20-25, female, all characters that are under 18 in cannon have been aged up to at least 18 in my stories unless specifically stated otherwise. sickfic blog.
You’re an aspiring MSc who really needs to get this circuit analysis project done on time, but can’t because of the blackout. However, you heard through the grapevine about what happens when Kaminari starts sneezing…
Pro-Hero AU! Request for @nihilist123, who asked for a two-part Kacchako wav where they pass around a cold and don’t want the other to know. It might not have everything you requested, but I hope you like anyway!
ward of the week (and the weaker) [o/ff c/ampus] 3/3
hello imaginary gay people in my phone, here is the final part of WOTW!!! it took much longer than i expected to write LOL oops. i have been cursed with work disease so i work like 45 hrs a week rn. sorry i put extra torture sauce in this part, im feeling extra whump-y lately. i literally get fueled by logan sneezing himself dizzy so like let’s keep that going. love you all. as always, no beta bc i can’t Read, stay hydrated and be kind to yourselves !!!! pt one | pt two | pt three
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Friday
A great plague has befallen the House of Hockey, or at least that’s what Hannah said last night on the phone. Garrett laughed, and then he coughed and coughed until he wheezed, so he’s tried to refrain from laughing again since then.
It’s the first Friday night that isn’t spent hosting a party or at Malone’s in their time at Briar U.
The air in the living room is stale. It’s warm inside too, and so dry, the hallmark of doors sealed shut to the rest of the world. The living room is a nice change of scenery from his bedroom ceiling, which he’s seen plenty of in the last five days. Garrett feels fuzzy, and all weird, not quite sleep-tired but bone-tired in a way that he can’t seem to reach by napping.
He’s got his shirt off, and his socks off, he even had his plaid pajama pants off before he decided to enter the common space—he’s hot underneath the skin, sweltering sticky heat.
He’s got a nice tapestry of purple-yellow bruises on the right side of his ribs. He presses the cool metal of his Hydroflask to his torso, because all the ice packs are melted and being hoarded by Logan and his black eye which resembles smudged eyeliner now without all the swelling.
Garrett meets the couch with gratitude, sinking into the worn cushions with a groan. He’s sore all over, through his shoulders and lower back. The thermometer rests hauntingly on the coffee table next to a half empty mug of something dark and an ominous, unraveling roll of paper towels.
He figures most of the aching is the fever, but he’s sure the residual damage from the game isn’t helping.
The door to the back patio slides open and Dean saunters in, raggedly coughing into his elbow. Behind him, Tucker slides the door shut, wafting in the ripe tang of marijuana. Dean’s eyes are heavy lidded and red at the corners, useful hints that he’s high as a fucking kite.
The coughing carries on long enough for Dean to make it to the couch, and snatch up the mug and lift it to his lips. Tucker makes a noise like a squawk and shakes his head violently.
“Don’t drink that, it’s cold. At least, let me make you a fresh cup of tea.”
Dean concedes with an huff and settles on the couch, at Garrett’s feet. He lifts his heavy feet and slides beneath them, before placing them back in his lap. Tucker collects the mug and disappears into the kitchen, but Garrett can hear the sound of his distant coughing and then the abrupt shift into nose blowing. The poor guy has been hugging a paper towel roll to his chest all day, and his face is pink and raw to show for it.
“Are you sure you should be smoking?” Garrett knocks his foot against Dean’s stomach.
Garrett only ever indulges during off-season. Between the pressure of the school, and his father, it has sucked all the fun out of partying for him. He wants to succeed, not for his father, but for himself. Getting drunk with his friends is a luxury he cannot afford. He needs to be in the best shape of his life.
He received a text from his father after their match from hell yesterday. All it read was:
[ 8:22 pm ] Phil
Rest.
Garrett didn’t bother to dignify him with a response, but the comment has been eating at him ever since.
Especially since he can’t even disobey the order. He doesn’t have energy to do anything but lay on the couch and, case-in-point, rest.
Dean, blinking in slow motion, seems to register Garrett’s question in even slower motion. He gives a small smile, which quickly turns to a grimace when he clears his throat to speak.
Whatever cold, or flu they’ve got has hit everyone in their own specific way.
Garrett’s aching down to the marrow of his bones. Every part of him pulses with a throbbing discomfort, and it makes his skin feel tight and uncomfortable. He can’t keep his eyes open either. Every time he sits down, he seems to be dozing to sleep almost immediately.
Everything has settled into Dean’s throat. After the game, everyone piled into the upstairs bathroom after the steam cleared from the mirror and shined their phone flashlight into his mouth. His throat is a gnarled, enraged red. The sprinkling white dots lining his tonsils are a familiar sight—tonsillitis—which often accompanies most of his colds, or now, the flu. Violently recurrent and his doctor has been begging him to get them removed. If Dean could just get over his fear of needles, this would be handled already.
If he had to guess, Tucker is at the mercy of gravity. His ears are tender, and inflamed which has thrown off his entire equilibrium. Garrett has been playing hockey for a long time, and he hasn’t seen someone crash and burn as many times as Tuck did on the ice yesterday. Had he not played alongside him for many years, he might’ve thought it was Tucker’s first time lacing up some skates. He squints at bright lights, winces when sound gets too loud (even his own sneezes, which is maybe the saddest sight Garrett has ever witnessed). It’s like a Sarah McLaughlin puppy commercial, watching Tucker stumble over his own feet as his headache causes the room to tilt and sway and then look down at his own body with betrayal.
He knows Logan the best, and this is a top contender for the worst shape Garrett has ever seen him in.
The stairs creak behind the couch and Garrett cranes his neck to see Logan coming down the stairs, dragging sleep along with him. It’s wrapped tightly around him, like a weighted blanket. His hair is air dried and half of his curls stick up, endearingly messy. His t-shirt is wrinkled, creased from his warm sleeping body. He has lost his pants somewhere along the way, but his boxers are wrinkled in the same spot as his shirt. In fact, his cheek is pink with sleep lines on the same side too.
He stops on the last step, frozen in his pursuit and squints into the distance in front of him. Garrett watches his chest rise and fall, lips agape, eyes fluttering and fluttering. His eyelashes are long, fanning his high cheekbones and it’s such a desperate facial expression that he can’t help but watch in a mix of horror, amusement, and erotic curiosity.
“S-Shit,” mutters Logan, as he swiftly snatches his grey t-shirt collar over his mouth.
“hn’kdtschh! iSCHh! kN’tSCHh!”
Here he goes.
“Nk’tschh! —‘shhh! —shhht!”
Whatever they had caught had ravaged Logan’s sinuses. Not that it’s particularly difficult, with how sensitive he tended to be. He’s known Logan a long time and a plethora of things make him sneeze: dust, grass, coming into a cold rink from a hot day, when he pulls an all-nighter, alcohol, and above all else, sickness.
He’s never been the type of guy to sneeze once and be finished like he or Dean or Tucker can. It is always relentless, an entire production and epilogue. He sneezes until he’s gasping for air and still goes back for more.
It’s impressive.
Logan makes his way down the rest of the stairs while he’s panting, and only makes it as far as the arm of the couch before he’s twisting his upper body away from the crowd and sneezing loosely towards his hip, hand lingering uselessly a few inches away from his face.
Logan looks out of breath, lips parted and glistening. He takes a huge breath and then blows it out slowly.
“That’s been happedni’g every few mbinutes since last ndight. I’bm so—snf!—tired.”
Dean grimaces sympathetically. Logan trudges sadly to the arm chair and drops himself into it heavily.
“Yikes. I do not envy you.” Garrett reaches over and pats his knee. Logan’s wet sniffle is sad.
From the kitchen, mugs clink and chime. Garrett isn’t even aware that he’s hearing it until it abruptly pauses.
“All good in there, Tuck?”
“RRRSHH’OOHh!”
The sound of dishes clattering into the sink makes such a boisterous crash that everyone jumps.
“Bless you.”
Tucker groans loudly. The kitchen faucet switches on.
“G’bless.” Garrett sits up and tucks himself into the corner of the couch. He pats the cushion next to him and Logan scrambles over to join the fray.
Tucker enters from the kitchen with a two mugs in each hand and a package of frozen blueberries tucked underneath his armpit.
He sets a mug in front of each one of them before settling into the cushion on the other side of Dean. Once he’s sat, he passes the packet of frozen fruit to Logan who opens the ziplock and pops a frozen blueberry in his mouth before he seals it shut and presses it to his eye.
This is it. This is the pitiful motley crew. In his opinion, they’ve either reached a new level or friendship or this is a new low for them and he can’t decide which. Maybe it’s both.
“hH’ZSSHH’uh!” Garrett doesn’t even feel the sneeze coming before it announces itself. He catches spray all over his chest in surprise, when his head snaps forward suddenly. “Guh, sorry.”
“Do we have any mbore NdyQuil?” Logan asks.
Dean reaches into the front pouch of his hoodie and pulls out an empty bottle of NyQuil.
“No,” he croaks. The empty bottle hits the edge of the coffee table and skids to the floor, landing a few feet in front of them.
Damn.
Garrett snuffles a few times, wiping the underside of his nose on his wrist. They desperately need to put in a delivery order for the essentials: cough drops, daytime and nighttime medicine, soup, Liquid IV because he finally used their last packet yesterday evening, and then tissues.
Garrett fishes his phone out of his pocket, but a quick knock at the front door distracts him from getting his order started.
Dean groans loudly, which pretty accurately encapsulates the way they all seem to be feeling about getting up and answering the door. Logan finds the solution before the rest of them.
He twists over the back of the couch, and with the last dredges of his energy, hollers for whoever it is to enter.
It’s always been an open door policy. (See: They never remember to lock the door.)
“IT’S OPEDN!”
The door creaks open, Allie Hayes steps past the threshold…?
Then, Hannah steps in behind her with grocery bags hanging off each arm.
Allie steps over the duffel bag of sweaty undergarments like it’s a live bomb. A comical amount of disgust is written across her features, as she steps over Logan’s germ-riddled basketball shorts which are bunched at the base of the steps. She is careful to avoid bumping or brushing anything until she lands in front of the couch.
She frowns. “Ew.”
Dean looks like he’s about to crawl into the split between the couch cushions and die.
Hannah trudges through their den of sickness with familiarity, kicking aside any obstacle in her path and settles beside Allie on the far side of the coffee table.
“Hannah thinks you all are incapable of taking care of yourselves, and I agree. So, here we are.”
Allie is a breath of fresh air in the stale room. Tucker laughs a little and Garrett pushes himself up to sit up straighter. He wasn’t expecting to host anyone, but he’s glad to see them here.
Hannah doesn’t react to the comment though. She studies each of them thoroughly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She slowly lowers the bags onto the floor and by the way the weight settles, they sound heavy.
Her smile slips off of her face. It’s replaced by a slight frown, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows that Garrett loves to kiss away when she’s worried.
Are they such a sorry sight that it stole her smile in seconds?
“You guys look…” Hannah hesitates, weighing the outcome of her words. Allie doesn’t care, she rummages around in the grocery bags.
“Bad. They look bad. You’re allowed to say that, Han.”
“Sick,” she exhales a soft chuckle. “I was going to say ‘sick’.”
Allie gives a noncommittal hum, neither impacted nor impressed. She was right, they did look bad.
“We thought you guys could use a care package, so we ran to the store on our way over,” says Hannah and grabs a few things from Allie. First, she rips open a three-pack of tissues, and then tosses the box to Logan. The surprise causes him to fumble the cardboard but eventually he catches it.
Allie retrieves a family size bag of cough drops, cherry-flavored and numbing and tosses them into Dean’s lap.
Dean loves cherry-flavored medicine. He whines the entire time he has to choke down any other flavor, and Allie’s attention to detail means as much to Garrett as it does to Dean.
Dean, usually so sharp, struggles to school his expression. His lips part, his eyes widen and shimmer with emotion. Garrett turns his head away to grant them the illusion of privacy.
Hannah sets up her own pharmacy right in front of their eyes. A packet of decongestants, a brand new bottle of NyQuil, a bottle of Tylenol, a tube of muscle pain reliever, and then a container of Vicks Vapor rub.
“Wellsy,” Garrett whispers. Hannah shakes her head immediately, dismissing any commentary he has.
“I couldn’t just sit around knowing you all were so sick, and do nothing.”
“No, literally.” Allie pauses and gives Garrett a look. She does that a lot these days, like they’re sharing an inside joke. He hasn’t figured out what it means yet. “She almost didn’t sleep last night. It was very cute.”
The final thing Allie pulls out of a grocery bag is a wide paper sack. It’s stapled shut with a receipt in the front, but over the print is a hand-scrawled message ‘Get well soon!’
“We picked up a few quarts of tomato soup and grilled cheese from Malone’s. Figured you needed to eat.”
Hannah ducks into the kitchen briefly and returns with bowls and spoons.
“This is…exceptionally kind.” Tucker breathes, frozen by the weight of their thoughtfulness.
Allie extends a parchment wrapped grilled cheese to him, and everyone watches him shudder from the warmth rolling off the sandwich. “I am just starting to like hockey, so if my favorite team died from the flu, I’d be pretty pissed.”
Then she ruffles Tuck’s hair and his smile is almost blinding.
Garrett stands, because he can’t stomach sitting idly by, or being taken care of. He doesn’t know how to accept gentility without a price tag. Not entirely, not yet. He takes the bowls from Hannah, and holds them out while she pours tomato soup into each bowl.
Dean holds the bowl to his face and inhales the steam, and the sound of him trying to inhale through his nose is suffocating. He tucks into the bowl immediately. He’s been having a hard time swallowing much of anything with his shredded throat, so something liquid and warm is heavenly to him.
Garrett sets a grilled cheese in front of his and Logan’s seat, and then extends a bowl of soup to Logan. Logan reaches for the bowl, and then hesitates.
He quickly jerks his hands back, with a desperate shake of his head. His breath snags in rapid staccato, in-in-inhale, and Garrett knows to pull the bowl directly out of his line of fire before he starts sneezing.
Before Logan can even begin sneezing, Dean slams the bowl onto the coffee table and startles the tickle right out of him.
“G’nnasnee—zDSSCHHh’yiew!”
Dean manages to muffle the majority of the sound into the thick sleeve of his hoodie. Allie frowns and rounds the table. She presses her palm to his forehead, and he peeks up at her through his messy fringe, his eyes wide and guilty. Garrett hands Logan his rightful bowl of soup.
“Next time, just tell me you’re sick,” Allie says. Garrett glances at Hannah, who is grinning again. He wonders if she’s ever seen Allie this soft for someone. By the look on her face, he doesn’t think this is very common. “If you ever do that again, I’ll kick your ass.”
There she is.
Dean grimaces. “I kn—w…kHM! I’m s—…” He twists away from her and begins coughing, the deep barking coughs that rattle his frame and tend to wake the entire house.
Allie coos, brushes his sweaty bangs back from his forehead and kisses this warm temple. “I know you’re sorry. Shh.”
“Sit down.”
Garrett’s attention is turned back to Hannah, who is glowering up at him sternly. Unfortunately for her, she’s got the widest, sparkliest eyes in the entire world, so she entirely misses intimidating and lands on cute. Garrett bites back a smile.
“I’bm just helpi’g,” says Garrett, all charm and snot. He sounds so audibly sick, he probably wouldn’t even recognize his own voice on record.
“You’re swaying,” scolds Hannah. She gently pushes her hand over his marbled canvas of bruising and he can’t stop the sharp hiss of pain from the touch. Her fingers are blessedly cold, which is like a million needles on his tender, feverish skin. It hurts so good. “You’re not in any shape to help. Sit.”
Garrett ducks his head, craving nothing more than the feeling of her lips. He hasn’t kissed her in almost an entire week, in fear of getting her sick. A kiss from her would heal every ache and pain in him now. Instead, she rocks onto the very tips of her toes and kisses the highest point of his cheekbone and then presses their foreheads together.
Just as Garrett is about to melt into her, mould them into one, she pats his jaw and then motions him away to the couch. Only a few more days and then he can have as many kisses as he wants.
Dragging his feet, Garrett trudges back to the couch and plops down next to Logan to await being served his portion of soup. Just as Hannah is handing Garrett his bowl and spoon, Logan’s abandoned sneeze returns with a vengeance.
Logan manages to get his bowl onto the table in time, hitching the entire time. He gets two, three precursors sneezes, desperate chuffs of air that don’t even count as full, real sneezes but warn him of what’s to come.
He quickly pulls his collar to his mouth. “hH’nGKsh!…’schu! nDT’chu! —SHHht!”
Allie and Hannah both giggle, but Logan doesn’t lift his head to acknowledge him.
“Give him a minute,” Tucker instructs, around a mouthful of grilled cheese.
“I’bm sure ndow.” Logan snatches three tissues from the new box, and tents them over his nose. He blows softly, timid and careful not to aggravate his own nose.
“Bless you,” Allie giggles again, sounding impressed alongside her amusement. “And I thought I was bad.”
Hannah freezes, face suddenly flush a rosy pink, darkest at her ears and stretching to her throat. She clears her throat, and side steps the topic entirely.
Garrett squints at her.
“Bl—mhn.” Her voice trembles. “H—uh, how about we watch a movie?”
They decide on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, as it feels most fitting for the occasion. It takes everyone a minute to get settled, Garrett and Hannah sprawled across the couch, tangled in one another, Hannah tucked to Garrett’s side. Logan sits at the other end of the couch, with a quilt around his shoulders. Dean and Allie settle into the armchair, reclining it as far back as it will go, so there is room for the both of them. Allie wraps her arms around Dean, and Dean wraps his arms around the family size cough drops.
Tucker sits between Logan’s legs on a worn bean bag, sunken into the malleable folds, swallowed up by the soft material. Together, they look as content as could be.
Now fed and medicated, the house has settled into a comfortable rhythm that it hasn’t seen for days.
The opening credits begin to roll, and Garrett shifts beneath Hannah, pushing himself onto his elbow so he can create a fraction of distance.
“Are you alright?”
Garrett pulls in a shallow, steely breath. “Yeah, I think I’m going t-tuHh…” He loses his ability to speak, the tickle teetering on the precipice of coming to fruition or disappearing entirely. It’s delicate and precious. He squints at the bright screen in the dark. “hAHh—?!”
The gasp scrapes at his throat, before it drastically peters off, leaving him wanting and feeling lost.
Logan snorts. “Bruuutal.”
Garrett stamps the heel of his foot against his thigh which makes Logan laugh harder.
He settles back down, muttering an apology for interrupting their comfortable position, wrapping his arms around Hannah.
The attention returns to the movie, silence settling back over the room.
Then he sneezes. “H’JYSSSZCHHoo!”
Dean opens his mouth to retort, or maybe even bless him, but his throat has other plans. His voice squeaks, nothing but a strangled noise coming out which devolves into sharp, piercing coughs.
Logan nudges his socked foot against Tucker. “These guys are a fucking disaster, huh?”
Tucker’s head lolls to the side, and a stuffy snore is Logan’s only response. He leans down and adjusts Tucker’s blanket so it covers both of his shoulders.
Garrett pinches away the wetness around his nostrils, and collapses back onto the couch. Hannah takes a moment to settle back against his chest, her blue eyes sparkling with something he can’t name.
He pushes her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb along her jaw. Her eyes flutter shut and he tips her head down to kiss her forehead. “Thangk you.”
Her eyes spring open, and she’s smiling again, big and unencumbered. “For what?”
“Everything.” Maybe if he keeps practicing, like this, he could get used to love. He could learn that love is all it’s cracked up to be, the tangible, breathing thing that’s between them. The gentle touches, the soup, the thoughtfulness of cherry lozenges. That's love. Maybe he could learn that. “For taking care of us.”
Hannah shakes her head, slowly and fondly like he’s not grasping something. Like there is a point to this all and he isn’t getting it. “You don’t have to thank me. Wanna know why?”
Garrett smirks. “Why?”
“Because I loHhve!—oHhh no— eHhpTSCHh’yiew!”
His sweet, sweet girlfriend, and her bleeding heart. Garrett just might get the opportunity to practice loving her to his fullest potential very, very soon. Her thoughtfulness and bleeding heart have brought her before the jury, calling her immune system into question.
If it managed to tear through the entire hockey team, then Hannah and the entire theater troupe probably don’t stand a chance.
Garrett can’t help himself. He barks a laugh, catching Hannah’s face in his hands.
“God bless you, Wellsy.” Garrett leans in and presses their mouths together, softly humming into the kiss. Her lips are warm and sticky, flavored like cherry cough syrup. “That doesn’t sound so good.”
When he pulls away, Hannah is blushing like she did when they first met, all those months ago when she was easier to fluster and couldn’t untie her tongue. It’s cute to see again, like being visited by an old friend.
Hannah frantically shakes her head. “I just sn—uh. It was only a—hm.” She can’t seem to organize her thoughts, stammering awkwardly through her own feelings. It’s very endearing to watch, though Garrett isn’t sure where it’s coming from. “I’m okay.”
Garrett pecks her lips again. “Yeah?”
Hannah breaks the kiss to sniffle. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
“You’re positive?”
Hannah drops her head to his shoulder, hiding her face. She makes a frustrated noise, unintelligible but very clear in intention.
“Ooh, grumble, grumble.” Garrett whispers into her hair. He squeezes his arms around her a little tighter. It’s slow, like learning to ride a bike, practicing this. But the forward momentum will come, and he will adapt, and soon he will know the way she takes her tea or how to massage all the aches and pains from her body too. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
ward off the week (and the weaker) 1/3 [o/ff c/ampus]
happy pride tiny gay people in my phone. here’s my humble offerings to sacrifice for your pleasure. in a very atypical manner, i have written m/f. i don’t do this often but off campus resonated with me in a way that was so jarring. i started it to make fun of the shitty writing with my roommates and ended it sobbing and teeming with romantic whimsy again so that was awesome. in a very typical manner though, i made it kinda gay and weird. nothing crazy, i just gave hannah a sneeze fetish, multiplied the homoerotic undertones between all the boys, and made them all miserable. pls reference my snzcanons list. i haven’t read the books, and ive only watched the show once so keep that in mind with any major character things that may have been missing. also no beta cuz i cant Read. remember to drink water, be unsettling and have a great week. enjoyyy !!!!
[ pt one | pt two | pt three]
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Monday
Lethargy meets Garrett on the ice. It waits for him at the door, and follows him into the locker room. It helps him lace his skates, and don his helmet. After practice, he tries to leave it on the ice, but…
It follows him home.
Soreness greets him on the front porch of his house. The porch light makes his eyes burn.
The soft, luring strum of a guitar guides Garrett up the dark staircase like a lighthouse to a ship in the night. He didn’t shower at the gym tonight; he carries the weight of practice home with him.
He nudges his bedroom door open with the side of his duffel bag, displaying Hannah perched at the top of his bed with her guitar in her lap.
Her strumming pauses, and her face splits with a warm smile. Then she takes him in, unshowered, and flushed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. She immediately props her guitar against the nightstand, then levels Garrett with a concerned frown.
She extends her hand to him.
Garrett presses one knee into the mattress and gravity does the rest. His duffel bag thumps noisily to the floor as he is hauled into bed.
Hannah’s lap welcomes him without judgement. His cheek squishes against her knee, and her hands find the back of his sweaty curls immediately. She begins to caress, brush, and comb him. It’s an even tempo, something to lull him.
“Tired?” Hannah lowers her hand to his neck and squeezes the knotted mess of muscles at the base of his skull. The sound he makes would be considered lewd if it wasn’t tinged with sadness.
“Yeah, kinda,” his voice is muffled by the fabric of her pajama pants, but it isn’t difficult to catch the rattling grind of his overworked vocal cords. “Achy.”
Hannah acknowledges him with a hum. She kneads his neck roughly, which hurts like a bitch while simultaneously feeling like a dream. She travels lower, digging the pads of her fingers into his tight shoulder blades.
He vows to never get up from this spot again.
“You,” Hannah pauses to untangle a curl at the nape of his neck. “Should go shower.”
Garrett grunts his disapproval and doesn’t stir an inch.
“Ooh, grumble, grumble,” Hannah mocks. “C’mon,” she needles her finger into his side. “Go.”
Garrett cranes his head and regards Hannah sourly.
He doesn’t feel the sneeze coming, but it surges forward all at once, snagging his voice on a particularly loud gasp with sudden ferocity.
With only a second to spare, he rolls off of Hannah’s lap, onto his back and yanks his sweatshirt collar over his nose.
“Graham?” Hannah sounds concerned. He’s not sure, he can’t see her.
“hHuh-?!” He is helpless to stop it, but can’t encourage it to be over any faster. “HEH!…GHZZSSH’IUH!”
Hannah starts, which causes the headboard to thump into the wall. Garrett would’ve laughed if his breath wasn’t see-sawing in preparation of the next sneeze.
“Whoa,” breathes Hannah, in awe. Garrett isn’t sure if she’s surprised by the size of his sneeze or the fact that the second one is taking its sweet time to make an appearance. Either way, it’s an appropriate response.
“—IHh’JZSCHH’IUHh!”
Garrett flops pitifully beside her thigh, pinching his nose roughly with his collar to collect the moisture around his nostrils and then continues to massage away the lingering tickle by roughly scrubbing his nose.
His nose makes a squelching click with each rub. It dawns on him then that he might be catching something.
“Bless you,” Hannah says, petting the back of her hand against his cheek. He finally lowers his collar and stares up at his girlfriend. Her eyes scan across his face, and she wets her lips. Her face is flushed, and it takes her a few times of opening her mouth before she actually speaks. “Never heard you do that before.”
Garrett snorts, and the sound is unmistakably clogged. “People sneeze Wellsy, I’m not reinventing the wheel here.” He is aware of the sticky, blunted consonants that change the quality of his voice. At least he still has the energy to tease her.
Hannah hears it too, but she doesn’t comment. She shifts her hips from side to side, squeezing her thighs together and flexes her hands at her sides but she doesn’t reach for anything. It’s something she does often when she wants Garrett, craves him, but isn’t brave enough to initiate anything yet.
“Right.” It’s strange to see her do it here and now, but she runs a hand through her hair and the tension rushes out of the room as quickly as it builds. “You should go shower.”
Garrett throws an arm over his face, blocking Hannah and the light from view. The thought of getting up from this new comfortable position could make him cry. “In…a minute.”
Hannah chuckles softly and reaches over him. The sound of her grabbing the guitar makes the strings sing off-key, but she quickly settles it into her lap. “Well, I’m going to practice this for ten more minutes, then you have to get up. Okay?”
Garrett doesn’t respond, just breathes deeply, his lungs crackling noisily with each inhale.
“Okay?”
His lips smack, already starting to chap from dehydration.
“Garrett?”
His snore is almost as loud as his sneeze, and it startles Hannah again. She chuckles, bashful even in her lonesome, and brushes Garrett’s hair back from his face.
“Okay, nap time first,” she whispers, and begins to pluck a quiet tune, a lullaby to underscore his feverish sleep.
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Tuesday
Fleetwood Mac has often been the soundtrack to Logan’s questionable decisions and tonight is no different. He wipes the condensation from the side of his bottle with a hum of the familiar song and picks at the gold sticker around the neck with his thumb. The brand is a name he can’t pronounce.
He takes a sip, and it’s the first thing that’s been able to itch his dry throat all day.
He bites the orange wedge that came with the drink, then tosses the rind on the table. He licks his fingers clean from the juice.
Beside him, Tucker materializes and plucks the bottle out of his hand. “What’s this?”
“Don’t know. You speak Czech?”
Tucker takes a sip, hums appreciatively. Dean shoulders into the booth beside Tucker, precariously balancing a plate with 4 shots on it.
Rather than hand it back, Tucker slides the bottle over to Dean. He sniffs it, makes a curious face and then takes a sip.
“I hate it.” Dean says, and hands it back to Logan.
“Figured,” Tucker says with no small amount of enthusiasm. Logan shrugs and takes a long drag. It’s cold and it goes down easily. His requirements for beer are very short.
In his periphery, a lumbering figure approaches the table and collapses into the booth next to Logan.
Garrett Graham, hidden entirely by a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, props his head up on the table with a wheeze that sounds like a broken carburetor. He smells like Vicks and lemons, and there’s a sheen around his blistered red nostrils that hallmarks ointment for his poor chapped nose.
No one expected him here tonight, celebrating Fall Break, which heralds in their first and second game of the season. He’s sick as a dog, that much has been clear this morning when his barking cough woke the entire house, but he’s also the captain, and it’s always good for team morale to make an appearance.
Plus, Malone’s supplies a free pizza for every three beers bought, and Logan loves a deal so he wouldn’t miss it for the world either.
“Yo! Captain!” Tucker drums his knuckles against the table.
Dean wolf whistles and points at Garrett with a wide grin. “My man. Looking like absolute dog shit tonight.”
Logan can’t refute that, not even a little. He gently grips Garrett’s bicep. “Yeah man, not that I want to agree with Dean but…what are you doing here? You look awful.”
“Yeah, I know.” If Garrett looks bad, he sounds worse. “I won’t be here long, I just wanted to congratulate everyone on two solid games and tell the freshmen to Venmo request me if they need Uber’s home tonight.”
“You’re so sweet, Grams,” Dean coos in his most patronizing tone.
Unlike Dean, Tucker looks actually touched. He places his hand over his heart, eyes sparkling in that puppy dog way of his. “Spoken like a true champion.”
Logan tips his beer towards Garrett. “Amen. I’ll drink to that.”
Dean cheers and distributes the shots around the table. Logan snatches the one headed towards Garrett and shoots Dean an incredulous look.
“What? It’ll take the edge off.”
Logan tuts, patting Garrett mock-sympathetically on his shoulder. “Gar-bear here is far too sick. Aren’t you, Graham?”
It’s hard to tell between the dim lighting and the fever, but it looks like Garrett is blushing. He twists his hoodie strings around his fingers and groans.
“Then,” Tucker lifts his shot high in the air. “To Garrett’s health!”
“Cold and flu season’s got nothing on you, Cap!” Dean roars, and the look Garrett shoots Logan is so scathing, and perfect that Logan almost chokes on his cinnamon whisky as laughter bursts from him.
The shot is sweet and assaulting on his senses. The bite of alcohol is immediate, which makes tears prick his eyes and singe his throat on the way down.
Then the aftershock of cinnamon burns right through his sinuses. It's fragrant and warm, and stings his nose in all the wrong ways.
The boys are also groaning in their recovery from the shot, ribbing each other to take the final shot, but Logan can’t even join in because he’s consumed by the fact that he’s 100% about to sneeze.
He has three seconds to snatch a napkin from the dispenser on the table before he’s pitching forward into his hands.
“hk’ishhu!”
Tears gather immediately on his lashes. Spray collects on his pink lips. His nose had already been running since the weather was swinging wildly between sweltering and rainy, and now the scorch of alcohol isn’t helping. He’s drippy and can’t get ahead of it.
His breath trips, stumbles.
“hH—!” He folds the tissue over his nose again, less frantic and more prepared for the next sneeze. “hdt’ssshh!—k’SHht!” Sneeze(s).
It’s just his luck that Tucker and Dean decide now to pause their rowdy celebration, and tune into Logan in the corner of the booth.
“Three is good luck,” chirps Tucker, entirely sweet and unhelpful.
Logan wants to tell them to mind their business so he can wipe his glistening mouth and blow his nose in private but he can’t seem to get control of himself long enough to speak.
The burn has shifted from a blaze to a deep seated, consistent buzz. Like the alcohol was a catalyst but it’s not necessarily the cause for his sensitivity. Like his nose is already irritated.
“hGKSHhhu!”
“Yeah, well, what’s four mean,” asks Dean. The last shot sits between them all, mocking him. It glitters in the low light, untouched and begging to be consumed. Logan swears he’ll never drink again.
“Will yoHhu both shHuht—“
Logan breath catches in a rapid staccato rhythm that prohibits him from continuing. The crumpled wet napkin finds its way back to his face.
“hkZSHHh’iuh!”
The sneeze reverberates through his throat, leaving him tender.
Oh no.
Garrett grimaces and gives Logan a once over. “Uh-oh.”
Suddenly the table is very still. They know what five sneezes means. No one has the heart to ask Logan if he’s getting sick.
Garrett breaks the silence by sitting upright. “Alright boys, I’m heading out. See you at home.” He gently knocks on the table and points at Dean. “Don’t get too crazy.”
He juts his chin at Tucker. “Don’t let him get too crazy.”
Dean sputters wildly while Tucker salutes him, giggling maniacally.
Logan slides out of the booth directly behind Garrett. “I’m uh, pretty tuckered out myself. I’m gonna head out with G, here. I’ll catch you guys later.”
Tucker groans and calls him boring but is quickly sucked into trying to split the final shot between glasses evenly with Dean so Logan takes it as a clue that he’s free to go.
He falls in step beside Garrett.
“Think you’re sick?” Garrett asks, wrapping his arms around himself when they step outside. It was hot earlier but now that the sun has set, the wind has picked up. He leads the way towards the parking lot.
“No,” says Logan, more as a wish than anything. The wind is biting and makes a shiver crawl up on spine. He only has a beat to stick his wrist beneath his nose. “ikTSHhu! —hH’DSHHht!”
Forever obsessed with Character A finding out Character B is sick when B falls asleep against them and at first it's just cute and cuddly but then A realizes they can feel feverish heat radiating from B's face where it's pressed against their shoulder
When Izuku gets home from work, he sees Katsuki’s shoes laying by the door like he just kicked them off after getting off his extended patrol that morning. He knows that Katsuki doesn't like working the nightshift, but he's been stuck on it for the last month.
The apartment is oddly quiet since he knows that Katsuki is home. There's no music playing, no news report going on in the background or sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen. Weird.
Izuku hangs his coat up and pulls his shoes off, lining them up against the wall and setting Katsuki’s up the way they normally sit. He walks further into the apartment, looking for any signs of his partner. He sees the scorched kettle on the stove top and an empty mug in the sink. He rolls his eyes fondly. There's a tissue box sitting on living room table and a couple crumpled tissues dropped beside it. Katsuki must be feeling real low if he's leaving a mess like this around. Izuku bites his bottom lip to avoid smiling at tiny tells his partner leaves.
Izuku throws the tissues away before making his way into the bedroom where he finds Kacchan curled up under a couple blankets. He's got a couple tissues held loosely in his hand and his nose is pink, the rest of his face flushed.
Izuku creeps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing a hand over Kacchan's hair, frowing at the heat coming off of him.
"Why didn't you call me," he mutters, pressing a kiss to Kacchan's sweaty forehead.
Glassy red eyes squint open at him.
"You taking care of me without permission, nerd?" He asks, voice thick with congestion. He sniffles and rubs at his nose with the tissue.
"Mm looks like someone needs to," Izuku says, scratching lightly at Kacchan's scalp the way he likes, "how long have you been feeling sick?" Kacchan's eyebrows furrow and Izuku watches as he tries to fight off the sneeze. He looks like he's doing a pretty good job of it until Izuku leans forward and kisses his nose.
"Huh'KTch, dammit Deku," Kacchan growls sniffling. His nostrils are still flaring like he needs to sneeze. He pinches them shut, scrubbing them viscously with the tissue, but it doesn’t matter.
"Heh’kxxt’chh..eh...h’kssh heH’ndktT," he coughs after and tries to blow his nose, but it doesn't sound very effective. Izuku tries not to coo at how cute he is.
"Bless you, Kacchan. Have you taken any medicine?" He asks. Kacchan nods.
"When I got home from patrol," he says, leaning agaisnt Izuku.
"Kacchan, that was over eight hours ago," he scolds.
"I'll be right back," he says wrapping a blanket around Kacchan's shoulders and kissing his forehead.
"Don't kiss me dumbass, you'll get sick," he growls, before coughing. Izuku rolls his eyes where Kacchan can't see as he goes to get some cold medicine and water.
"Drink the whole thing," Izuku says, after Kacchan takes the pills and tries to hand the water back. He gives a tired imitation of his usual smirk.
When Izuku gets home from work, he sees Katsuki’s shoes laying by the door like he just kicked them off after getting off his extended patrol that morning. He knows that Katsuki doesn't like working the nightshift, but he's been stuck on it for the last month.
The apartment is oddly quiet since he knows that Katsuki is home. There's no music playing, no news report going on in the background or sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen. Weird.
Izuku hangs his coat up and pulls his shoes off, lining them up against the wall and setting Katsuki’s up the way they normally sit. He walks further into the apartment, looking for any signs of his partner. He sees the scorched kettle on the stove top and an empty mug in the sink. He rolls his eyes fondly. There's a tissue box sitting on living room table and a couple crumpled tissues dropped beside it. Katsuki must be feeling real low if he's leaving a mess like this around. Izuku bites his bottom lip to avoid smiling at tiny tells his partner leaves.
Izuku throws the tissues away before making his way into the bedroom where he finds Kacchan curled up under a couple blankets. He's got a couple tissues held loosely in his hand and his nose is pink, the rest of his face flushed.
Izuku creeps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing a hand over Kacchan's hair, frowing at the heat coming off of him.
"Why didn't you call me," he mutters, pressing a kiss to Kacchan's sweaty forehead.
Glassy red eyes squint open at him.
"You taking care of me without permission, nerd?" He asks, voice thick with congestion. He sniffles and rubs at his nose with the tissue.
"Mm looks like someone needs to," Izuku says, scratching lightly at Kacchan's scalp the way he likes, "how long have you been feeling sick?" Kacchan's eyebrows furrow and Izuku watches as he tries to fight off the sneeze. He looks like he's doing a pretty good job of it until Izuku leans forward and kisses his nose.
"Huh'KTch, dammit Deku," Kacchan growls sniffling. His nostrils are still flaring like he needs to sneeze. He pinches them shut, scrubbing them viscously with the tissue, but it doesn’t matter.
"Heh’kxxt’chh..eh...h’kssh heH’ndktT," he coughs after and tries to blow his nose, but it doesn't sound very effective. Izuku tries not to coo at how cute he is.
"Bless you, Kacchan. Have you taken any medicine?" He asks. Kacchan nods.
"When I got home from patrol," he says, leaning agaisnt Izuku.
"Kacchan, that was over eight hours ago," he scolds.
"I'll be right back," he says wrapping a blanket around Kacchan's shoulders and kissing his forehead.
"Don't kiss me dumbass, you'll get sick," he growls, before coughing. Izuku rolls his eyes where Kacchan can't see as he goes to get some cold medicine and water.
"Drink the whole thing," Izuku says, after Kacchan takes the pills and tries to hand the water back. He gives a tired imitation of his usual smirk.
a sickie who's too tired to take proper care of themselves, so when their partner finds them, all they can do is sigh and say "oh sweetheart, why didn’t you at least text me?"
Summery:During Kiri and Baku game night a certain Carmel smelling lame excuse for a bomb has an interesting way of saying his is sick.
HELLO! So I had some vodka and I think that is the only way I can voice Kiri again because I hate how I voice him, but whatever, I’m too drunk to care right now. This was no script but drunk Vic randomly recording a snz wav
someone who is feeling under the weather, not only emotionally, but physically too. their partner finds them curled up in bed and notices they've been crying
"honey, hey.. look at me.. shh, it's okay.. what if i help you eat something and then we give you some medicine? does that sound good? then you can tell me what's bothering you, if you want.."
Someone laying in their back with their partner's hand on their chest so they can feel every heaving hitching breath as they build up to a sneeze (or several)
A continuation of “it’s been rainy in pittsburg,” wherein jack’s intentions start to shift a bit… after getting off an exhausting double, jack and robby hang out in jack’s living room as a storm rolls in.
(set a few years later.)
i finally finished it! i played a bit more with their characters here, tried to get robby more to where he was (or we assume he was) pre-covid: a little more witty and playful and sweet, with less of that edge he had in pt 1 before he really knew jack. this was so much fun to write; hope you enjoy :p
The storm rolls in like it has a personal agenda. It starts as a low grumble somewhere beyond the horizon, the kind you can ignore if you try hard enough, hope against all hope that it might blow over without making a fuss. But of course, Pittsburg rarely has such luck, and the sky over the city has gone slate-dark within minutes, the rain coming down in sheets so thick it blurs the world beyond the windows into something abstract and shifting.
Jack Abbot is safely home, warm and dry, draped over his sofa half asleep with a blanket flung over his lap and crutches conveniently within arm’s length. His shift, though not particularly exciting, had been draining in a way that doubles hadn’t been ten years ago. But he really can’t complain, considering that he managed to escape before the storm—and its accompanying pathologies—started piling up at PTMC. There is truly no where else he’d rather be, especially considering his company—
“het’tKXxT!”
A certain dark-haired doctor, sitting cross-legged on Abbot’s carpet in the process of re-organizing Abbot’s CD collection, has his face buried in the collar of his crew neck. He’s twisted (somewhat uselessly) towards the wall with one had still clutching the Bruce Springsteen CD he was in the middle of criticizing. He gives a thick sniffle, then twists back to face Jack again, staring at him for a moment.
Robby arches a suspicious eyebrow. “What, no bless you?” He sniffles again.
Abbot gives an exaggerated long-suffering sigh. “Why bother? You’ll never stop at one. Take a look out the window, my friend.”
As if on cue, a loud clap of thunder rolls in the distance. Abbot starts a bit, embarrassingly, and if he didn’t know better he might have thought he saw Robby’s face soften just a fraction. But no sooner than that (alleged and highly contestable) affection crossed Robby’s face did it disappear, his features falling into a dazed 100-yard stare. Clearly not listening.
“You okay there?” Abbot asks, raising his brows.
Robby doesn’t answer. There’s a very specific silence that follows, a tense, anticipatory kind, until:
“heh—hh’EStCHHhu!”
“You want me to grab you a benadryl?” Abbot asks, instead of laughing.
“I sneezed twice, Jack,” Robby drawls from the floor. He looks entirely too attractive for someone in a 15-year-old sweatshirt and the beginnings of a very pink flush creeping over his nose, surrounded by CDs like some kind of advertisement for Radioshack. “I’m hardly having an allergy attahh—ahem—an allergy attack. You don’t need to bother getting up.”
Abbot stares at him for a moment as he paws at his nose rather aggressively. “…Right.”
And as much as he would love to argue (let it be know how much Jack loves to argue), his eyes have been getting awfully heavy, and the rain is plinking softly against the window panes, and there’s a pleasant smell wafting from the general direction of the kitchen (did Robby bake something earlier?), and he really was enjoying listening to Robby berate him for owning no fewer than six copies of Born To Run, and if Robby said he was fine then surely—
Jack snaps up on the couch, startled. “Jesus, Robby.”
Robby has the grace to look sheepish at least. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t know why I’m so irritated right now.”
Abbot slumps back, narrowing his eyes. “I could think of at least one thing—” he starts to say, casting another glance at the window.
“Don’t even snf start with that bullshit.” Robby grumbles, congestion starting to creep into his voice.
“Mm,” Abbot says, burrowing deeper into the couch.
Robby points at him immediately. “No.”
It’s becoming difficult for Abbot not to laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
“It’s an observational noise.”
Robby sniffles indignantly. “It’s a judgmental noise.”
“It’s a correct noise,” Abbot posits, already half-asleep again.
Robby scoffs, scrubbing at his nose. “It’s a coincidence.”
There’s a crack of thunder overhead, loud enough to rattle the glass. Right on cue—
“heh—hh’KeTSCHHu!”
Abbot doesn’t even try to hide it this time. He laughs. Loudly, fully, hard enough that he has to sit up again. “Bless you, Michael.”
“Fuck off, Johnathan.”
Abbot sits up fully now, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees. Openly gazes at his disgruntled guest. Up close, it’s even more obvious: the pink flush across his nose, the watery eyes, the way he keeps blinking like the air itself is irritating.
“You came over clear,” Abbot says, thoughtful.
“Yes.” Robby feigns disinterest, turning back to the veritable mountain of CDs.
“No symptoms.”
“Nope.” He pops the p, still refusing to look up.
“And now—”
“And now, I’m fihh—fihhne—hah—” Robby shakes his head violently, as if he could shake off the prickling irritation in his sinuses— “hhah—hhhn?!” before admitting defeat, diving into cupped hands at the last possible moment, “heh’ESTCHHHUU!”
Abbot gestures lightly. “Very compelling argument, Dr. Robinavitch.”
Robby makes a frustrated noise, one hand still lingering by his face.
Abbot softens just a fraction. “Tissue?”
Robby nods, a little helplessly. “Where, please?”
Abbot feels a smile tugging at his lips, though now for an entirely different reason. Of course, even suffering as he clearly is, Robby would never make Jack get up when he can tell how comfortable he is in his pillow-nest. “Check the kitchen.”
Abbot watches the other man as he practically stumbles out of the room, feeling an odd, tingly warmth in his chest. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you think about it), Jack doesn’t really have the mental wherewithal at the present to examine what that tingly warmth might be, so he tucks it away. When Robby returns, he’s armed with a box of tissues and two mugs of water. He sets all of it on the low coffee table, other than one mug, which he hands to Jack.
“I hope you don’t mind that I raided your meds cabinet for an antihistamine,” Robby says, settling back onto the floor across from Abbot. “I figured we could skip the whole song and dance.”
“Mm, good call, doc.” Abbot reaches forwards to put his mug on the table after taking a sip. Before he can shift up fully to reach the table, Robby stands, takes the mug from his hand and sets it down for him. Abbot blinks at him sleepily. “Rob—”
“—hehh’ETSCHH! Hh’rESCHUU!”
Abbot jumps a tad, startled out of his sleepiness again. “Bless you, bless—”
“hEH—ektCHHhh’h’SChUU!!”
“Bless you, aaaand bless you.” Abbot gives him a moment to blow his nose. “Is that all?”
“I’m going to leave now,” Robby drawls, already pulling on his coat. “You’re exhausted, and I’m keeping you up—”
Abbot moves faster than expected, lobbing a cushion at his head with startling accuracy “No, you’re not.”
Robby blinks at him. “Jack. Come on.”
“Visibility is poor, roads will be slick, and you are—” Abbot gestures vaguely toward his face, “—compromised.”
“I am not compromised.”
“You just took diphenhydramine,” Abbot says. “Can’t drive on a drowsiness-inducing med.”
“I took a non-drowsy one,” Robby counters, pulling another tissue (which really does nothing for his argument). “Zyrtec or something.”
Abbot throws another pillow, this time nailing him in the chest. “You’ve sneezed a dozen times in the last three minutes.”
Robby exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s a twenty-minute drive.”
“In a downpour.”
“I’ve driven in rain before.”
“Not the point, Rob. Just, do me a favor,” Abbot says, tilting his head toward the window where the storm is now hammering the glass like it’s trying to get in, “give me some peace of mind.”
As if on cue, lightning flashes—bright, immediate—followed by a crack of thunder that feels too close. Robby glances toward the window, seeming to consider. Then, as if his own biology wants to strengthen Abbot’s point:
“heh—hh… heh’ErDJCHUUu!!”
He sniffles thickly, looking down at Abbot with watery brown eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
“It is,” Abbot agrees easily. “Which is why you should stay. Just until the storm passes.”
Robby looks back at him. “You don’t get to decide that.” He’s just being stubborn now.
“I do when it intersects with basic safety. I’d hate to have to say I told you so over something like this.”
Robby huffs something that might be a laugh despite himself, then immediately ruins it by sneezing again, stifled into his tissue. “hh’hkXxnT!”
“Don’t do that, Robby,” Abbot scolds, then gestures toward the couch. “Come here. Sit.”
“I’m not—”
“Sit with me.”
“I don’t take orders from you off-shift.”
Abbot cocks an eyebrow at him. “You don’t take orders from me on-shift either.”
Robby scrubs at his nose. “More to my point.”
“Then consider it a strong recommendation.”
Another roll of thunder.
“heT’erETCHhu! huh… hheh—hh’ESHUUU!!”
Abbot doesn’t say anything this time, just watches, patient, certain in a way that is somehow more persuasive than all his earlier arguments combined. He pats the sofa beside him.
“Fine,” Robby mutters finally, shrugging out of his jacket and dropping onto the couch. “Just until it lets up.”
“Of course,” Abbot says, far too agreeable. He makes a weak attempt to throw part of his blanket over Robby’s legs.
Robby huffs what might be a laugh. Pulls the blanket over himself, sliding a little closer to Jack in the process. Then, of course, because Robby can never win, he twists away and buried his face into his sleeve.
“Eh-heh’tcHH! HheH’etCHRUU—! H’HheTCHH!!”
Abbot sighs sleepily. “Bless you three times, Rob.” He makes a vague motion towards the table.
Robby sniffs and, because he can read Jack’s mind more often than not, knows to reach for the tissue box on the table. When he settles back on the couch, Abbot leans back even more and drapes his leg and stump over Robby’s lap.
“Good? Are you satisfied?” Robby’s voice is low and thick with congestion.
Abbot just hums in response, resting his heavy eyelids. For a moment, neither of them speaks, letting the storm fill the silence—rain against glass, distant thunder, the low hum of electricity.
“You know,” Abbot says eventually, voice barely there, actively fighting the pull of sleep, “you don’t actually have to argue every time.”
Robby blinks over at him. “About what?”
“Oh, you know what.” The he opens his eyes. “You’re allowed to be,” He gestures—not just at the sneezing, but the whole situation: the storm, the apartment, the fact that Robby is still here. “A mess. Sometimes. It’s alright.”
Robby exhales slowly. “You’re insufferable when you’re right.”
“I don’t know what you’d do without me,” is Jack’s reply as he sinks into sleep.
And if he didn’t know better, and if he wasn’t already asleep, he would’ve heard Robby’s reply,
Katsuki glares at the assortment of medicines in the cold and flu aisle of the store. Red eyes scanning furtively over the shelves as he wrinkles his nose behind his black mask.
The damn nerd would know what to get. Shitty hair would know, but Bakugou's don't get sick. They don't need medicine. He isn't weak. A barking cough rips its way out of him. He muffles it as best he can in his jacket sleeve, glad the store is mostly empty this early in the morning. If anyone thinks he's sick, they won't let him take his exams and he'll fall even farther behind. Sparks chase their way along his hands and arms, tingling as his feverish sweat ignites.
He swipes a bottle of Tylenol and some sort of cold and flu syrup that has all his other symptoms listed on the front. A fistful of tissue packs join his haul before he goes to checkout, pulling his hood up and avoiding eye contact so hopefully the half asleep cashier won't recognize him.
He sits on a bench outside the store and cracks open the liquid medicine, taking a swig straight from the top. He chases it with some of the Tylenol and a swallow of water. He needs to get his fever down and fast. His quirk is unpredictable with a fever and he doesn't want to kill anyone during this test. He pulls his mask down and blows his nose, wincing at the way the skin chafes. This is stupid. He doesn’t get sick. A sharp sneeze he barely has time to muffle into his tissue reminds him just how obsolete that statement is. He takes another quick drink of water before he starts his walk to the school.
-----
“Bakubro!” Kiri flings an arm around his shoulders, hero costume already on and clearly excited for the test. He pulls his arm back and his excited grin drops into a look of concern.
“Dude you're on fire, are you okay?” He asks reaching out to try and feel Katsuki's forehead. Katsuki swears internally and smacks his arm away.
“Fuckin fine, shitty hair,” he says, letting a few small explosions crackle in the center of his hands and a maniacal grin he doesn't feel take over his face. He can feel Deku’s eyes on him, and Kirishima doesn't look convinced either. Fuck. The last thing he needs is those two conspiring against him. Breathing takes far more effort than he's used to. His nose is filled with fucking cement and he feels like his lungs are packed with mud, but all he needs to do is get through this exam and he go sleep this cold off.
Katsuki can see Deku out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't have a good way to get away with Kirishima standing in front of him looking impossibly worried. And now he feels like he needs to sneeze too.
“Kacchan,” Deku says, putting a hand on Katsuki's shoulder. Katsuki can't help but look over. And of course the nerd is giving him those big worried eyes.
Katsuki scrubs his nose with the palm of his hand to try and abate the urge to sneeze.
“What nerd? Ready for me to khhh-kick your ass?” He asks, but Deku doesn't take the bait.
“You're really warm, Kacchan,” Deku says, Kirishima nods in agreement.
“I always run hot. It's mhh-my quirk,” the need to sneeze was starting to win out and his nose is running. Katsuki sniffs.
“And you look like you need to sneeze,” Deku adds. Kiri looks mildly amused from where he's standing as Katsuki fights what is clearly a futile battle against himself. No one says anything for a few seconds until Katsuki loses the battle against his inflamed sinuses. His breath stutters a couple times before he pinches his nose and turns away from his audience in embarrassment, forcefully stifling a couple explosive sneezes. His eyes water and his head gives a violent throb, punishment for stifling.
“Bro, don't do that, you're gonna rupture something,” Kirishima says, nudging Katsuki with his fist. He doesn't expect the way Katsuki stumbles into the lockers like he took a fully loaded punch. Deku frowns.
“Kacchan. Bless you. You need to go home. You can't fight like this,” Izuku says, coming around and wrapping an arm around Kacchan's waist. He presses a hand to Kacchan’s neck and sucks in a sharp breath.
“You’re burning up. Aizawa-sensei won't let you participate anyway,” Kiri adds.
“What? You two idiots think I'm so weak I can't fight?” Katsuki growls, sending himself into a deep coughing fit. He tries to muffle it into his fist, blasters in the way of any other options.
-----
He doesn't remember sitting down, but when the coughing finally lets up, he's sitting on one of the benches with Deku beside him and Kiri standing in front of him offering a red sports drink with the lid already off. Katsuki takes the bottle and sips at it slowly. Maybe they had a point. If he can't even stay on his feet he probably wouldn't do too well on the exam.
“Problem children.” The three of them jump at the monotonous voice of their homeroom teacher. It sets off another coughing fit that has Katsuki trying to curl in on himself, but Izuku has a hand on his shoulder holding him upright.
“Sorry Sensei. We were trying to get Kacchan to agree to go home. He's sick,” Izuku rambles as Kiri rubs Katsuki's back until the coughing calms down. Katsuki sniffles and resigns himself to pulling out a couple tissues to blow his nose. It triggers a couple of sneezes he does his best to stifle.
“Bless you, Kacchan. Quit holding them in like that,” Deku fusses softly as Aizawa comes closer and crouches down in front of Katsuki, who's red eyes are barely focusing anymore. He slides a cold hand under the blonde’s bangs.
“You're not fighting today Bakugou. You've got a fever,” Aizawa says.
“No. I can still fight,” Katsuki tries to insist, but he just ends up sneezing into his tissues again and coughing. His chest aches.
“No,” Aizawa's quirk flares, making his eyes glow threateningly, “I don't need you losing control of your quirk and hurting someone.” That makes Katsuki shrink in on himself. He defines himself by his control. The idea of losing it is unacceptable. He slumps against the lockers with a cough.
“Take him back to the dorms Midoriya. I'll reschedule the final for the two of you.” Izuku nods frantically. Kirishima looks disappointed when their teacher turns to him.
“Your team is up next. I suggest you get to the field if you don’t want to fail.” Kiri's eyes widen. He ruffles Katsuki's hair.
“I'll check on you later bro,” he promises before taking off at a run.
“Knock em dead, shitty hair,” Katsuki rasps, leaning his head against Deku’s shoulder.
Izuku looks at Kacchan with a frown. The taller man pulls away a few seconds later, burying his face in his elbow before lurching forward with a couple muffled sneezes.
“Bless you, Kacchan, let's get you back to the dorms,” Izuku says. Kacchan is digging in his pockets for tissues before blowing his nose, mostly uselessly.
“I wanna wait and see how Eijirou does,” Katsuki protests. Izuku rolls his eyes.
“You heard Aizawa-sensei. He said for you to go back to the dorms. I'm sure Eijirou will come check on you when he gets done. He wouldn't want you staying out here when you could be in bed, resting.”
Katsuki groans and starts to push himself into standing. He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose when the congestion starts to shift. He turns away from Izuku and buries his face back into his elbow. Izuku puts a hand on his shoulder to keep Kacchan from stumbling forward with the force of his sneezes.
“Bless you, come on, you're going to bed,” Izuku says, starting to guide Kacchan out of the locker room. Izuku takes his scarf off before they step out into the cold and wraps it around Kacchan's neck.
Katsuki coughs violently with the first breath of cold air, making Izuku frown and pick up the pace.
----
Just as Izuku predicted, Kirishima did come directly to check on Katsuki after his exam.
The explosive hero is curled up in bed under a couple blankets with Izuku laying beside him. Kirishima smiles at the domestic scene even as rain water drips off his spikes.
Katsuki looks up when Kiri bursts into his room, panting and soaked.
“Dammit shitty hair, dry off. Are you trying to get sick?” Katsuki yells. His voice breaks and sends him into a chesty coughing fit. Izuku helps him sit up and rubs his back, making eye contact with Kiri over his head and rolling his eyes. Kirishima comes closer and runs a hand through Katsuki's hair.
“Look who's talking,” Kiri says, kissing Katsuki's forehead.
“I just wanted to check on you first. I'm going to change now,” he says, mostly for the sake of keeping the peace.
“You shouldn't be yelling, it isn't good for your throat,” Izuku fusses, grabbing a thermos of tea from the desk and offering it to Kacchan.
Katsuki grumbles but takes the tea anyway and takes a sip because his throat really does hurt.
“Stupid shitty hair shouldn't be standing around in wet clothes. It's like he's trying to get sick,” Katsuki grumbles when he sees a hint of red hair around the corner. Kiri rolls his eyes as he comes around the corner, going to sit by Midoryia on the bed, picking up Katsuki's legs and putting them in his lap.
“Maybe if you worried about yourself as much as you worry about me you wouldn't be sick right now,” Kiri snarks back. Katsuki rolls his eyes. Then immediately regrets it when his head throbs and the room spins. Izuku sighs.
Katsuki starts to retort, but it turns into a body wrenching sneeze he muffles into his sweatshirt sleeve instead. His hands spark and crackle with his quirk as his feverish sweat ignites.
Kirishima flinches before hardening and scooting his way between Midoriya and Katsuki. The smaller man frowns at him, but Katsuki is already stumbling out of the bed and toward the other side of the room, still sneezing breathlessly into his hoodie sleeve. He's trying to stifle them again, clearly trying to get a handle on his quirk, which is still sparking off.
“Bless you, Kacchan. Come back to bed,” Izuku coaxed, sitting on the edge of the bed. He reaches out his hands for the blonde who's backed himself into the corner as his skin explodes. He swipes sweat off his forehead on his sleeve.
“Don't wanna hurt you,” Katsuki rasps. His voice breaks and he coughs.
Kirishima gives him a sharp toothed smile.
“You can't hurt me bro. I'm unbreakable,” he says, flexing his hand until it hardens into claws. Katsuki stares at his fingers like he forgot about Kiri's quirk. Izuku smiles.
“And I can take anything you dish out, Kacchan. Now come back to bed. You won't get better if you don't rest,” he says, getting up and wrapping an arm around the shivering hero. It doesn't take a whole lot more prodding to get Kacchan back in bed.
Kirishima prompts him to drink some water before curling up as a shield between him and Izuku, putting a hand on Katsuki's chest to reassure himself that despite the rattle, Katsuki is breathing.
“Get some sleep, blasty,” Kiri says, kissing Katsuki's forehead.
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