--*HUCK!**HUP!**HUP!*--*hmmk!*”, Aasif nodded, and Sita gave him the goblet.
“Slowly,” she counseled. “See if you can manage a small sip.”
She had a point. Aasif would probably start sputtering and coughing if he tried to drink normally. He wasn’t sure what effect that might have on the hiccups, but he could guess that it wouldn’t be good.
“*ULK!**herk!**HUCK!**HERK!*” A tiny sip, barely enough to wet his tongue. “*HUP!**HMMK!*--*ULK!*” Another sip. “*HUP!**HUP!**HUCK!*” Another.
It took all of that goblet, but Aasif got himself down to the slightest reprieve between hiccups. “*HUCK!*--*ULK!*--*HERK!*--*hmmp!*” Although they were still much harder than his normal cases ever were—faster too—they felt like less of an assault on his body. “*HUP!*-Can-*HMMK!*-I-*HUCK!*-have-*HERK!*-anoth-*HMMP!*-nother?” he asked his sister.
“Yes, of course,” Sita replied reassuringly. She filled the goblet again.
By the time he got through a second goblet of water, Aasif still had a bad case of hiccups, but they weren’t unbearable. A fair amount of the spice had dissipated too, so he wasn’t feeling fresh heat with each hiccup anymore.
“All right-*HMMK!*-I think th-*HUCK!*-that will-*HUP!*--*hmmk!*-do,” Aasif announced. He threw himself into his desk chair in an exhausted-yet-dramatic pose, tipping his head onto the chair back and resting a weary hand on his stomach as it jerked with his hiccups.
“Are you all right now?” Sita asked.
“Some-*HMMP!*-thing like-*HERK!*-that,” Aasif told her. A hard “*HUCK!*” interrupted his groan.
“Look on the bright side,” Sita pointed out. “I know this turned out worse than you bargained for, but the next time you get them from Tariq’s curse, they won’t be nearly as bad as this.”
Aasif sighed. “*HUP!*--*HERK!* I suppo-*ulk!*-pose,” he agreed. “That’s s-*HUCK!*-something.” He glanced at Sita. “I’d pl-*HMMK!*-planned on-*HMMP!*--*huck!*-walking aroun-*HUP!*-the palace-*HERK!*-so I c-*HMMP!*-could prac-*HUCK!*-tice letting-*HUCK!*--*HUP!*-other p-*HMMK!*-people see-*hup!*-me with them, *HMMP!* but there’s-*HERK!*-no way in-*hmmk!*-in hell-*HUCK!*-I’m doin-*ULK!*-that with th-*HMMP!*-these.”
Sita nodded her understanding. “I think you’ve done more than enough ‘practicing’ for today,” she said. Patting his shoulder, she added, “Try to relax if you can. Is there anything else I can bring you?”
With a shake of his head, Aasif replied, “Thanks, Sita-*HUP!*” He rubbed his chest with his knuckles. “I’m ok-*HUCK!*--HERK!*-okay.”
“All right then.” Sita headed for the day. “I’ll leave you be. I hope you don’t have them long!”
“Me-*hup!*-too!” Aasif called after her.
Once he was alone, Aasif got up, walked across the room, and sprawled his hiccupping self onto his bed. This maybe wasn’t one of his more brilliant ideas, although not even Sita could deny that it was clearly effective.
After a long stressful day, Malcolm helps Andy get some much-needed rest.
This is the end of "Summer Recess Woes." Thanks for reading!
Once Malcolm was through texting his mum for Andy, they went quiet. Andy turned his attention back to his soup, and Malcolm took out his book. He kept his arm casually round Andy, sometimes running a gentle hand along Andy’s arm. Too much quiet often felt stifling to Andy, but he didn’t mind it tonight. Much else would’ve been overstimulating, he thought.
He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when his phone buzzed. “It’s my mom,” Malcolm told Andy as he picked it up. “She says, ‘Absolutely, honey. Sleep well, and feel better soon.’”
Andy felt a tired smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Tell her thank you, with a heart emoji,” he requested. “And find a good GIF of somebody sleeping.”
Malcolm showed him one of Anna from Frozen, dribbling on her pillow with her hair a mess. “Oh god…” Andy murmured, cringing. “N-not that o-- one…haaahhhhhhh-ehhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!”
“No problem,” Malcolm replied. He scrolled a bit, then found one of a cat curled up asleep on a pillow. “How’s that?”
“Yeah, do that one,” Andy said.
After he sent the text, Malcolm asked, “Are you finished?”
Andy frowned. “Huh?” Malcolm nodded to his half-empty bowl. With a sigh, Andy insisted, “It’s really good. I-I’m just not—”
“It’s all right,” Malcolm assured him. “Why don’t I put the rest in the fridge? You can have it tomorrow.”
The thought was somehow comforting and dismaying at the same time—Andy wasn’t sure how his brain managed it. There was the comfort of knowing Mrs. Forrester’s cooking would be waiting for him tomorrow, along with the dismay of realizing he’d still be ill.
“Okay,” Andy mumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Be right back,” Malcolm told him.
Once he’d seen to the soup, Malcolm came back to the bed, putting his arm round Andy again. “Anything else you need?”
Andy sniffled. “I think I want that forehead kiss now.”
Malcolm smiled. “Sounds good.” He bent down and planted a soft kiss on Andy’s forehead.
“Mmm,” Andy murmured, closing his eyes. He was quiet for a minute or two—it sounded like Malcolm had gone back to his book—and then he admitted, “I’m still going to be ill tomorrow, I think.”
“Yeah, that’d be my guess,” Malcolm agreed. “If you’re feeling pretty crappy, we’ll stay home. Better to have you spend a few days in bed getting over your cold instead of being miserable for half our vacation as you drag yourself out of the house.”
He was right, Andy knew that, but it was still bitterly disappointing to think about. “I g-- I guess…aaahhhhhh…hehhhhhh-uhhhhhhh…”
The sneeze wouldn’t come. Andy sat up a little, scrubbing at his nose with his finger. “Is it stuck?” Malcolm asked.
Groaning, Andy nodded. “Try looking at the lamp,” Malcolm suggested.
Andy did as Malcolm said. The light made the tickle in Andy’s nose stronger, fiercer, but he couldn’t get himself all the way to a sneeze, “Eurgh, f-fuhhhh-- fuck!” he grumbled.
“Here, let me try the overhead light,” Malcolm said. He hopped out of bed and flicked the switch on.
“huhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHH! Ihhhhhh-hehhhhhhh-chioooooo!” Andy sneezed. “Ehhhhhh-hahhhhhhhh…hihhhhhhhhh-shoooooooo!”
As he turned the light back off and climbed into bed again, Malcolm gave Andy a sympathetic wince. “Oof, bless you.”
“Y-- yeah,” Andy said, sniffling wetly. He grabbed a couple tissues to give his nose a proper blow, then curled back up on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Sorry—it’s gross.”
“It’s okay,” Malcolm told him.
Andy sniffled again. “Will you stay in here until I fall back asleep?”
“Sure,” Malcolm replied with a nod. “Are you ready to lie down?”
“No,” Andy said. “Later.”
“All right.”
Stifling a cough into his knuckles, Andy added, “But if I fall asleep against you, move me down onto the pillow, okay? Don’t stay stuck here just because I’m lying on you.”
“Will do,” Malcolm promised.
Andy gave a weary smile, snuggling up so closely you’d have thought he was trying to burrow into Malcolm. When he was tired and stressed and feeling awful, Malcolm was everything he needed.
Andy murmured a soft groan as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Messy?” Malcolm asked quietly. Andy nodded with a sweet sort of whimper. Malcolm gave him a squeeze. “Do you want me to get you a washcloth?”
With another whimper, Andy said, “I don’t want you to go.”
“Just for a minute,” Malcolm told him, brushing his knuckles along Andy’s flushed cheek. “It’ll help you get cleaned up.” He knew how Andy hated feeling gross when he was sick.
As Andy thought this over, he rubbed his face with his clean hand. “Eurgh, yeah—okay,” he finally decided.
“Okay,” Malcolm echoed. Gently, he eased himself away from Andy, making sure he left his boyfriend in a comfortable position. He walked to the bathroom, where he put a little soap onto a washcloth and ran it under warm water.
Coming back into the bedroom, Malcolm said, “Here you go.” He sat down on Andy’s side of the bed and handed him the washcloth.
“Thank you,” Andy murmured in small, fragile-sounding voice. “I-I…hihhhhhhhhhh…” Malcolm plucked a Kleenex out of the box and gave it to Andy, who hurriedly buried his face in it. “haaahhhhhhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHHHH! Unnnhhhhhh…”
Andy blotted at his nose with the Kleenex, then let it fall into the wastebasket beside the bed. He blinked back a few tears as he turned his attention to the washcloth, carefully cleaning his hands and face.
“Is that any better?” Malcolm asked. Andy nodded. Cupping Andy’s cheek, Malcolm brushed away a stray tear with his thumb. His hand traveled up to Andy’s brow. “Kiss?” Malcolm suggested, stroking Andy’s temple to indicate the spot.
Andy nodded again, and Malcolm softly kissed his temple. Getting back into bed, he let Andy fall into his arms, clinging to Malcolm’s shirt as he rested his head on Malcolm’s shoulder.
Malcolm wished there was more he could do to help, but luckily, Andy’s exhaustion finally seemed to be winning out over his misery. Over the next few minutes, his congested breathing got slower and more restful, and his grip on Malcolm’s shirt loosened.
He’d made Malcolm promise to lie him down after he fell asleep, but Malcolm waited a few extra minutes after Andy started to mumble in between stuffed-up snores. After the terrible day he’d had, the last thing Malcolm wanted was to accidentally wake Andy up right as he was drifting off.
When he was assured that Andy was sleeping soundly enough that Malcolm moving wouldn’t bother him, Malcolm gently shifted his boyfriend down onto the mattress, making sure the pillow was comfortably under his head. Andy murmured a little, sniffling, and Malcolm stroked his cheek.
He wasn’t quite sure how to arrange the blankets—he opted for a middle ground, covering Andy with the sheet and one lighter-weight blanket while pushing the comforter aside, leaving it within easy reach so Andy could pull it up if he needed it.
“hihhhhhhhh-ehhhhhhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHHHH!” Andy sneezed, then coughed, turning his face toward the pillow.
“Bless you,” Malcolm whispered. Softly, he rubbed Andy’s back and brushed his dark hair back from his forehead. “Good night. Sleep well.”
Flicking off the table lamp, Malcolm crept to the door and pulled it shut as quietly as he could. He knew how much it sucked to be sick when you were away from home, and he imagined Andy would probably still be in low spirits tomorrow. But he hoped that it would help to stay at his place, that they could cocoon themselves inside against anything too stressful. With lots of rest, some leftover soup, and plenty of care and attention, hopefully Andy would be feeling back to himself before long.
Eric really hates that he got the hiccups at a nice restaurant in front of the Camden crew. Fortunately, he has Maritza to look out for him.
Content: Stress/embarrassment about hiccups (we're going full hurt/comfort with this one!) Obnoxious rich assholes.
This is the end of "Stress Tells." Thanks for reading!
Maritza caught up to Eric just outside the bathroom. “Hey,” she said. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him into an alcove so they wouldn’t have an audience. “You okay?”
Eric ducked his head, rubbing his mouth with his thumb. “Yeah,” he told her. “I j-*hup!*” Grimacing a little, he cleared his throat.
“Let me rephrase that,” Maritza said gently. “You’re not okay.”
For a second, Eric looked like he was going to try to keep his game face on. Then he sighed and leaned against the wall with a shake of his head. “Not really,” he admitted, wincing at a hard “*hmmk!*”
Maritza nodded. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Can I do anything to help?”
“I don’t kn-*hic-ulk!*-know,” Eric replied. With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes
“Getting a headache?” Maritza asked. Eric nodded, and she beckoned for him to stoop so she could kiss his temple.
“Do you want to try your normal cure again?” she wondered. “It might work now that you’re away from…all that.”
Eric sighed again. “*hmmk-mmk!* He grimaced. “I just wa-AN-na get out of here-*hmmp!*” he confessed.
“Okay,” Maritza agreed quietly. “I could go get our server, ask her for our portion of the check. I can bring it back here to you.”
“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. He raked his fingers through his hair. “I c-*hmmk!*-I can pay up-- front. If you could d-*hup!*-do the talking?”
“Of course,” Maritza promised.
“And…*hmmk-mmp!*” Eric rubbed his mouth with his knuckles, looking out in the direction of their table. “I really d-*hulk!*-don’t wanna go ba-*hmmk!*-ck there.”
“No problem,” Maritza assured him. “I’ll ask the server to meet you up front with the check, then grab our stuff.” She squeezed his hand. “I got you, okay?”
Eric nodded, offering her a weak smile. “Tha-AN-nks.”
Maritza stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “See you on the other side,” she teased lightly.
Stepping out of the alcove, Maritza’s first order of business was to flag down their server. “Hi, excuse me,” she said, smiling politely. “Thank you for a lovely night, but Mr. Langdon-Reyes and I need to leave early. Could I ask you to bring him the check for our meals at the front of house? We had the—”
“Yes, I know,” the server replied briskly, nodding. “Right away, miss. Shall I have someone box up your leftovers?”
“That would be great, thank you!” Maritza enthused. From a young age, Mami had drilled into her the importance of not wasting food, and even though Eric could obviously afford it, the thought of any chicken or lobster tail left behind killed Maritza a little.
“Oh,” she added as the server turned to go. “Also, Mr. Langdon-Reyes isn’t feeling very well.” At the woman’s alarmed look, she clarified, “It’s nothing to do with the food, don’t worry! But if you can avoid any pleasantries or asking him about the meal, I know he’d appreciate it. He just wants to get home and doesn’t feel like talking.”
“Of course, miss,” the server said with a nod. “I’ll send someone for those leftovers right now.”
“Thank you so much,” Maritza told her. As the server strode away, Maritza pulled out her phone and texted Eric.
Server coming to you with the check, you won’t have to talk to her. I’ll be there in a minute
She walked back to the table, already beginning to talk as she approached so none of the Camden crew could start in with anything. “Hey, we’ve gotta head out,” Maritza announced as she grabbed her bag and both their coats. “Langdon isn’t feeling well.”
“What?” Danielle exclaimed. “Since when?”
“Is he seriously wussing out on us?” Brody asked.
“Over fucking hiccups?” Jason added, scoffing.
Although Maritza didn’t owe any of these guys an explanation, she saw a server coming out of the kitchen with a pair of to-go boxes, so she couldn’t just walk away yet. “Actually, he’s got a migraine coming on,” she retorted. Not strictly true, but it shut them up.
“Ohhh, really?” Danielle cried. “Is he okay?”
“He will be,” Maritza said as the server reached the table and got to work on the leftovers. . “Just gonna get him back to his apartment so he can lie down.”
“Convenient timing,” Jason observed.
“Is that right, Jason?” Maritza replied. “It’s ‘convenient’ to get a blinding headache that basically knocks you off your feet? I’ll keep that in mind.”
He didn’t get to give his comeback, because at that moment, the server finished boxing up the food. “Thank you for coming, miss,” she said. “I hope Mr. Langdon feels better soon. Would you like me to bring these out to his car for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Maritza answered, accepting the boxes. “Thank you for your help. Mr. Langdon-Reyes and I both appreciate it.”
Then, tossing the Camden crowd a sweet smile that rivaled the best Danielle could muster, Maritza turned on her heels and walked away.
When she didn’t see Eric up by the front of the restaurant, Maritza checked her phone and saw a text she’d missed:
Thanks. Paid the check, going to wait in the car
No fewer than three staff thanked her for coming on her way out the door—Maritza hoped Eric wasn’t too stressed about having to get through that gauntlet. As she took quick strides across the parking lot, Maritza came to a stop in front of Eric’s car, wincing sympathetically at the sight of him sitting glumly in the driver’s seat.
“Hey,” Maritza said, climbing in on her side. “I come bearing leftovers.”
Eric nodded. “Thanks f-*hmmk!*-for doing that.” With a sigh, he slumped forward and rested his head in his folded arms over the steering wheel. “I-- I’m sorry, that was s-*holp!*-so dumb.”
“It’s fine,” Maritza insisted. She placed a light hand on Eric’s shoulder.
“No, i-*hmmk-mmp!*-it’s stupid to g-*hulk!*-get all flustered by somethi-ING-ng that doesn’t even-*hmmk!*-matter,” Eric told her. He raked both hands through his hair, pressing his forearms against his temples.
Maritza had seen Eric feeling stressed about things before, but never as bad as this. A testament to how awful he was feeling, or a sign that he felt comfortable enough with her to drop his relaxed, accommodating persona?
Or maybe a little of both?
“You had every reason to get out of there,” Maritza said. She started massaging his shoulder gently. “First of all, ‘wanting to leave’ is a perfectly valid reason on its own, so you didn’t need anything more than that. But your classmates were being obnoxious, you were embarrassed and stressed, and your head hurts. It would’ve been dumb to stay when you’re dealing with all that.”
“*hmmp!*” Slowly, Eric lifted his head and sank back against the driver’s seat. “I didn’t mean t-*huck!*-to ruin our ni-- night.”
“Nothing’s ruined,” Maritza told him.
Eric glanced at Maritza, then looked away. “You did-*hmmp!*-didn’t even get desser-*herk!*-t.”
“Pretty sure there’s ice cream at the apartment,” Maritza pointed out.
“You kn-*hmmp!*-know what I-*hic-ulp!*-mean,” Eric replied. He sighed again.
“So you can make it up to me later this week,” Maritza said. “Eric, I don’t care about the dessert. I just want to get you home so you can start feeling a little less shitty. Okay?”
Nodding, Eric rubbed his knuckles across his mouth. Maritza carefully drew it away and interlaced their fingers. “Is this all right?” she asked.
“Uh h-*hulk!*-uh huh,” Eric said.
“Are you okay to drive?” He nodded again, and Maritza gave his hand a squeeze before letting go.
Luckily, Eric’s place was only about a five-minute drive from the restaurant. In nicer weather, they might have walked there, but it was chilly tonight. Maritza found herself feeling grateful for the cold—she was sure Eric wanted to get back as soon as possible.
They didn’t say anything further on the drive. Eric kept his mouth closed, not tightly enough to fully stifle his hiccups, but enough to muffle them a little. “*hmmks!*” and “*mmk-mmps!*” that made his head snap back. Maritza put on a playlist on low volume, thinking Eric might not want his hiccups to be the only sound breaking up the quiet.
When they got back to the apartment, Maritza said, “Here,” and she motioned for Eric to turn so she could pull him into a long hug.
“Than-*hulk!*-thanks,” Eric replied in a low voice.
While she was holding him, Maritza could feel Eric’s hiccups. They weren’t super hard—he’d definitely had them worse than this before—but there was still some decent force behind them. “Do they hurt?” she asked.
“Wha-*hmmp!* Mmm…” Eric must’ve realized what she meant, because he shook his head. “No. *hic-ulp!* I just wish they-- they’d stop.”
“Yeah,” Maritza murmured in sympathy, scratching his back. “I’ll get you some water, all right?”
Eric rubbed his face with both hands. “Yeah, o-*hmmk!*-okay.”
Maritza went to the kitchen, stuck their to-go boxes in the fridge, and filled up a glass with water. But when she poked her head back out into the hallway, Eric had gone. She tried the living room, and he wasn’t in there either.
Just as Maritza was about to call his name, she heard a “*hic-uck!*” coming from the direction of the bedroom. Following the noise, she found Eric sitting on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his temples. He’d unbuttoned his nice shirt and taken off his shoes.
“Here you go,” Maritza told him. “You want some ibuprofen for your headache?”
“Oh-*hup!*” Eric mumbled as he accepted the glass. “Uh, yea-*hmmk!*-yeah, thanks.”
Maritza kissed the top of his head and stroked his temple. “Back in a sec.”
She crossed the hall to the bathroom and grabbed the ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet. By the time she got back, Eric was just finishing the water. As he held his breath, Maritza swapped him the pill bottle for the glass. “I’ll get you some more for your ibuprofen,” she explained.
One more trip across the hall. She’d just slipped back into the bedroom when Eric let out a slow exhale. He didn’t get through it without another hiccup, a hard “*hic-ulk!*” Groaning, Eric crossed his arms over his face and fell back onto the bed.
Maritza grimaced. She hated to see him so frustrated and glum. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That sucks. Do you wanna give it another shot?” Eric shook his head, jerking with a “*herk!*” As he’d flopped down onto the bed, the T-shirt underneath his button-down had ridden up a little, and his stomach was exposed as it popped out and back in with his next “*holk!*”
“All right,” Maritza said. She sat down on the bed beside him. “How ‘bout your medicine?”
Hiccupping through another groan, Eric nodded. He uncovered his face and rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on elbows. Maritza gave him the water, and he took sips as he swallowed a couple pills, timing them between hiccups.
“There we go,” Maritza remarked. She set the glass on the nightstand. “Do you want to just lie down? It might help if you’re able to relax a little.”
“Ughh-*huck!*” Eric made a face. “You must th-*hic!*-think I’m so la-- ame right now. *hic-erk!* I don’t blame y-*hmmp!*-you.”
“You’re not lame,” Maritza said. “You’re having a bad night. That’s not your fault.”
For a long moment, Eric was quiet, apart from his hiccups. Finally, he replied. “Yeah. I j-*hmmk!*-just wanna g-*holk!*-go to bed.”
“You got it,” Maritza told him, lightly massaging his neck. “Does it bother you to have me in here? I can sleep in the guest room tonight if you need some alone time.”
But Eric shook his head. “It’s not as b-*hmmk-mmp!*-as bad when you’r-*herk!*-here,” he said.
Maritza offered him a quiet smile. “Okay.”
Soon, they both in bed, lying down together while Eric softly played with Maritza’s hair. His hiccups hadn’t let up, but Maritza thought they might be calming down a bit. It sounded like they were coming further apart, and they weren’t making him jerk as much.
“Hiccups don’t always get you that stressed, do they?” Maritza asked. “I never really thought they bothered you that much.” She hoped Eric didn’t feel that bad whenever he got them. First, because it was clearly awful for him to an overwhelming level, and she didn’t want him to feel like that. And second, because she hated the thought that she might’ve seen him this badly stressed out before and completely missed the signs.
That was the tricky part about dating a skillful social code-switcher—Maritza never wanted to think Eric was fine when he wasn’t.
“No, not li-- like this,” Eric replied. “If I’m by-*huck!*-by myself or it’s just u-*hmmp!*-us, I don’t really mind th-*hulk!*-them. It’s more if I get them some-*hmmk!*-where I really don’t want to ha-AV-e them, especially if I c-*hic-uck!*-can’t get rid of them.”
“And it doesn’t help when Jason’s being a dick,” Maritza ventured.
“Right,” Eric confirmed. “Or-*hmmk!*-or when Danielle’s putti-*hic!*-putting all the attention on m-- me.”
I knew it! Maritza thought. She snuggled a little closer to Eric. “Is this okay?”
“Mmm hmm-*mmp!*” Eric cleared his throat. “And then some-- sometimes, being str-*hulk!*-stressed about it just makes it wor-*herk!*-rse.”
“What do you mean?” Maritza asked. “It makes the hiccups worse?”
“It can,” Eric admitted. “*hic-uck!* But also just the whole th-*hmmk!*-thing. I know it’s d-*hup!*-dumb to freak out over hiccu-- hiccups, so then it’s like I get-*hulk!*-stressed about being stressed and-*hmmp!*” He sighed a little. “I really ha-*hulp!*-hate it.”
“Yeah,” Maritza agreed, leaning in to kiss his temple. “I hate it for you.”
“Mmm,” Eric murmured. “*hmmk-mmp!* Thanks.”
The events of the night must’ve worn him out, because by the time Eric’s hiccups finally went away, he’d half nodded off. Maritza lay beside him, gently massaging the pinched furrow out of his brow while she listened to his slow, even breaths. She wished she could keep him from ever having to feel like that. But since she knew that wasn’t really in her power, she decided to settle for the next best thing: whenever possible, being there for him when he was stressed and down on himself.
Yeah, good plan, she decided. Closing her eyes, Maritza yawned and cuddled her boyfriend, who’d earned the absolute best night’s sleep.
