Sharing The Wealth

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[shamefilledsnzblog]

A Dismal Journey

Yet another Perry fic!

(Yes, I know I should be writing part two of Against All Sense, but this scenario wouldn't leave my head)

Perry, on a stage coach journey to meet Lord DeVille, finds himself forced to make a miserable journey in the snow after a crash, worsening the cold he definitely does not have.

Set before the first expedition.

“Three days of travel in a crowded stage coach has seemed interminable, but the journey ought to be over soon. According to Miss DeVille, Rosewood Hall boasts sufficient comforts to make the effort required to reach it well worth it. Though I wish it boasted the presence of Miss DeVille herself; she assures me she will arrive soon, but days of facing Lord DeVille without her silver tongue to smooth over any awkwardness has me feeling decidedly nervous.

Still, His Lordship must be intrigued by the prospect of the expedition, having invited me all this way to meet with a potential investor. What interest this Mister Jephcots has in the Underdark, I’ve no idea, but if it aids me in securing Lord DeVille’s patronage...”

A bump in the road sent the coach lurching, and Perry bit back a curse as his pen left a streak of ink across his journal, his hand smudging it further. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he set about trying to clean the ink smudge from his hand.

The gentleman in the corner seat next to Perry, a particularly portly fellow, gave him a sympathetic look as he gave up on his journal, tucking it back into his coat. He had made it his mission to be as amiable as possible the entire journey, as if determined to make up for the amount of space he took up.

“Terrible roads on this route. Makes for difficult writing. But you’ve not much farther to go, I believe?”

Perry nodded, blowing on his hands to warm them. The weather had been bleak for the entire journey, but since they set off that morning, it had taken a turn for the worse. Snow now blanketed the landscape, and in the cramped interior of the coach, each passenger’s breath rose as steam. Perry felt for the driver and guard, riding on top of the coach and facing the worst of it.

“That’s right. Rosewood Hall. I’ll be glad of the chance to stretch my legs, and to see a warm… HhSHIEW!... I beg your pardon! A warm fire.”

The sneeze came on so fast, he barely had time to bury his nose in his handkerchief. He sniffled in the aftermath, giving his nose a light blow. It had been troubling him all day, threatening to drip.

The amiable gentleman took a flask from his coat, offering it. He had already passed it around to various other passengers, some of whom had accepted in an attempt to ward off the chill.

“Bless you. Sure you’ll not have a nip? You’re looking a little peaky.”

“Quite sure, but thank you. And I’m quite well.”

The man didn’t look convinced at all, but didn’t press the matter. He took a sip from the flask himself, and tucked it into his coat.

“Rosewood Hall… That’s the DeVille estate, I believe? Supposed to be most comfortable. Lovely gardens, though I doubt you’ll be seeing much of them under all the snow. You’re a friend of His Lordship?”

“I… I wouldn’t say that, no. But his daughter is a friend, and I’m hoping to make a good impression.”

The amiable fellow nodded, smiling.

“Ah, I see…”

Perry flushed a little.

“Oh, nothing like that! I’m seeking Lord DeVille’s patronage for a scientific expedition…”

“No need to explain yourself. Though, if I might offer some advice? If you want to make a good impression, you might wipe that ink off your nose.”

Perry felt his cheeks flush even hotter, and he hastily put away his ink-stained handkerchief, fumbling about in his pockets for his last clean one. He had thought he had packed enough, but his nose had insisted on running the entire day. Perhaps someone in the carriage had animal hair on their clothes, or was wearing some sort of scent…

He began rubbing at his nose, and in doing so, sparked another tickle.

“HhhSHYIEW! Oh, I do beg your pardon.”

I am not falling ill. I cannot be falling ill.

It was a reaction to the weather, surely. Although, the driver had sneezed on him yesterday as he took his luggage. But the poor fellow surely wasn’t driving while ill? Surely he, too, was just having a slight nasal reaction to the temperature?

“Bless you. I think you’ve got the last of the ink. Though you’ve turned your nose red as a cherry! Still, red noses aplenty in this weather!”

Hopefully that means His Lordship won’t pay mine any mind. I can’t be ill again, not after last time…

The memory of fainting in Lord DeVille’s study, and being obliged to spend two days in his guest room before being allowed to retreat to his apartment in humiliation, still made Perry shudder. He gave a defiant sniffle, tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket, promising himself he would not need it again. He took out his gloves and pulled them onto his icy hands, nearly dropping one as the coach gave another violent lurch.

Another passenger, an old man who had been sleeping against the window, awoke with a snort.

“Damned roads!”

The other passengers gave murmurs of agreement, all seeming quite exasperated by the increasingly bumpy journey. In addition to the amiable gentleman and the old man, there was a middle-aged woman with a thankfully still-sleeping toddler in her lap, a frail looking elderly woman who had not looked up from her knitting the entire journey, and a burly fellow with a crooked leg and a crutch. All shared looks as the carriage gave another lurch, and another.

“Should the wheel be making that sound?”

Another jolt.

The toddler awoke, and began to whine. His mother held him a little closer, shushing him. The knitting lady put down her needles at last, looking grim.

One final lurch, and suddenly the world was all noise.

Perry found himself extraordinarily grateful for the amiable gentleman’s portliness as he was thrown violently into him. The elderly man cursed as he was thrown onto Perry, knocking the air from his lungs. Splinters of wood and glass flew. The toddler shrieked. Somewhere outside, the horses whinnied in terror.

At last, the coach stilled, the passengers inside groaning, whimpering, sobbing, having been violently thrown into a heap. Perry, shaking, eased the elderly man off him and onto the side of the coach that was now the floor. Apologizing profusely, wincing as yet-to-be discovered injuries made themselves known, he reached for the door now above him, and with some considerable effort, flung it open, hauling himself out into the snow.

The coach had come to rest on the side of the road, one wheel now some distance away. Suitcases had been flung in all directions. The guard was some distance away, trying to calm the team of horses who seemed to have been cut free. The driver lay in the snow, looking dazed. Perry hurried to him, tugging off one glove with his teeth and feeling for a pulse, and, upon finding one, gently patting his face. Bleary eyes looked up at him, and despite the cold wind and snow, the face he patted was extraordinarily warm.

“Sir? Are you injured?”

“Jus’… Jus’ need a minute…”

Satisfied that the man was at least conscious, Perry hurried back to the carriage and the groaning bodies within. He reached down, taking the elderly woman’s wiry arm, grateful that she was light as he helped haul her out.

“That’s it, nice and careful… Madam? If you pass the boy up to me, I’ll hold him while you get out. That’s it… You’re alright, little man…”

The toddler, passed up into Perry’s arms, wailed inconsolably as his mother struggled to free herself. One by one, each bruised, shaking passenger emerged, huddling together against the wind, in shock. At long last, having calmed and restrained the horses, the guard returned. He was limping badly, Perry noted, and clutching at his ribs. He shot a glare at the driver, who had righted himself, and now leaned on the ruin of the coach, shivering and glassy-eyed.

“Gods-damned fool! Shouldn’t have been driving! Should have stopped the gods-damned coach the second the wheel started to go! Gods damn it!”

He continued to curse, clutching at his ribs, and swatted away Perry’s hand as he reached out to assist him.

“At least no one seems to have been terribly badly hurt. Nothing short of a miracle. Though I suspect you’ve done some damage to your ribs. What do we do now? I don’t suppose we can right the coach?”

“You’re welcome to try, if you want to add a bad back to your troubles.”

Perry sighed, wrapping his arms around his chest, rubbing at them for warmth. The wind stung his face, making his eyes and nose stream, whipping his hair across his face. He gave a violent shiver as a little snow slipped past his collar. He patted himself down, feeling for injuries, and to his immense relief, finding nothing more significant than some minor cuts, and some aches that would no doubt bloom into some truly impressive bruises. He looked over the assembled company, and grimaced as he reached his conclusion.

“I’ll go for help. How far to Rosewood Hall?”

The guard, leaning against the coach for support, thought for a moment.

“About an hour on foot. Can’t miss it if you follow the road.”

“There’s nothing closer?”

“Nothing. It’s the Hall, and then the village further on. Hall’s your best bet.”

“I don’t suppose I could ride one of the horses?”

The guard gave a snort of derision.

“Those nags aren’t broken to saddle, and you’d be riding bareback. Try it, if you want to break your neck.”

“Yes, I suppose that wouldn’t help anyone.”

The amiable gentleman, having been following the conversation while fishing blankets from the coach and distributing them to passengers, gave Perry a look of deep concern.

“Surely you’ll freeze to death, walking an hour in this?”

“We might all freeze to death if no one goes for help. And I’m the youngest and fittest here, and not injured. I’ll be quite… a… aaAHISHYIEW! Snf… Alright.”

The elderly lady gave him a skeptical look.

“You look like this wind will blow you right away. I won’t stop you, but better take a blanket.”

Perry shook his head, sniffling and taking out his handkerchief, his gloves doing little to keep his hands warm. He dabbed at his streaming nose, already beginning to sting from the cruel wind.

“Better keep them here, and find anything else warm in the luggage that might help. I don’t know how long it will take to arrange help. Not to worry, I’ve got a good coat and good boots, and I’m sure the exercise will keep me warm enough.”

The amiable gentleman took out his flask and offered it once more, looking grim.

“Better take this, then. A bit of warmth for the journey.”

Perry shook his head, wrapping his coat tighter.

“Better share it between you. Right, I’ll not waste anymore time. Wish me luck!”

*****

“Should… Snf… SNF! SNRFF!... Should have taken the blanket… SNffFF! … And the flask…”

Perry had lost track of how long he had been walking. Arms crossed, head bowed against the wind, shivering violently, he could focus on little more than placing one foot in front of the other, sinking at least a foot into the snow with every step. His feet had long since gone numb, snow having soaked into the legs of his trousers and leaked into his boots. The wool of his coat was soaked through, miserably damp against his skin. At some point the wind had torn the ribbon from his hair, and it now blew wildly about his face, cold and wet with melted snow.

His nose, bitten raw by the wind, leaked constantly over his upper lip, and a constant chorus of sniffles accompanied his journey. Every few minutes, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the mess he could not sniffle back. He did so now, and gave a hiss of pain as the cloth, now thoroughly soaked and icy cold, brushed against his raw nostrils, provoking a stinging tickle.

“Hh… Hihhhh… HhhiiiIESHYIEW! Snf… SNRFF!... Damn it all…”

With each step, Perry found himself cursing. Cursing whoever had checked the carriage for not noticing the defective wheel. Cursing the driver for driving while too ill to notice an accident was imminent. Cursing himself for opting for a cheaper private stage coach company, instead of the more reliable mail coach.

“HhSHYIEW! HhGhhHSHIEW!”

Cursing his nose for its cruel and relentless devotion to making his life an utter misery.

I’m not ill. Anyone’s nose would run in such weather. I’ll get to Rosewood Hall. I’ll get out of my wet clothes and into a warm bath. I’ll dry off, and get into a nice warm bed with a cup of tea, and I’ll be perfectly well come morning.

It seemed a rather petty thing to focus on, given the general unpleasantness of his situation, and that of the passengers he had left behind, huddled together and waiting for help. Still, it kept him stumbling on, putting one icy, numb foot in front of the other. Each step bringing him closer to warmth, to shelter, to a dry handkerchief…

At long last, Perry raised his head, squinting as the wind and snow stung his eyes. There, in the distance, a pair of great iron gates. And beyond them, glowing windows shining through the haze of snow. A beacon, promising shelter, if only he could hang on a little more.

As Perry allowed himself an exhausted smile and tried to hurry his steps, the very next one sent him stumbling, plunging him into a bank of snow at the side of the road.

Misery on top of gods-damned misery…

Gasping from the cold, stumbling to keep his balance, each ragged, panting breath rising as a plume of steam, Perry allowed himself an exhausted whimper as he hauled himself to his feet. Fixing his eyes on the glow of the windows, he trudged on, wondering if the ceaseless dripping of his nose would soon become an icicle.

Perry had heard much of the DeVille’s country estate, and in other circumstances, he would have taken the time to appreciate its grandeur. For now, though, as he stumbled through the gates and past snow-blanketed gardens, only one feature was of interest to him. That great, elaborately-decorated front door, growing closer with every step. The last obstacle keeping him from blessed, life-saving warmth. Upon finally reaching it, nearly slipping on the icy steps, he allowed himself a sob of relief, and rung the bell with a hand now too cold to feel.

A stately butler answered the door, and was greeted with a desperate, soaking “HhhiieeGgSHYIEEEW!”

*****

“Truly, Your Lordship, this isn’t necessary. I’m not… IIssssSHYIEW!... Ill.”

Lord DeVille gave a disbelieving harrumph, pressing a steaming mug into Perry’s shaking hands.

“I have eyes, Peregrine. You’re still shaking like a leaf, and snuffling like a weeping child. Behave yourself, and drink. Ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”

Perry, wrapped in a blanket, seated by the fireside, his feet in a tub of steaming water, and wearing clothes borrowed from Lord DeVille, didn’t argue, raising the mug to his lips and breathing in the scented steam. Spiced, fragrant, and decidedly alcoholic. His usual response to alcohol would not support his insistence that he was well, but he was too desperate for warmth to care. He took a deep sip of the hot toddy, letting out a sigh of appreciation even as the spirit sparked a familiar burning in his nasal passages.

“AaSHYIEW! SHYIEW! Hehh… Ihehhh… HhhYISHIEW! I… I beg your pardon, I… SssSHYIEW!”

Lord DeVille, seating himself in his armchair opposite Perry, grimaced at the sound of his relentless sneezing, and felt in his pockets for a handkerchief. Perry, his own having been thoroughly beyond use, had already been forced to borrow one, and as he put it to use once more, it was clearly soaked through. Finding nothing else, Lord DeVille instead fished the luxurious silk pocket square from his breast pocket, holding it out.

“I… I couldn’t, Your Lordship… I… IiishSHYIEW! HISHYIEW!...”

“I’m not happy about it either, but it’s preferable to you continuing to spray plague all over my drawing room. Take it, blow your nose, and compose yourself.”

Cheeks turning as red as his nose, Perry reluctantly accepted the pocket square, burying his nose in the cool, soothing silk, muffling the last three sneezes and carefully pinching away the resultant mess. He looked up to Lord DeVille with bleary eyes.

“Thank you. It’s the alcohol. It always makes me sneeze.”

“One of these days, I’ll discover something that doesn’t make you sneeze, and drop dead of shock. Ah, Darrow! Any news?”

Darrow, Lord DeVille’s eternally unflappable manservant, had taken the evening’s events with his usual unshakable calm. He entered the drawing room now with another kettle of hot water, adding it to the tub Perry was soaking his feet in. Perry closed his eyes, savouring the fresh warmth, even as the fresh steam set his nose running anew.

“The doctor has seen to the last of the passengers, Your Lordship, and thanks you for your compassion in allowing them to stay for the night. There was some concern for the elderly lady and the child, but both seem to be recovering. The driver remains quite ill. The doctor wishes to know if you would like him to see to Sir Peregrine before he leaves?”

“Oh, thank you, Mister Darrow, but there’s really no need. I’m quite… HhaASHYIEW!”

“Send him up, thank you, Darrow. And would you fetch Sir Peregrine some more handkerchiefs?”

“Truly, Your Lordship, I’m… I’m perfectly… Hh… GhhhSHIEW!.. Ugh…”

“You’re perfectly ridiculous, is what you are. And Darrow, would you have someone draw Sir Peregrine a bath? After that, he’ll be retiring straight to bed.”

“Very good, Your Lordship.”

As Darrow departed, Perry let out a defeated sneeze, and wrapped the blanket tighter.

“I really am terribly sorry to trouble you, Your Lordship. May I hope you won’t let this influence your thinking regarding the expedition?”

Lord DeVille pinched at the bridge of his nose, seemingly fighting off an oncoming headache.

“Sir, will you, for one evening, forget about your obsessive need to vanish into some godsforsaken cave? You are unwell! You spent an hour in weather perfectly calculated to give you pneumonia! It’s been an hour, and you still can’t stop shaking…”

“HHSHYIEW!”

“… Or sneezing.”

“I’m sure I’m just reacting to the cats, or…”

“The cats have remained behind in the city. I am wearing no cologne. There are no flowers in here. You’ve barely touched your drink. There is nothing to provoke your ridiculous affliction in here. You are ill! Accept it with grace, finish your drink, let the doctor assess whether you’re likely to perish, and then take yourself to bed! When I’m convinced you’re well enough, then we will talk about this ridiculous expedition.”

Perry let his head and shoulders slump, lowering his eyes. The change in position made his nose threaten to drip again, and he buried it miserably in his borrowed handkerchief.

“Of course, Your Lordship. My apologies.”

He heard movement from Lord DeVille’s chair, and to his surprise, felt a warm hand briefly squeeze his shoulder.

“There, now. You’ve done well. The crash could very well have ended as a tragedy if you’d not made that walk. It speaks well of you.”

“Then you’ll not..?”

“I’ll not be hearing any more fuss from you. Ah, doctor! Excellent timing! I’ll step outside, and leave you to your patient!”  

[shamefilledsnzblog]

A Desperate Cover-Up

So, this was meant to be for @lostatsneeze 's Sick at a Ball prompt game (linked here), but it ended up being nearly 4000 words and I never even got these poor fools to the ball! That might need to be Part Two...

Characters are my DnD OCs: Perry, a human of minor nobility, a self-styled Gentlman Druid with a fascination for all things fungal and a terrible immune system. And Serafina, a purple tiefling, the bastard (but beloved) daughter of an immensely wealthy lord, who happens to have the kink.

Perry has an utterly miserable cold, but Serafina is still determined for him to make a good impression. Featuring some inducing, some mess, some sneezing while hiding.

“Again? And now? Peregrine, I really do feel awful for you, but this is the third time in as many months, and your timing couldn’t be worse!”

“Believe me, I’m distressingly well-aware. But surely it’s not too.. t-hhiieehh… HIESshhHYIEEW! Snf… Too obvious?”

Serafina refused to dignify that with a reply.

She had come to meet Perry at the gate of her father’s townhouse, all excitement. For months, she had been urging her father to finance Perry’s Underdark expedition. Months of carefully explaining to him how the discovery of newer, safer trade routes and outposts could be invaluable to his business (and, of course, he would be aiding in the advancement of science via enabling Perry and his companion Janessa’s studies, but as she had repeatedly stressed to Perry, that was not an aspect likely to win her father’s interest). Months of sitting with Perry, watching with increasing endearment as he plotted routes and consulted notes of prior expeditions.

Her father had grown increasingly interested, and multiple meetings with Perry had convinced him of the young man’s intelligence and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, they had not convinced him of Perry’s resilience. Between his numerous allergies, asthma, and two truly brutal head colds, he had sneezed, snuffled, coughed, and wheezed his way through nearly every meeting. Each time, as soon as Perry left, Serafina’s father turned to her, shaking his head.

“I’m not doubting that his heart is in it, and he’s got the brains. But surely he’s too frail for such a dangerous journey?”

Tonight, at a small, formal dance, her father had agreed to give Perry one chance to make his case. And Perry had shown up with the most glaringly obvious head cold Serafina had ever seen.

“I… I’m sorry. We could say I was kept away by some emergency?”

“Which he’ll expect you to explain next time, and we both know you’re an utterly miserable liar. Oh, Peregrine…”

Perry’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he dabbed at his red, raw nose with a handkerchief, wriggling it and sniffling wetly in irritation. His sinuses sounded full to the brim with congestion, and by the looks of that twitching nose, he was just desperate to sneeze it all out. His voice was hoarse, and he muffled constant ticklish coughs into his handkerchief. Pronouncing any word with an ‘n’ or ‘m’ sounded utterly pitiful. His skin, always pale, was chalky white, dark, bruise-like shadows lurked beneath his eyes, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He had no hope whatsoever of convincing anyone that he was well.

Well, not without help.

Serafina turned to her shy elf maid, Mayna, keeping her voice low.

“Mayna, go and check that there’s no one around the back door, and let me know when the coast is clear. I’m taking Peregrine to my bedroom to see if I can’t work a little of my magic on him. You’re to give me a warning should you see anyone coming. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss. Good luck, and feel better, Sir Peregrine.”

Perry’s reply was lost in a miserably wet sneeze. Mayna hurried around the side of the house. Serafina grabbed Perry while he was still in the process of blowing his nose, dragging him out of sight.

“We’re going to make this work.”

“I… IiieESHIEEW! Guhh… I’ll do my best, Miss DeVille.”

Mayna returned shortly, her eyes wide and nervous, gesturing for Serafina and Perry to follow. Dragging the snuffling, coughing Perry behind her, and hiding from a few servants on the way, Serafina finally reached her bedroom and shoved Perry inside. With one last look at Mayna, who nodded with timid determination, she shut the door and turned to look at her project.

“We have a lot of work to do. Starting with that voice.”

She pulled up a seat at her dressing table and gestured for Perry to sit, which he did with some relief. Poor thing, if he was running a fever, as she suspected he was, he must be awfully achy. Not to mention, he would usually be immensely flustered at finding himself somewhere so intimate as her bedroom. Instead, he just seemed exhausted. Serafina squeezed his shoulder encouragingly before going to her bedside table.

Sure enough, there was a packet of lozenges in the top drawer. An enthusiastic singer, proud of her voice, Serafina always tended to keep some on hand. Taking the packet and pouring a glass of water from the bedside carafe, she passed both to Perry.

“Drink that. All of it. And suck on one of those. Right now, you sound as if you’ve gargled broken glass. We’ve half an hour before you’re expected to arrive, so let’s make it count. How many handkerchiefs do you have with you?”

Perry, drinking the water and grimacing with every swallow, stopped and tried to catch his breath. He seemed to be having a hard time drinking with his nose so badly blocked.

“Four.”

“And how many are left in a usable condition?”

“Two.”

“That won’t be enough. I’ll fetch some of mine; don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re unscented.”

Perry tried to respond, but the even with the lozenge and water, the tickle in his throat became too much. He doubled over, coughing until he was red in the face. Already Serafina could hear a damp rattle that suggested this cold would be going to his chest, and probably making its home there for a good long while.

“Deep breaths, Peregrine. Finish that water, then I want you to have another glass. How’s your head?”

“Aching t-terribly. HhhHIESHOO!”

“Probably even worse after that. Poor thing, they do seem to sneak up on you when you’ve got the sniffles, don’t they?”

Retreating into her ensuite, she opened the medicine cabinet, rifling through the contents. Headache powders. Cough syrup. Balm for chapped lips. She grabbed all three, soaked a flannel in water, and returned to find Perry blowing his nose. It sounded as if there was no end to what he needed to clear out.

“I think that’s that handkerchief spent. Sounds as if you’re still awfully stuffed. Say something for me, let’s see how you sound.”

Giving his nose one final wipe and wrinkling it with a damp snuffle, Perry sighed.

“I’m so terribly sorry. Even if I do manage to pass myself off as healthy, I’ll still no doubt get you sick, and probably poor Mayna as a result.”

“You may pay me back by naming a new discovery after me when you get to the Underdark. Not some foul slimy toadstool, either. Ideally something purple and magnificent. As for Mayna, I’ll see that she’s given all the time off she needs, and is thoroughly pampered. We need to clear you out a bit more, though, if we’re to convince Papa. You still sound miserably stuffy. Take a new handkerchief. Blow again.”

Obedient as ever, Perry took another handkerchief from his pocket and began another weary series of blows. As he did so, Serafina mixed one of the powders with water, and poured a dose of cough syrup.

“Both of these down, quick as you can. We still need to get to work on covering all that red.”

Perry grimaced as he looked at both medicines, but obediently downed the cough syrup, spent a few moments grimacing at the taste, and set to work sipping at the medicine-laced water.

“Speak for me again?”

“You deserve more than just a fungus named after you, Miss DeVille. But of any I discover, I promise, I’ll name the loveliest after you.”

“I’m not sure I trust your judgement on that. I’ve seen you go misty-eyed over something that looks like a cauliflower with a skin condition. I shall expect full illustrations and descriptions first. Unfortunately, I think we’ve got more work to do on those sinuses first.”

Perry turned to see her going to her writing desk, and taking up a delicate feather quill. His nose twitched at the mere sight.

“Please, no.”

“You know a good sneeze tends to clear you up when all that congestion is being stubborn, and even as sensitive as you are, I don’t believe you can do it on command. I know it’s unpleasant, but we’re running low on time, and all that blowing is just giving me a redder nose to fix.”

Perry let out a slight whimper, but sighed and nodded, allowing Serafina to draw close. She came to stand before him, cupping his cheek and tilting his head so that he was looking up at her. Unable to resist, she gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. It really was unhealthily hot.

“Poor thing. That’s quite the temperature. I know you must be feeling so unwell. You just need to do your best a little longer, and we’ll try to make your excuses early so you can go home and rest. Now, close your eyes.”

Perry did so, leaning slightly into Serafina’s hand, seemingly seeking out the relative coolness of her skin. How wonderful it would be, Serafina mused, to lead him to her bed, and join him there, letting him seek the touch of as much of her as he wanted.

Those thoughts would have to wait. With her free hand, she set the very tip of the quill to that poor, long-suffering nose. The reaction was immediate.

“HeEhHH! IehehHEH! Hm.. hff… Iehh-hihh… HEH!”

“That’s right. Sensitive, aren’t you? Relax. Let it happen.”

Perry couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. His lips parted, revealing a slightly curling tongue. His eyes squeezed shut, a tear of irritation rolling down his cheek. And that poor nose… Serafina kept gently brushing beneath those delicate nostrils, watching them flare in torment. Almost as if inviting her to go deeper, begging for release from the tickling.

Another time, she might have teased. Let the quill linger, just enough to tickle, not enough to bring him satisfaction. Let him hitch and gasp and squirm, let him plead for release. Another time she would enjoy drawing things out, letting that nose grow redder and redder, letting it sniffle and twitch and leak, before finally enveloping it in a handkerchief and letting the poor man sneeze until he was satisfied.

Tonight was not the night for teasing. With a deft twist, she inserted the point of the quill deeper into a flaring nostril, drawing forth a gasp of irritation, a great, flustered snort, and…

“HhhHGYIESHIEW!”

Perry barely got his handkerchief up in time, sneezing wetly into its folds. Serafina rested a hand on his shoulder, gently stroking with her thumb.

“Well done. You’re not finished, are you?”

“GHHIYIESHOO! SHIEEWW! Guh… Pardon me… SNRFff!”

“Don’t sniffle it back. We want it all out, remember? Nice gentle blow, that’s it. Good, I can hear things loosening up. Now, there’s a few more sneezes in there, I think.”

Perry nodded, finding a clean spot in his handkerchief to nuzzle into, his nose plainly tormenting him. Her hand still on his shoulder, Serafina felt him breathe in great unsteady gasps, plainly trying to bring on another sneeze. Taking his hands, gentle but firm, she pushed them down, removing the handkerchief barrier hiding his face.

“There. Don’t fuss at it, just let that poor sore nose do what it must.”

Perry nodded, eyes closed, crinkling his nose, lips parted, plainly battling a truly torturous tickle. Even after emptying a good quantity of in into his handkerchief, moisture still pooled beneath his raw nostrils, clearly irritating them further. He sniffled desperately against the irritation, and tried to raise his handkerchief again.

“Hhyiehh… Hehhh… SNF! Hfff… Ghhihhhehhh… Hyehhh…”

Serafina pushed his hands back down once more, and raised the quill to his nose.

“It’s teasing you, isn’t it? Not to worry, we’ll soon have it out.”

This time he let out a strangled whimper as the feather touched his sore nose. Serafina could feel his breath, hot and urgent against her hand, and once again cupped his cheek, tilting his head up to face her. She flicked the quill back into place, seeking the sensitive spot in those inflamed nostrils, while Perry snorted in irritation again, another tear spilling over his cheek as he began another round of desperate hitching.

“Ghhyieehh… Hhihhh… HYiehhh… HEHhhh… SNRF!”

The feather was becoming too damp to do its job. Serafina twitched it more insistently, scratching against the raw, sensitive walls of Perry’s nose, while he plainly struggled not to pull away. When she withdrew it and set to work on the other nostril, a string of mess came with it.

“HhH-Hhh… Hhyieehhh… I… I can’t… Hghhyyiehhhh…”

“You can, and you will. A little deeper…”

Another deft flick of the quill, and Serafina seemed to have found the spot at last. Perry’s face contorted in ticklish agony, and though he pulled away and raised his handkerchief as quickly as he could, Serafina still felt the mist of the resultant sneeze on her wrist. A slight shiver ran through her, and warmth stirred in her belly.

“HhHGYIESHHEWW!”

It was the wettest yet, and Perry seemed spent. Breathing heavily, avoiding Serafina’s eyes, he once again began soaking his handkerchief with the newly loosened congestion. When he could at last speak again, his handkerchief was rendered useless, but his voice was noticeably less congested.

“I’m so very sorry. You must find this utterly repulsive.”

You poor man, if only you knew.

Serafina fondly brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. The relentless sneezing had caused a few to come loose from his ponytail, framing his face rather nicely.

“You aren’t repulsive in the slightest. You’re just miserably ill. Sounds as if you’re a little cleared up, though. Let’s get to work repairing the damage.”

Taking the damp flannel, she carefully wiped Perry’s face, being careful of his raw nose and chapped lips. Perry leaned into the cool cloth, and Serafina held it in place for a moment, allowing him a moment’s relief after his efforts.

“Poor Peregrine. No dancing for you tonight, I think. Your partner would feel you burning up immediately.”

Opening her cosmetic drawer, Serafina began to go through the contents. Perry looked on with weary eyes, taking the flannel himself and holding it to his overheated brow.

“I don’t know much about cosmetics, but surely yours are some shade of purple, to match you? I don’t know that it’s going to help me.”

“Most of them are. But I ‘borrowed’ this one from Delia one day when she was being especially unpleasant. She hides from the sun at all costs for fear of developing freckles, so she’s almost as pale as you.”

Removing the ‘borrowed’ powder, and a jar of moisturizing lotion, Serafina opened both, and swatted Perry’s hand away when he reached for them.

“Oh no you don’t. You said yourself, you know nothing about cosmetics. You’ll leave this to me, thank you.”

“You’re having entirely too much contact with this wretched nose of mine. I’m sure you’re going to catch this.”

“Then you shall have to find a way to make it up to me. I’m sure between us we can think of something. Now, hold still, please.”

Perry flinched as Serafina dabbed a little lotion on his nose, beginning to gently rub it in. It felt even warmer than the rest of him, and twitched charmingly. Once again Serafina had to remind herself that now was not the time to tease.

“It feels odd. Is it having an effect?”

“Not on the colour, I’m afraid, but it might soothe you a little, and it will make it easier for the powder to stick.”

At the mere mention of powder, Perry gave a nervous sniffle. He watched and swallowed hard as Serafina picked up the powderpuff, disturbing a fine cloud of the cosmetic.

“I know. You need to try not to breathe in while I apply this. Close your eyes, and try not to think about it.”

Perry did as he was told, holding his breath and refusing to look. Even so, his nose scrunched and wriggled as Serafina applied powder in deft, careful dabs. It was going to require more powder than she had imagined.

“Alright. Take a breath now, then we’ll try some more.”

Perry let out the breath he had been holding, together with a few ticklish coughs that made him wince and press a hand to his chest. His nose twitched again. And again, more desperately. His eyes began to develop that familiar, distant look.

Serafina pressed a finger beneath his nose, giving him a stern look.

“No. If you sneeze, your handkerchief is going to undo my work.”

Perry sniffled. Serafina gave his nostrils a firm rub, feeling them twitch and flare. A tentative hitch. Another.

“Peregrine. No.”

At last, Perry’s breathing settled, and he opened his eyes. It was hard to tell if the flush on his cheeks was from fever or embarrassment.

“I think it’s under control.”

“Good. You need some more powder. Hold your breath again.”

The second application seemed even more irritating than the first. Perry’s tormented nose scrunched and wriggled, and his chest shuddered with the urge to take in a great hitching breath. Serafina finished the second coat, and once again pressed a finger beneath his nose.

“You’re doing well. Deep breaths. Try not to think about it.”

“I-ihh… it won’t le-hehhh-t me think of much… much else…”

Before Serafina could reply, Mayna’s timid voice sounded from outside the room.

“Good evening, Lord DeVille! Miss DeVille is just getting ready!”

Perry froze in horror. No matter how innocent the circumstances, being caught in the bedroom of Lord DeVille’s beloved daughter would be a disaster, even if he was in perfect health. Seizing him by the arm, with no time to hide him anywhere safer, Serafina dragged him to his feet and shoved him behind her bed, hissing in his ear.

“Not a word from you, and for the gods’ sake, not a sneeze!”

Serafina seated herself at her dressing table just as her father knocked on the door.

“Are you decent, my dear?”

“Just putting on some finishing touches, Papa. I’ll join you shortly.”

The door opened, and Serafina forced herself not to glance nervously at Perry. She didn’t need to see him to know that he was struggling. Her father, elegantly dressed in his evening attire, entered, greeting her with a fond smile.

“I don’t know why you fuss about with all that makeup. You look perfectly lovely to me.”

“A lady is always on display. One must attend to the details. Did you need something, Papa?”

Maddeningly, Lord DeVille seemed in a mood to linger.

“Your young man hasn’t arrived yet. Odd, given he’s usually early. I hope he’s well this time.”

While her father looked over her array of cosmetics with fond amusement, Serafina chanced a glance at Perry. Her heart sank. He was huddled as far out of view as he could, but from what she could see of the part of his face not buried in his handkerchief, he was on the verge of giving himself away. His shoulders shuddered with desperate hitches, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sure he’s perfectly well. He’s been most enthusiastic about this evening.”

Lord DeVille gave a huff of amusement.

“I’m not sure what he’s more interested in. My finances, or my daughter.”

“Peregrine’s always perfectly respectful on both subjects.”

Lord DeVille frowned, nodding to the open powder sachet and bottle of cough syrup on the dressing table.

“You’re not unwell yourself, are you?”

He reached out and felt her forehead. Ordinarily Serafina would have been touched by his concern. Right now, she struggled not to squirm in frustration.

Hold on, Peregrine. No matter how it tickles!

From behind the bed, she heard the desperate “hmp!” of a painfully stifled sneeze, and she coughed slightly to cover the noise.

“A slight sore throat, Papa, nothing more. Given I’ll likely be asked to sing tonight, I thought I ought to take some precautions.”

That, at least, would take the blame off Perry when she inevitably caught his cold.

Lord DeVille looked unconvinced, but he patted her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I’ll not have you pressured into singing if you’re not up to it. And early to bed for you tonight! No lingering to discuss toadstools with that poor besotted fungal fellow!”

“As you wish. Was there anything else?”

While her father looked elsewhere, she chanced another glance at Perry, and her heart began to race. He stifled another sneeze into his handkerchief, managing to keep it perfectly silent, but that would not be the case for long. Even pinching his nose harshly and forcing his mouth closed, he was on the verge of coming undone.

Lord DeVille picked up the jar of powder, giving a hum of amusement.

“This wouldn’t be the powder Delia was throwing a tantrum about, would it, my darling?”

Another muffled “hnk!” from behind the bed. Serafina suspected she had moments to act.

“Is it? Oh dear, I must have picked it up by mistake! Here, I’ll see that it’s returned to her!”

She reached for the powder, and in doing so, allowed her sleeve to catch the glass of water she had poured for Perry, deliberately knocking it into her lap. She leapt up with a cry of alarm, her voice covering up a muffled “HM-ph!”.

“Oh! My dress!”

“There now, my dear, it’s just a little water, I’m sure there’s no damage done!”

“Perhaps not, but I can’t wear this now! Better let me change, Papa, if you want me downstairs by the time guests arrive!”

Lord DeVille nodded, turning back to the door.

“I’ll leave you to it. Not to worry if you’re a little late, I’ll make your excuses for you.”

The moment the door closed, Serafina dived behind the bed, dropping to her knees. Perry did not even seem to notice her. He was lost to the build-up of a sneeze that had no hope of being silenced. Serafina hurriedly seized a pillow from the bed and pressed it over his face, praying that between the muffling effect and the closed door, her father would not hear.

Perry lurched forward, delivering a flurry of violent sneezes into the pillow.

“HHIEMMMPHHH! MMPHH! HHhuHMMPH!”

Serafina rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly as he sneezed again and again, the explosions gradually growing weaker until he was left panting, raising his head from the pillow at last. His eyes streamed, as did his nose, and all traces of powder were thoroughly removed. The cool silk of her pillow had been left damp and darkened from the results of his sneezes.

“Miss DeVille, I’m so very…”

“No apologies, please. Bless you.”

The stifling had undone her efforts in making him sound less ill. He sounded just as congested as he had when he arrived, and looked utterly defeated, as well as humiliated, as he took out his handkerchief and gave his nose an exhausted blow.

“Truly, though, I am sorry. I really think I ought to go home.”

Serafina helped him to his feet, and guided him determinedly back to the dressing table, where she picked up her quill once more.

“We’ve come this far, and I’m not one for admitting defeat. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

[shamefilledsnzblog]

And here's Part Two! Poor Perry is not doing so well at the dance, and that nose of his can only hold out for so long...

“Well, I’ve done all I can. Do you think you have matters under control?”

Serafina stood with Perry outside the front door, having snuck him back outside the house so that he might enter as expected. She ran a critical eye over him, taking in the results of her efforts. He was no longer breathing through his mouth, so hopefully no longer irritating his throat quite so badly. There was no hiding his pallor, but that could always be explained by his lack of time in the sun. The dark circles under his eyes had been carefully concealed with powder, as had the raw redness of his nose.

It was that nose that Serafina worried would be Perry’s undoing. True, it was no longer quite so clogged, and the dripping had relented, but knowing Perry, it would not take much to set it off. A whiff of perfume, some lingering cat dander, pollen from the floral arrangements… It never took much to set Perry sneezing even when he was in full health, and once he began, Serafina’s hard work would be ruined.

Perry looked nervous, and gave a tentative sniffle. It didn’t sound too moist, but that was likely to change before long.

“I’ll do my best. After your efforts with that quill, I’m hoping I’ve tired myself out too much to sneeze. And my head no longer feels quite so full. Hopefully I can finish speaking with your father before that changes.”

“We’d best get you inside, then, and get this over with.”

Serafina led the way inside, where a servant took Perry’s hat and coat. With her hand on Perry’s arm, Serafina could feel a slight shiver now that the outer garment was removed, despite the heat that radiated from him. She met his eyes with concern, but he gave her a reassuring smile, and allowed her to lead him to the music room, where the carpets had been rolled up for dancing.

The air was filled with music, a band having been hired for the evening (although Serafina expected to provide some of the music herself later on). Unfortunately, the air was also filled with perfume and cologne. Serafina shot Perry a wary glance, all too aware of what the scents must be doing to his long-suffering nose.

Perry had closed his eyes, seemingly concentrating hard. Sure enough, his nostrils were giving quick, ticklish flares. Serafina squeezed his arm encouragingly, hoping that the quick sniffle she heard wasn’t a sign that Perry was already losing control.

“You can do this. Try to hold your breath until it passes.”

Perry opened his eyes again, managing a shaky smile.

“I think I’ve fought it off for now. Snf!”

“Ah, you’ve found him! Good evening, Peregrine. I was beginning to suspect you were ill again!”

Lord DeVille approached, looking over Perry critically. Perry swallowed hard, fighting a tickle in his throat, but his voice remained thankfully steady as he replied.

“A pleasure to be here, Your Lordship. I’m quite well, thank you. And eager to discuss the expedition. I wonder if there’s somewhere we might talk?”

Lord DeVille chuckled.

“We’ll discuss your expedition, but it can wait until later. This is a dance, not a business meeting! Please, enjoy yourself. Find yourself a dance partner! In fact, I see my Elena playing the wallflower. Come over here, Elena, darling, Peregrine will dance with you!”

Elena, Lord DeVille’s youngest daughter, approached with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. She had danced with Perry before, and while he was a competent dancer, the sneezing fit her perfume provoked had left her decidedly uncharmed. Perry attempted to hide his own dread. He swallowed again, hard, the tickle in his throat threatening to become a cough. As Elena approached, the buzzing in his sinuses worsened. There was that sweet, floral perfume again, making his nose itch, threatening to make it run…

Serafina, seeing Perry’s smile begin to falter, tightened her grip on his arm. His breathing was still steady, but his nose was twitching again. She turned to her father, eyes imploring.

“Actually, Papa, I’ve already laid claim to Peregrine for this dance. I’m so very sorry, Elena. I see Theodore over there, and he’s a lovely dancer. Shall I send him to ask you?”

Elena blushed a little, her eyes darting to the young man in question. He was a frequent guest at Lord DeVille’s parties, and Elena had done a poor job of hiding her infatuation with him.

Lord DeVille gave Serafina an attempt at a stern look, but as always, his clear fondness for her took away its sting.

“Very well, my dear. But see that you dance with other gentlemen tonight, won’t you? You must share young Peregrine around!”

Serafina nodded, squeezing Perry’s arm again as she heard a delicate sniffle.

Anyone who shares him tonight is going to get a share of that cold.

“Of course, Papa. Come, Peregrine, lead me to the floor.”

As Perry obligingly led Serafina towards the other dancers, he leaned closer to whisper.

“I thought I wasn’t to dance tonight?”

“You’re certainly not to dance with anyone else, and I’d rather you didn’t dance at all, but if you refused, Papa would have expected an excuse. How’s your nose? Are you still in control?”

Perry nodded, but failed to hold back a ticklish cough. The effort of holding more in made him sniffle, leaving his eyes watering. The sniffle brought on another itch, and, hoping Lord DeVille was looking elsewhere, he quickly pressed a knuckle to his nose.

“Careful, don’t rub off the powder. Is there no other way you can hold back?”

“Nothing… hiehhh… Nothing that works as well.”

His breath caught, and for a moment Serafina was sure he was going to lose control. Looking back and seeing her father watching, she quickly led the way to where Theodore was standing, approaching with a smile.

“Theodore, so lovely to see you! I wonder, would you partner Elena? I hate to see her being a wallflower.”

Theodore responded with a warm smile.

“It would be my very great pleasure, Miss DeVille.”

Serafina and Perry watched as Theodore went to claim his partner. Serafina sighed, and Perry hastily covered another cough with the back of his hand.

“Hopefully that will distract Papa. He’s ever so keen to see Elena married, and he likes Theodore. Now, shall we? No, try not to cough. Hold your breath, that’s it. Come, dance with me.”

Perry, clearing his throat, obediently led Serafina to join the other dancers. Any other time, he would have been happy to dance. With Serafina, at least. She was an excellent partner; attentive, playful, and quick on her feet. Now, he wondered if he could even remember the steps. Even with Lord DeVille’s attention elsewhere, Perry still felt under observation, and suppressing his symptoms was beginning to take a toll. Fluid was beginning to fill his nose again, and though he tried to control it with quick, careful sniffles, each one threatened to undo him. He needed his handkerchief. He needed to sneeze, to blow until he had purged every maddening tickle, to rub at his nose until it stopped tormenting him…

“Ihhh… Ihyieeehhh…

“Peregrine, you mustn’t!”

Perry gave a desperate sniff, holding his breath, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Unable to focus, he missed a step, and stumbled as he hurried to correct himself. The dance was a slow one, thankfully, but that was sure to make the mistake stand out. He glanced at Lord DeVille, breathing out a sigh of relief as he saw him in conversation with another man.

His relief was short-lived.

“IiiehhhSHHIEW!”

It came from nowhere, as his cold sneezes so often did, leaving him no chance to reach for his handkerchief, and with his hands occupied, there was nothing he could do but turn his head away from Serafina. The dancer who found herself in the firing line instead shot him a furious glare, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m so very sorry! It came on so suddenly!”

Serafina squeezed his hand reassuringly, attempting to smile, though worry filled her eyes.

“I know. But I hope it was an isolated incident. Oh Peregrine…”

Thankfully, the sneeze had temporarily appeased the itch, though it remained burning away in the back of his nose, threatening to flare up again. It had, however, brought on a new tide of congestion, and, unable to blow his nose, Perry found himself sniffling urgently to keep it from dripping.

“You must try not to sniff so loudly. People will notice.”

“They’ll notice if my nose starts dripping, too. I’m so sorry. This is revolting.”

“You could never revolt me. But you really must try to fight it.”

The dance came to an end, and Perry bowed as he released his hold on Serafina. Doing so proved a mistake, gravity making the relentless flood threaten to overflow. A drip tickled at the rim of his nostril, and with no music to cover the sound, the desperate snuffle with which he attempted to draw it back drew a few judgmental looks. He was at least successful in keeping the drip from spilling, but the tickle remained. His nose twitched urgently, and he rubbed it with a curled knuckle, looking desperately at Serafina.

“I don’t know how much longer I can last.”

Looking at him, Serafina had to agree. Already, the dripping and rubbing had wiped away a little powder, revealing a touch of red at his septum. And that relentless, desperate twitching always meant that Perry’s control was fading fast. And to make matters worse, her father was approaching.

“Just a little longer. I need to find a way to get you out of here. Trust me.”

Spotting Mayna at the side of the room, Serafina hurried to her, pulling her out of earshot of the other servants.

“I need to ask something of you. I’m afraid you may get in trouble, but I’ll see that you’re well compensated, and see if I can shield you from the worst of the criticism.”

Mayna nodded, clearly nervous, but as always, her loyalty to Serafina won over her timidity.

“Whatever you need, Miss.”

Hastily giving the maid her orders, Serafina hurried back to rejoin Perry. He was putting on a good show, listening attentively and nodding as her father spoke, but to her keen eye, she could see the first signs of him coming undone. The desperate flaring of his nostrils, the movement of his throat as he swallowed to suppress a cough…

“Ah, my dear! I was just telling Peregrine, he’s rather a fine dancer when he’s not sneezing up a storm!”

“I couldn’t agree more, Papa. And don’t Theodore and Elena make a handsome pairing?”

She pointed to the other side of the room, where Theodore was talking with a blushing Elena. While her father looked in their direction, Perry pressed a knuckle beneath his nose again, his eyes briefly squeezing shut. He quickly regained his composure, but a little more powder had been rubbed off. Before long, it would be impossible to miss the unmistakable red of a nose battling a cold. Where was Mayna?

“They really are. I’m certainly not opposed to the match. Peregrine, I wonder, do you know Theodore Rousseau? I believe he’s rather academic, perhaps you move in the same circles?”

Perry nodded, fighting to keep his smile from wavering. Another drip threatened to spill from his nose, and the tickle was maddening. It prickled away, sharp and insistent, refusing to be quelled by sniffling, by rubbing, by holding his breath. Only a good, satisfying sneeze would scratch the itch.

“We both have very different areas of study, but I’ve met him in the library a few times. He’s pleasant to talk to, and quite intelligent. I’ve never heard anything said against him.”

Congestion was beginning to creep back into his voice, as it had been threatening to do since he arrived. Lord DeVille’s brow furrowed a little.

“I’m glad to hear it. Are you sure you’re quite well? You sound a little off.”

Serafina cursed inwardly. Now that her father had noticed, he would pay closer attention, and there was no way Perry could stand the scrutiny.

Mayna, where are you?

“I’m quite well, Your Lordship, I assure you. A slight reaction to the floral arrangements, but nothing severe.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Can’t have you going into another of your episodes! Ah, Mayna, good girl, bring that tray here.”

Mayna hesitantly stepped forward, offering a tray laden with drinks, and stood respectfully while Lord DeVille took a glass. She met Serafina’s eyes and, receiving a slight nod, moved to offer the tray to her and Perry. As she did so, she stumbled forward, as if she had tripped on the hem of her dress. With a frightened yelp, she stumbled against Perry, spilling the drinks over his shirt, soaking him.

Lord DeVille cursed.

“Of all the times to be clumsy! Peregrine, I’m so very sorry!”

Perry, having caught Mayna as she fell, gave her a reassuring smile as he steadied her. She stammered out an apology, unable to meet anyone’s eyes, beginning to tremble.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Of course you didn’t! It’s quite alright, accidents happen, I’m not upset with you. Please don’t be hard on her, Your Lordship, there’s no harm done. Although I think perhaps I ought to go home. I don’t think anyone will want to dance with me while I smell like a drunk.”

“Of course. I’m so terribly sorry. We still need to discuss your expedition, but I’m afraid I’ve quite a full schedule for the rest of the week. I’m giving a dinner for a few friends next week, though. Come along, and we’ll discuss it then.”

Trying not to look too relieved, Perry nodded, fighting the urge to sniffle, a sneeze demanding to be unleashed.

“I look forward to it, Lord DeVille. Thank you, and goodnight.”

How he got through that sentence without his breath hitching, he couldn’t begin to understand. As soon as he turned away, his lips began to part, chest expanding with a desperate inhale.

“I’ll see Peregrine out, and return shortly, Papa.”

Serafina took Perry by the arm, whispering in his ear as he began to hitch and whimper.

“Just a little longer. Just hold it back a little longer. Fight it, I know you can do it!”

“I… ihihhehhh… Hehhh…”

“Peregrine, don’t. Papa’s not watching, you can rub your nose now. Just let me get you outside, and you can have your handkerchief, and sneeze to your heart’s content, but for just a little longer, hold it in!”

Pery wasn’t sure he could. He pressed hard against his nose, rubbing violently, feeling his finger grow damp as his nose overflowed at last. He let out a whine of desperation, the tickle growing worse, filling his entire nose, spreading through his sinuses. His breath snagged again, and his eyes closed, leaving him guided only by Serafina. They were out of the ballroom at last, away from the cloying smell of perfume, perhaps he could…

“HGHHYISHIEW!”

The sneeze burst out, soaking his hand, bending him at the waist, making strands of hair come loose from his ponytail. It wasn’t enough.

“Hehh… HEHhhh…. Hehhiyehh…”

“Almost there, Peregrine. You’re doing so well. I’ll get your coat, you go outside. Just hold it together a moment longer!”

Perry nodded, biting down hard on his tongue to distract from the tickle. He barely registered the servant opening the door, bidding him good evening, Serafina’s hand leaving his arm as she went to retrieve his things. He held his breath, rubbed his nose, stepped outside…

“Heh-YISHOO! HYISHIEWW! SHIEWW! Ughhh… huhhh… hehhhehhhHEHSHIEW!”

The sneezes barely even began to scratch the itch. Perry stumbled, feeling blindly for the gate, stepping out into the street and leaning against the fence, dragging his handkerchief from his pocket and unleashing another round of sneezes into it.

“EhhHYISHIEW! HeHHGHHSHIEW! YISHOO! Ehhh-EHHGYSHIEW!”

As soon as he was able to catch a breath without immediately sneezing it out, he blew his nose desperately, flooding his handkerchief with congestion, rubbing off every last trace of powder. He was vaguely aware of two passers-by stepping onto the road to give him as wide a berth as possible, and couldn’t even begin to care, his nose demanding to be satisfied once more.

“GhhSHIEW! SHIEW! Hehhh… HESHYIEW!”

He started slightly as he felt a warm weight settle over his shoulders, and heard Serafina’s gentle voice.

“Bless you. You did well.”

Perry gave his nose a dejected blow, turning to find Serafina looking at him softly, his hat in her hands. Shivering slightly, he slipped his arms into the coat she had wrapped around him. He took his hat as she offered it and settled it on his head, only to nearly dislodge it with another sneeze.

“HEHGSHYIEW! Ugh. I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t do well at all. I couldn’t even make it through one dance. And poor Mayna… Will you give her my most sincere thanks, and apologies for any trouble she finds herself in? I’ll send along a thank you gift for her once I… I… IHHYEHSHIEW!”

“I’m sure she will appreciate it, but please don’t trouble yourself over anything until you’re recovered. You’ve got a week to get rid of this cold and make another attempt at winning over Papa. I expect you to spend it taking care of yourself to the best of your ability, and I may call on you to see that you’re doing so.”

Perry shook his head, blowing his nose once more.

“Please don’t, Miss DeVille. I’ve already infected you for sure. I’m so very sorry. I really am revolting, I know, and you’ve been far too patient with… w-hh-HYISHOO!”

As he recovered from that last sneeze, nose buried in his handkerchief, coughing weakly, he felt a cool hand against his flushed cheek. He looked up to find Serafina smiling at him, warmth in her eyes, her thumb stroking gently across his cheek.

“Sweet Peregrine, how many times? You could never revolt me. You’re dear to me, and no amount of sniffles or sneezes will change that.”

Perry opened his mouth and, finding no words, closed it again. He felt his cheeks burning even hotter than before, probably as red as his nose. He cleared his throat, coughing slightly.

“I… I think I have a fever.”

“I think you do.”

Tired, aching, head throbbing, sinuses still buzzing, Perry allowed himself just a moment to lean into that cool, gentle hand, enjoying her touch. He closed his eyes, cherishing the moment, and to his surprise, felt soft lips brush his forehead.

“Miss DeVille…”

“How many times? Serafina. Now go home and put yourself to bed. I shall call on you tomorrow, whether you like it or not.”

[shamefilledsnzblog]

Aaand Third and Final Part! After holding in all those sneezes, Perry has given himself a nasty sinus infection. Luckily Serafina has followed through on her promise to pay him a visit. Enjoy Perry battling some stuck sneezes and being a miserable wreck!

When Serafina knocked on Perry’s door, it was with the hope that he would answer it looking somewhat recovered since last night’s dance. Her hopes were promptly dashed by the sounds she heard within.

“Just… HehhHEEhhh… SNRF! … Just a moment…”

That, at least, was what she assumed he had tried to say. She had never heard a voice so muddled with congestion in her life. She flinched at the sound of someone stumbling, cursing, and something made of glass meeting its untimely end.

When Perry finally opened the door, Serafina’s heart ached for him. His hair was coming loose from its ribbon, and he had plainly dressed with no care whatsoever. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and possibly just thrown on due to the unexpected company, his cravat hung untied around his neck, and one side of his collar had come unbuttoned. Feverish red patches contrasted the pallor of his complexion, the shadows under his eyes were a dark purple, and his nose had been rubbed to a truly miserable shade of red, practically glowing in its intensity. His lips were parted, his nose plainly allowing no air through whatsoever. Serafina had never seen an expression so heavy with congestion.

“Miss… Hehh… Miss DeVille. SnfFF! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Then you’re even more muddled than you look. I told you I’d call on you when we bid farewell last night, remember? Now, are you going to invite me in?”

Perry hesitated, rubbing at his nose with a handkerchief that clearly needed to be exchanged for a fresh one, wincing as it touched the raw skin. His mind seemed slowed by the weight of the congestion filling his head.

“I’m not fit company for anyone right now, Miss DeVille. And things are rather a mess, and… Huhhhh… SNF! Guhh…”

“Whether or not you’re fit for company, you need it. You look miserable, Peregrine. Let me in, and let me see if I can’t make things better. You needn’t fear contagion. I spent a significant part of last night tickling your nose with a feather. I think that ship has sailed.”

Peregrine’s attempt at a reply was cut off by a twitch of his nose, and a familiar desperation in his eyes. His breath caught, and his chest expanded with an urgent hitch.

“Ghehhh… HEHHh… HhihhYEHHH…”

Serafina stepped around him as he struggled, and found herself in a flat that looked exactly as she had imagined it. Bookshelves everywhere. A dining table that appeared to serve more as a desk, with open books, maps, letters, tea long since gone cold, and discarded handkerchiefs. And a truly dazzling array of mushrooms displayed on every surface. Serafina examined one, a magnificent coral pink specimen in a glass terrarium, as she waited for Perry to sneeze and return his attention to her.

The sneeze, however, was putting up a fight. Perry held his handkerchief at the ready, his eyes closed in expectation, his lips parted, but no matter how many urgent, trembling breaths he drew in, the sneeze refused to make an appearance. At long last, after several long seconds of desperate hitching, he sighed and attempted to blow his nose, seemingly without much success.

“It’s not like you to have to fight for a sneeze. Usually you’re doing your best to fight them off.”

Peregrine’s shoulders slumped miserably as he tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket. He sighed, and the sigh became a damp, rattling cough that left him panting for breath, a hand pressed to his chest.

“I’ve barely been able to sneeze all day. It’s my sinuses. I don’t think holding in all those sneezes last night did me much good. Please, erm… Make yourself comfortable? I’d offer you tea, but…”

He trailed off, coughing again, but Serafina understood. The man looked far too contagious to be handling anything to be consumed by another, even though she was almost certainly already infected. Seeing that he was at something of a loss for what to do, and clearly unused to receiving company, Serafina took control. Shrugging off her coat and hanging it by the door, she went to the table and picked up a teapot that had long since gone cold.

“I’m quite capable of brewing tea myself, and you clearly need some. Sit down and let me look after you. Something tells me it’s not just your sinuses troubling you. That cough sounds miserable.”

Perry shook his head, clearly struggling to keep up. Serafina wondered how high his fever was; his temperature plainly wasn’t normal.

“Just let me tidy up a little. SNF! Ugh, apologies, I sound revolting, and I’m sure I look a wreck as well.”

He knelt down and began collecting broken glass from what appeared to be some sort of beaker or flask, clearly what he had knocked over before answering the door. Serafina noted a pained expression as he leaned forward, and as he straightened up he rubbed a hand against his forehead and cheekbones. His sinuses were infected for sure.

“What on earth were you doing out of bed? You’re in no condition to be up and about, and I distinctly remember telling you to do all in your power to recover.”

Perry sighed gloomily as he disposed of the broken glass and took a rag to mop up whatever had been contained within.

“I was making a sterilizing solution for some substrate. Need to start a new batch of spawn, and the ideal temperature window for this one is narrow. Can’t leave… leave it too… hhhgyihhh… hyehhh… iyehhghhh…”

Serafina watched sympathetically as she filled the kettle and set it on the small stove in the area that served as a kitchen. Perry, on his knees on the floor, leaned back, raising the cloth he had been cleaning with, barely seeming to register that it wasn’t his usual handkerchief. She had never seen a man so desperate for a sneeze. His lips parted, his chest shuddered with shaky inhales, his nostrils flared, eyes closed and watering, and…

“HhHeh-HEHhhh… hmm… Guhh. I’m sorry, this is rather undignified.”

“I don’t care whether or not it’s dignified, I care that it looks terribly uncomfortable. Will you please sit down? I don’t care about the mess, and I’m sure your spawn can wait just a little longer. Really, could you not have stayed in bed for just one day?”

Perry shook his head, pulling out a seat at the table and slumping into it.

“Lying down makes it worse. My head throbs, and nothing I do can clear it. And I can’t breathe through my nose, so just when I start nodding off, I start coughing and wake myself up again. It’s all perfectly miserable.”

Leaving the kettle to boil, Serafina came to sit beside him. Reaching out, she brushed the loose hair behind his ear, and rested her hand against his brow, and then his cheek. Both burned with fever, and Perry closed his eyes with a sigh, leaning into her touch. She ran her thumb along one cheekbone, applying a little pressure, and Perry winced.

“Poor thing. You’re quite right, I think it’s your sinuses that are the trouble. You’re tender here?”

“Extremely. I feel like if I could just be allowed one sneeze, something might shift, but I can’t manage it, so my head feels full of mud.”

He looked up at her at last, looking as if he was dreading her judgement, and instead found Serfina arching an eyebrow.

“… Please don’t get the quill again?”

“Not to worry, I won’t subject you to that again. I think we can find a gentler way to clear you up. But first, you’re going to drink a cup of tea and some water. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything?”

Perry shook his head, eyes lowering once more. Serafina felt her heart ache for the poor man. She had seen him ill before, of course, but never so completely miserable. She rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly and squeezing his shoulder, trying not to be worried by the heat radiating from him.

“I haven’t had any appetite. I couldn’t taste anything even if I did.”

“Well, I must insist you eat something later, but I won’t force you for now. All I want you to do for the moment is to go and put yourself to bed, while I prepare tea and something to help you breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Pery gave a miserable snuffle, and winced as it seemed to hurt his head even more.

“I suspect you’re not going to give me a choice.”

“You suspect quite right. To bed with you, at once, and leave everything else to me.”

Perry nodded wearily and got to his feet. Judging by those grimaces, he was aching from the fever. Serafina kept her hand on his shoulder as she guided him to the bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it too was filled with various fungal specimens, and a remarkable quantity of books.

“Extraordinary. The air in here must be full of spores, and you still can’t manage a single sneeze?”

Perry’s nose twitched at the mere mention, his eyes fluttering closed and his lips parting. Worried he might lose the sneeze under too much scrutiny, Serafina turned her attention to a particularly attractive mushroom blooming from a suspended piece of wood. Delicate, fan-like structures, the purest white… Once upon a time it would never have occurred to her to even look at such a thing. Now, she was beginning to see what Perry found so fascinating.

“Hiehhh… Hgyiihhhh… Hmm… HehhhHEH! HEHH! Hhhh…”

Serafina turned to see Perry teetering on the very edge of a sneeze. Mouth open, lip curled in an agonized snarl, eyes squeezed shut in desperation, nostrils flared wide and shining with leaking congestion… And just as it seemed he would be granted relief, the breath escaped him in a frustrated sigh, and he slumped in defeat. Nose running, he attempted to sniffle, his shoulders rising with the effort of it.

“Damn. I thought I had it.”

“I thought so too. Poor thing, it must be maddening. Now, you get changed and put yourself to bed at once, while I see what I have that might help.”

Closing the door to give Perry some privacy, Serafina went to retrieve the bag she had hung up along with her coat. Not sure Perry would have what was required to hand, she had stopped to buy some things along the way. She took a jar of salve and a bottle of medicine, and went to attend to the whistling kettle. Perry’s kitchen was sparse, and she suspected he rarely cooked anything substantial for himself. Making a note to return later with soup, she found a tin of tea leaves and set to work brewing them.

Finally, with medicines, tea with lemon and honey, and water on a tray, she knocked on the bedroom door.

“Are you decent, Peregrine?”

“I’m dying, but please, come in.”

Perry was tucked up in bed, somehow looking even more ill now that his hair was loose and he was dressed in a nightshirt. He had propped himself up on what looked like every pillow and cushion he had been able to lay hands on, and was busy dabbing at his raw nose, trying to stem the relentless dripping. Every touch looked terribly uncomfortable.

Serafina set down the tray, and passed Perry a cup of tea.

“Drink that first, and try to breathe in some of the steam. Now, where are your spare handkerchiefs?  That one’s starting to do more harm than good.”

Taking a sip of tea and seeming surprised by the honey it contained, Perry indicated a drawer on the nightstand. Serafina opened it, and found it filled with handkerchiefs. Each was embroidered in one corner with a mushroom of some variety, each in intricate detail. Serafina had seen the embroidery before, and thought it an endearing quirk. To her surprise, next to the handkerchiefs, she found a small box of embroidery supplies, with another handkerchief half finished.

“Peregrine! I never knew you embroidered these yourself!”

Perry blushed, taking another sip of tea to hide his embarrassment.

“Oh. Well, yes. My mother taught me. I was ill so often as a child, and couldn’t stand staying in bed. She taught me to embroider to keep me occupied, and so we would have a hobby in common. These days, whenever I’m bedridden, I find myself returning to it. Keeps my hands busy. And it’s a way to remember her.”

Serafina selected a handkerchief with a cheerfully coloured toadstool in the corner and ran a finger carefully across the delicate embroidery. She found herself smiling, imagining the young Perry being instructed in the art of needle and thread, and pressed the handkerchief into his hand.

“How thoroughly sweet! You do keep finding ways to surprise me. Now, I’m afraid I have to ask you to take a dose of this. Vile-tasting stuff, I know, but it might loosen up that dreadful cough.”

Perry grimaced as she poured a dose of the thick, dark syrup.

“I’d really rather not. Medicines always seem to make me so sleepy.”

“Good. Sleep is precisely what you need. Sleep, and some relief from that pressure in your head. Go on, swallow it down.”

Perry looked dubious, but broke out into another painful bout of coughing that nearly spilled his tea with the force of it. Seemingly convinced, he accepted the medicine cup and downed it with a look of revulsion.

“Ugh. How is it I can’t taste food, but I can still taste that?”

“It’s cruel, I know. Finish your tea, and then I’ve something else that might make you more comfortable.”

As Perry swallowed down the last of his tea, eager to chase away the taste of the medicine, Serafina opened up the jar of salve. It released a sharp, pungent menthol aroma, and even before it was brought near him, Perry twitched his nose in response. Even Serafina found herself momentarily overwhelmed, and quickly turned away with a carefully controlled sneeze.

“H’tshew! I do beg your pardon.”

Not quite the unrestrained, indulgent sneeze she would have preferred to allow herself, but it seemed cruel to enjoy such satisfaction when Perry was fighting so very hard for it. Smiling gently, she settled herself on the side of Perry’s bed and reached for the collar of his nightshirt. He flinched back, eyes wide.

“I can put it on, Miss DeVille. Really, I ought to. It’s likely to make a mess of me, and you doing so, when it’s just the two of us here, doesn’t seem entirely proper.”

There was something so endearing in his wide, nervous eyes, and the way he pulled the blanket up to his chest a little defensively. Serafina reached out and took his hands, stroking the back of one with her thumb as she gently lowered them.

“I know you can do it yourself. But I want to take care of you. Look at yourself, Peregrine. How many times have you been ill here, all alone, and just had to do your best by yourself?”

“I… erm… Snff-SNRF!... Well, Janessa usually looks in for a chat, and sometimes brings something to eat…”

“I want to care for you. I mean it. And as for propriety… Peregrine, last night I concealed you in my bedroom, hid you from my father, used my quill to make you sneeze until you were spent, and powdered your nose for you. I think we’re a little past propriety, don’t you?”

Perry seemed lost for words. It was hard to tell if those bright red spots on his cheeks were from being flustered or fevered. He looked down at Serafina’s hands, gently holding his own, attempting to sniffle and crinkling his nose as doing so made it threaten to drip.  He looked back up, meeting her eyes.

“I don’t understand. Why?”

Unable to help herself, Serafina leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to one flushed cheek.

“Does that help you understand?”

Perry flushed even redder than before, stammering and avoiding her eyes. Just as he was finally able to meet her gaze and attempt a reply, his expression grew distant, and his nose twitched.

“I think… I… Ihhghyiehhh… Ehh… SNRF!”

As he fought a losing battle to bring the sneeze to a satisfying conclusion, Serafina reached for his nightshirt again, unlacing it and exposing his chest. Perry shivered, though whether from the cold air touching his fevered skin, or from Serafina’s touch, she couldn’t say.

“That’s it. Now, this might feel a little cold, but it’s what you need.”

Scooping some of the salve onto her fingers, Serafina dabbed it onto Perry’s chest and began to spread it, working in slow, gentle strokes. The pungent scent grew stronger as it contacted the overheated skin, and before long, began to have the desired effect. Perry’s sniffling became more frequent, more damp, more urgent… He tried to raise his handkerchief, but Serafina caught his wrist, gently pushing it back down.

“Don’t try to rub the itch away. We want it all out, remember?”

“Hh… SNF-SNRFF! T-tihh-tickles…”

“I know it does. Let it happen.”

With her hand massaging Perry’s chest, she could feel every unsteady breath. The salve was doing its work, but hadn’t quite breached Perry’s defenses yet. Serafina watched as he wrinkled and twitched his nose, sniffling with increasing urgency, his eyelids constantly fluttering closed. He let out a low whimper, raising his handkerchief and holding it at the ready. Serafina let her hand still, feeling his chest expand, breathing deeper, deeper…

“Hehhh… Yhhieehhhh… Hh… Hm… Hff!.. Hmm… Hhhyehhh…”

He was on the verge of losing it again. She could tease him, Serafina found herself realizing once more. Let him keep coming to the edge, growing increasingly desperate each time he failed to bring the maddening urge to its conclusion. She could keep rubbing at his chest, perhaps gently, carefully running her claws over his skin, watching to see if doing so raised goosebumps. She could let that poor, tormented nose quiver and twitch and drip.

It would be an appealing idea any other day, but it was quickly replaced by a desperate need to free the poor dear man from his misery. Serafina dipped a finger in the salve, and before Perry could once more let out a final disappointed groan and lose the tickle entirely, she rubbed a smudge just beneath those leaking nostrils, and gave them the lightest flick with her claw for good measure.

The intense aroma, directly beneath his nose, breached the barrier at last. Perry’s eyes opened, wide and desperate, then squeezed abruptly shut. His mouth yawned wide open, the bridge of his nose crinkling, nostrils twitching wider and wider, hitching in one last, desperate breath, and…

“GHHHYIESHHHIEWW!”

The force of it flung him forward, throwing his hair into disarray, leaving him clutching his handkerchief to his nose with both hands, as if he feared one alone could not contain the sneeze. Serafina rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly.

“Well done. That was a struggle, wasn’t it? More?”

Perry nodded, face hidden by hair and handkerchief. Serafina felt the muscles in his back move as his chest began to expand once more.

“Hgyehh… Guhhh… Hehhh… HeeEHHGHSHIEWW!”

It was as violent as the first, and by the sounds of things, as wet. Perry attempted to draw in enough breath for a blow, but after being denied so many sneezes, his nose was not going to be satisfied with two. Serafina turned and took another handkerchief from the drawer in readiness. Then, hearing a desperately liquid snort, took another as well just to be sure.

“You’re doing well. Let them all out.”

“Hff… Hheffhhh… Hyiehhh… Hm… EhhhESHYIEWW! HGSHIEWW! Guhhh…”

Perry shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake loose further tickles, or to shift the congestion that sounded as if it was coming loose at last. Another wet, snorting attempt at a blow, and Serafina pressed a new handkerchief into his hand. Perry accepted it with a distracted nod, dropping the other at his side, plainly trying not to let her see the state of it.

“HeeHEGHHSShieww… Ugh… HhhGHSHIEW… H’SHIEW!”

Another blow, and this one sounded tremendously productive. Serafina heard damp squelching as Perry blew and blew, urgently seeking dry spots on his handkerchief after each soaking blow. And with more air finally reaching his inflamed passages, it only fueled the fire burning within.

“IIhhhIEYSHEW! YISHIEW!”

Serafina stopped counting each sneeze that burst forth, simply rubbing Perry’s back, murmuring soothing encouragements, passing the new handkerchief as the last was left soaked. Perry was unable to speak, all his attention focused on sneezing and blowing out the congestion that had been plaguing him. At long last, he drew a final, trembling breath, and let out a sneeze that seemed to scratch the itch at last.

“Hehh-hihhehhSHIEW!”

Panting from the effort, Perry let out a final, draining blow, and slumped back against his pillows, utterly spent. Smiling tenderly, Serafina brushed the golden hair from his face and, taking one of her own handkerchiefs from her pocket, gently dabbed away the sweat now shining on his face. Perry, looking both relieved and dazed, blinked up at her.

“I’m sorry. You must think me…”

“Peregrine. If you say one more unkind thing about yourself, I am going to be truly upset with you.”

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be feeling quite myself.”

Serafina rested the back of her hand on his brow, finding it warmer than before. Whether from the fever rising, or the sheer exertion of the sneezing fit, she couldn’t say. She stroked her fingers gently through his hair, and his eyes closed at the touch.

“Of course you don’t feel quite yourself. You’re exhausted, and running a fever. But you’re quite as lovely as ever, and I’ll not have you saying otherwise.”

Perry managed a sleepy smile, and a feeble attempt at a laugh that dissolved into a weak cough.

“You have a strange definition of lovely.”

“This coming from a man who sings the praises of mushrooms that look as if they sprung up from the hells. There’s a thing on the wall over there that looks like a section of brain, yet you chose it to adorn your bedroom. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I happen to find the sight before me quite beautiful.”

Perry’s cheeks flushed a darker shade of pink. He opened his mouth to reply, but his words were lost to a yawn.

“Apologies, Miss DeVille. I don’t find your company boring, I promise.”

“Of course you don’t. But you’ve not slept, and you said the medicine makes you sleepy. I suggest you take full advantage of that side effect, and get some rest. I’m going to go out for a little while, alright?”

Perry frowned, weariness claiming him as he considered her words.

“You’re coming back?”

“Naturally. There’s not enough in your kitchen to sustain you in fighting off whatever you’ve contracted, and our cook does a wonderful chicken soup. I’ll bring you some, you will eat it or answer to me, and you’ll let me care for you until I’m satisfied you can rest for the night. If that’s quite alright with you?”

Perry smiled sleepily, leaning further back into the pillows and allowing his eyes to close.

“Once again, I don’t think you’re going to allow me a choice in the matter.”

“Once again, you’re quite correct.”

[hana-akai]

The Hevan Chronicles

Hi friends! This is a fic I wrote of my OCs Evan and Henry : ) feel free to check out their profiles, i posted them just a while ago

For anyone who doesn't want to find the profiles:

Evan is an outgoing popular kid and a deeply closeted bisexual. He’s a senior in university and hopes to be a marine biologist one day! Henry makes his heart do funny things but he doesn't know why.

Henry is a chill guy who tends to keep to himself and isn't necessarily the best at expressing himself with words. Roomies with Mateo. Has a very big crush on Evan but because of the Way Henry Is, Mateo is pretty much the only one who knows. Business major.

In this one, Henry is sick with a cold and Evan feels things.

content warnings: snz, referenced contagion

Evan was waiting patiently for his first class of the day.

Ever the overachiever, he decided to take a few extra courses over the summer to graduate a bit early. The only class of the day is a finance course that he knows should be within his realm of understanding. Still, he showed up early and with extra supplies. Telling Evan not to prepare for every possible situation is like telling a fish not to swim.

As more and more students start entering the room and finding their seats, Evan plays with his blue ink pen. He greets a few classmates he recognizes, and it seems like the class is getting ready to start.

That’s when a familiar face enters the room. “Sorry I’m late,” he says in a tone a bit lower than usual and looks around for a seat. The professor barely acknowledges the error as the student was practically on time.

The student—Henry Sullivan—also happens to be the very bane of Evan’s existence at the moment. Not because Henry has done anything malicious to him, quite the opposite actually.

Henry is making him question everything he’s ever known about himself, and that terrifies him.

So when the only open seat for Henry is right next to Evan, he thinks to himself, “of fucking course.”

Henry, ever oblivious to Evan’s plight, takes the seat right next to the biology major.

Evan notices that Henry doesn’t even attempt a greeting and huffs to himself. ‘Fine, I won’t greet him back then.’ He turns his attention back to the lecture and decides to focus on taking notes.

Henry’s lack of note-taking doesn’t go unnoticed by Evan (and neither does anything Henry does, let’s be honest). He’s not a top student in his classes (Evan has him beat in that regard), but he’s usually very focused and attentive during lectures.

Well, whatever. If he spent his entire time wondering what was going through Henry’s head, he would have no time left to actually do coursework.

Henry gives a thick sniffle and rubs at his nose.

The motion catches the attention of Evan, who is trying his best not to be nosy at this point. But it’s getting harder and harder.

A congested cough from Henry later and Evan can pretty much guess that he’s picked up a nasty cold. And in the summer, no less. Poor guy, Evan thinks, must be feeling bad.

But now is no time to worry about his maybe-not-maybe crush! He has to focus on this lecture because the material is sure to show up in a future review, the professor already said as much.

Living in a beach town, Evan had always loved the ocean, which is part of his reason for majoring in biology. His dream is to become a marine biologist and rehabilitate sea creatures with injuries to release them back into the wild.

Most people know about the marine biology part. Few know about how caring he can actually be behind his goofy and sarcastic demeanor.

That’s why nothing—not even the hottest guy he’s ever seen having a terrible summer cold—can stop him from paying attention in this class.

That is, until Henry starts to sneeze.

It starts in the middle of the lecture when the professor is starting to talk about something like the increasing mortgage rates or whatever. Evan can’t even remember what it was now.

“hhHA’Shoo!”

Henry covers his sneeze with his elbow. It garners a few “bless you’s” but Evan can’t quite muster the courage to do it himself.

He notices that Henry is staring directly at the professor giving the lecture, but his eyes are a bit dazed and seem out of focus. Evan would be surprised if he was actually paying attention at all.

He turns his attention back to the lecture and tries his best to focus, although his classmate’s continuous wet sniffles are making it somewhat hard to focus.

‘Just blow your nose already,’ Evan thinks very pointedly at Henry, hoping the very obviously sick man will take the hint.

He doesn’t.

Henry keeps coughing into his fist, if he’s not sniffling pathetically. Evan might be worried about catching whatever nasty cold Henry clearly has if he didn’t feel so sorry for him.

The guy clearly needs to be in bed. It isn’t even an important day of the course, why would he risk his health (and everyone else’s) to show up when he could very well be taking it easy in his dorm?

“hhHATCHIew!”

Another sneeze, this one louder than the first. This time, Evan musters up a small “bless you” and ponders offering a tissue to the poor guy, if only he had any. Too bad it isn’t spring. If it were, he would have had plenty of tissues to go around.

“Fuck,” he can hear Henry mutter before coughing into his fist. Sounds like his throat hurts, the way he’s been coughing so much.

“You okay, man?” Evan finally decides to ask in a whisper. It comes out more pointed than he intended, but Henry doesn’t even seem to notice.

“‘m fine,” Henry mutters, getting that far-away look in his eyes again. But this time it looks like—

“hhHRSHieww! hETChiuu!”

Evan rolls his eyes. So insistent on pretending he’s fine until his body betrays him, he thinks. “C’mon,” he says, standing up and gesturing for Henry to follow. “I have to go to the bathroom anyway.”

It’s as casual as he can muster with his heart beating out of his chest. Seriously, why is he feeling this way? It’s just his classmate with a cold. Maybe it’s how absolutely pathetic Henry looks right now that’s triggering Evan’s caretaking instincts. Or maybe…

It seems as though Henry is weighing his options for a moment before nodding and deciding to follow.

After leaving the lecture hall and heading down to the bathrooms, Henry coughs again, this time sounding more forceful than before. Now in the bathroom, he takes a tissue from his hoodie’s pocket and blows his nose. The sound echoes in the bathroom, but thankfully no one else is there besides him and Evan.

Evan washes his hands and takes a look at Henry in the mirror. His eyes have dark circles underneath them, maybe from staying up all night coughing and sneezing? And his nose and cheeks are slightly pink, with a distinct wetness beneath his nose that he wipes away with a tissue.

“Why did you even show up today if you’re feeling so bad?” Evan asks before even realizing it. It takes both him and Henry by surprise, and he can’t tell if the flush on Henry’s cheeks is from his probable fever or embarrassment.

“I wasn’t actually planning on coming in today,” he admits, his voice thick with congestion. “But my roommate’s got friends over and he didn’t want me there.”

Evan suddenly feels very angry on behalf of Henry, whom he still barely knows. “So he knows you’re sick and still kicked you out? That’s cruel.”

Henry shrugs and seems like he’s about to respond, but he holds up a finger instead. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what’s going to happen next.

“hh…hhATCHyiew! hhESCHiu! …hhHRTCHIEW!”

The last sneeze has Henry bending at the waist, which is a lot for a guy as tall as him. Evan feels his face heat up. “Bless you,” he manages.

“Tha’gks,” Henry says, the congestion thick in his voice. He blows his nose and throws the tissue away before repeating the process another time. He clears his throat before turning to Evan, which takes the shorter man by surprise. “Can I ask you something?”

Evan blinks. “Sure,” he replies, not knowing what’s coming. But he doesn’t think he can say no to Henry when he’s like this. It must be because he feels bad for how awful Henry’s feeling right now. He always takes care of his friends really well when they’re sick, so this must be it.

“Can you feel if I have a fever?”

The question is asked casually, but it takes Evan a while to process the request. He blinks, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. Seriously, what’s gotten into him today?

“Of course,” he says, and takes a few steps closer to the taller man. He places a steady hand on Henry’s forehead, feeling suddenly way too shy for all of this. He’s never this self-conscious, but suddenly Evan is focused only on his breathing…and the heat emanating from Henry.

“Yeah, you’ve definitely got a fever,” Evan decides, pulling his hand away perhaps a bit too quickly. Whether it’s because of the illness or not, he doesn’t know, but Henry doesn’t seem to react. “Were you seriously planning on sitting through the whole lecture like this?”

Henry just shrugs, but he seems more exhausted than before. Maybe it’s because he’s not in the lecture hall anymore that he feels like he can let his guard down a little.

In all of his months of staring at Henry in the middle of class, Evan has never seen him look so…deflated.

"Listen…" he says, not even sure if Henry is hearing him at this point. He looks so out if it. "I'll get someone to give you the lecture notes later. Just go back to your place, okay? You look like you need to rest."

That's an understatement. Henry just nods. He gets that far-away look in his eyes again.

"hh'ngxt! ngkt'chiew"

How he still has the energy to stifle his sneezes is beyond Evan.

"Seriously, man, I can help walk you back," he offers, suddenly feeling less…whatever he was before and now starting to worry.

The taller man just coughs into a fist in response, so Evan decides to leave the matter alone.

He's never been that close to Henry before. The most they've spoken to each other before all of this were a few passing "hey's," usually coming from Evan (Henry just nods in reply) and some waves in the common areas between classes.

Evan has to admit, something about Henry always intrigued him. Whether it be his cool, nonchalant demeanor or the way his voice sounds an entire octave lower than his own, Henry just always stood out to Evan.

But he would never have tried this hard with anyone else. If literally any other student replied to his enthusiastic grin with a head nod, he would take incredible offense. Now that it's Henry, he's being more lenient. Even his own friends have pointed this out.

A crush, though? On a guy? It's not like Evan is opposed to the idea, but he never gave it that much thought before. He just always assumed he was like everyone else—completely and utterly straight. He's even had girlfriends in the past, and he's pretty sure he had real feelings for those girls. He would never play with someone's heart like that.

So navigating these feelings all while dealing with a very sick and very broody Henry is…less than easy, to say the least.

"I can't go back to my apartment," Henry insists. "I want to be respectful of my roommate." That's a weird thing to want considering his roommate has clearly not thought about him with the same consideration, but Henry must be a better person than Evan is.

"Jeez, you’re really making things difficult for me here," Evan mutters, ignoring how his heart flutters when he realizes how considerate Henry is. He puts his hands on his hips and looks the sick man up and down. "…You really don't have anywhere you can crash for a while?"

By the way Henry has to stop to think about it, he supposes that answers his question.

Everything in Evan is telling him to abandon ship and leave this poor guy to his own devices, but the empath in him can't stand the thought of Henry having to struggle through an entire lecture with a fever.

"Fine," he decides, the words slipping out faster than he can take them back. "How about you rest in my apartment for a bit? It's literally a five-minute walk and my roommate's back home for the summe. I'm just going to stay here for the lecture. I really think you could use the rest, man."

Henry just blinks and nods and Evan wonders if he's even registering anything he's saying at this point. He definitely looks worse for wear.

"I think…yeah…" is all Henry can intelligently muster. It's either that the fever has started to really kick in, or the exhaustion is starting to take its toll. Maybe both.

On the way to Evan's room, Henry has to stop a few times to sneeze but is otherwise able to keep up with Evan's quick pace. That's actually kind of surprising considering how tired the guy looks.

Evan tries to fill the silence with chatter about the lecture, the class, and the summer semester, hoping that Henry doesn't have a headache he's somehow making worse. If the guy is retaining anything he's saying, he doesn't show it.

"Here it is," Evan says, unlocking the door. Thank god he made his bed before leaving that morning. How embarrassing would it be if he left his stuff everywhere (like usual)? "Sorry for the mess," he says.

Henry walks in with a sniffle. He doesn't look very impressed, but he doesn't look "very" anything other than sick. "You're not worried I'm going to steal your stuff?"

If Evan's being honest, that thought never even crossed his mind. For whatever reason, he just never assumed Henry would be a bad guy. "You won't," he says confidently. "What, unless you're planning on taking off with my TV? Though I don't think you'd get very far like this."

Evan chuckles a little, but if Henry finds the joke funny, he doesn't show it. Instead, he's gone kind of still. "Ah. Sorry," Evan says. "I guess you're not in the mood for jokes."

With hardly any warning, Henry pitches forward with a loud sneeze.

"hhHHRESHIU!"

"Woah, easy there," Evan has to place a hand on Henry's shoulder to steady him after that explosive sneeze. "Do you wanna lay down for a second, or…?"

Henry nods and goes to sit on the side of Evan's bed. "Sorry," he says, eyes avoiding the shorter man's. "Probably should've stayed in bed today…"

"Yeah," Evan agrees. "Screw your roommate, honestly. Who tells someone to basically fuck off of their own room when they're sick?"

Henry manages a chuckle. It's the first time Evan has seen an emotion on his face that day that hasn't been discomfort or "about to sneeze."

He's glad he was able to lift Henry's spirits a little, but that excitement falters when he checks the clock to see what time it is.

"Oh!" Evan gasps. "It's almost time for my next class." He turns to Henry with a worried look. "Think you'll be okay? You have my number from the class chat, so you can call me if anything happens. Okay, I gotta go, but I really hope you feel better! I'll come back after the next class, bye!"

Evan tries to gather his things and hurries out of the room, worried he'll be late. He already ditched his first class, he doesn't need to be late for the next one.

The corners of Henry's lips curl into a smile.

He directs his attention to his phone, squinting at the screen through blurry eyes.

Some texts from his roommate.

Mateo: hey you good?

Mateo: sorry abt that but we had to meet in my room for d&d

Mateo: ur sick af so i can't have you hanging around infecting everyone yk?

Mateo: plus a sick roomie in the corner is kinda a buzzkill tbh

Mateo: no offense.

Henry rolls his eyes.

To an outsider looking in, it might seem as though Mateo is a terrible rude roommate and a generally unpleasant person. Well, all of that may be true, but he's also a really cool guy once you get to know him.

Henry found this out after they were assigned as roommates in their freshman year. It took some getting used to, with Henry's cold demeanor and Mateo's rowdy and blunt attitude clashing at first.

But they ended up getting over their difference pretty early on and were able to form something of a friendship. They decided to room together the year after that since it worked so well. Even after their sophomore year, they decided to rent an apartment near the university together since their living styles were so similar.

It's safe to say they're pretty good friends by now.

Henry: no worries, i get it

His fingers hover over the text box for a minute. He takes a tissue from the box on Evan's nightstand and blows his nose.

Henry: i'm in evan's room btw.

Mateo's chat bubble appears and then disappears a few times before reappearing again.

Mateo: wtf???

Henry chuckles, which comes out as more of a snort due to his overwhelming congestion.

Henry: almost passed out in the bathroom during the lecture

Henry: he was cool and helped

This time, Mateo's chat bubble appears fairly quickly.

Mateo: omg fr?? are you ok???

Mateo: dude i didn't know you were feeling that bad…

Mateo: ugh i feel like shit

Mateo's chat bubble appears and then disappears again. For a moment, Henry thinks he isn't going to respond at all. Then another message pops up.

Mateo: well at least lover boy was there to help

Mateo: but fr. tell me if you're ever feeling that bad again, k? i can help too >:(

Henry smiles. Big words for someone who kicked me out this morning, he thinks.

Henry: ok. i'll probably just chill here until second period's over and he comes back. don't want to intrude on anyone too much.

Mateo: well if you're sure

Mateo: i just feel bad for kicking you out earlier : (

Henry texts back almost immediately.

Henry: good

Mateo: (ง'̀-'́)ง

Henry chuckles. His friend always knows how to make him feel better.

Even though he woke up feeling like death and unable to breathe through his nose, he feels like today hasn't been as terrible as it could have been. Or maybe that's just him being delirious from the fever.

Either way, he feels pretty comfortable.

Without realizing it, Henry's eyelids start to droop and he begins to drift off to sleep.

His phone vibrates on his chest, another text from Mateo.

Mateo: feel better

[sky-snz]

Ahhh your most recent fic its so sweet n cute and i absolutely adore phonecall snz concept, would you consider writing something ( maybe with the same character if it fits him? ) with someone with an equally uncontrollable cold and only a scarf to contain all that mess...? love ur work thanku ~☆

thank you anon!! 🙈 sorry it’s taken so long. thanks for the ask, I had fun writing it <3

-

Enough (m, illness)

this features my ocs Jack and Jess from Try Again. in this one, Jack has just finished working a day on site and is waiting to be picked up.

warning for mess | 1.2k words

-

He was filled with tea and regret and snot. Digging his hands into his pockets, Jack wandered to the end of the subway entrance, further from a couple of other people waiting for their rides. A sniffle dragged the moisture back into his skull, and a cough rattled it all. Too loud and too painful. Not enough energy to be trying clear the muck so often.

It would be a while before Jess would arrive. But Jack was more than ready to leave. He’d only come in to work for a research and design session, confirming a few things that were uncertain on his sound plot. Despite clutching an overpriced extra large ginger tea for most of it, his cough seemed to only be getting worse. A white hot soreness, an itch at its tamest, lingered in his flooded, inflamed sinuses. Begging for attention at every moment. Unreasonably flickering with the need to sneeze - perhaps the smoky October air was a good enough excuse.

“*hsddrff!* unh… *sngk!*”

And the sneezes were bounds more dramatic than the coughing. They tore from him in awful, desperate volleys, and had soaked through his entire pack of travel tissues and two napkins from the cafe over the course of the meeting.

“*snnrk* *koF!*” And no way was he going back into the building.

Jack sucked in a liquid sniffle. His fingertips felt around the damp layers of the napkin he’d saved. He sighed inwardly. This cold was just… “*snNrfh!*” …so itchy. “*hsdrf!*” So wet. The last napkin was too thin to sneeze into, too damp to hold up against such catastrophic force. And wetness, really. “sddrff” But he was going to sneeze. A casual thought as he blinked at the grey sidewalk, sniffling back so much mucus that it was running down his throat.

He was losing the battle. “h-hh! heiH’-!” His tired eyes narrowed. Turning casually to face the other end of the sidewalk, his long, frozen fingers made a clumsy grab for the scarf around his neck, and pulled the fabric over his mouth and nose as the urgent reflex crashed through his shivering form, bending him almost double. “HAAAAAESSCHhiuhh-“ Throat scraping, exclaimed, and more strenuous than relieving. Jesus, he thought, eyes bleary. If there were birds in the nearby trees, they’d have flown away.

He drew some thick, liquid sniffles, carefully wiping his upper lip with the inside of his scarf. It was red and black wool. Believe it or not, softer than tissue. “*sdrff! sddrffh*…. ugh.” He shook with a sudden bout of coughing, and snuffled some more. Then his breath was making decisions for him again- “-hihh! hiH? *sdDrff!*” He sniffled, sharp and panicked, triggering the reflex again in his flooded, aching sinuses. “hihhhHH, hhYAAAASSCHHIEWWh!!! *hsdrk! koF!* heiH?? HeiyY’AASSSCHHIEWWwh!!!”

The two utterly thick, blasting sneezes had soaked a wet patch on the inside of his scarf. The scarf itself was nice, a subtle-looking though expensive thing that Jess had bought for him a while ago, insisting it would help with his tendency to catch colds. He sighed, snuffling wetly, panting through dry lips. Thin mucus ran down his upper lip, making his nose burn. He didn’t think before lifting the front of the scarf in both hands, and releasing the next trio of itchy, inevitable sneezes into the plush woven fibres.

“rrRRR’AASSCHHIUE-!! -‘chieww! hiH! HaAAH’ESSSCHHIUHh!!! ..g’h. *gsdrff! sdDDRF!*”

Jack stood there, panting, exhausted. The scarf obscured his flushed, overflowing nose, and his eyes were weighted with a film of tears, stinging with the buzzing between them. He sank onto the concrete ledge of the station window. Breathing slowly, exhaling swirls of vapor into the chilly air. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and looked down with longing at his lock screen. The dull time of day, no new texts or calls. Jack stared hazily out at the cloudy landscape, at the mud at the edges of the curbs. His fingers found the courage to lift his scarf again, over the lower half of his face, and he exhaled through his nose, adjusting to find drier cloth, expelling what he could from his swamped nasal passages.

“ngh….” He lowered the scarf, holding it so the drenched fabric wouldn’t touch his neck. His nostrils flexed with whistling sniffles. The cold air rushed the tender membrane, prodding and stirring up the sore, sneezy irritation. “hnh…”

Jesus, enough…

His eyes felt hot, fluttering shut. The itch fizzled with the thoughtless sniffles, moving like a light burning down a sparkler. His upper lip was damp, and the saltiness met his tongue again.

“*hsnnrff! sdrf*” Just then, his phone buzzed, and his hand moved to his pocket. Jess’ smiling contact photo lit up the screen. “*ahem!-grmm! snNrk! grmm~*” He swiped the little receiver icon across with his thumb and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello,” he breathed, more vapour escaping his lips.

“Hi darling,” Jess’ voice sounded a bit distant, like she was using the car speaker. “I’m almost there. I’m sorry, there’s a bit of construction on Greene and I had to go through a neighbourhood.” Between her voice and the thought of a warm car ride, Jack was softening, thinking he wasn’t feeling very well at all.

“That’s okay,” he rasped, and cleared his throat. He heard her continue on about something traffic-related but started to lose focus as his eyes stung again, his sinuses heavy and hot with irritation. “I’b-“ he huffed. “Jess, I’b-hh! hUHt’TDSCHHh-!!”

Oh, ew- he thought to himself. He’d managed to pull the phone away from his face, turning his head before sneezing messily, ejecting thick snot onto his upper lip. He sniffled frantically, making all sorts of crackling, slurping sounds, pulling the scarf to wipe his face and cringing as the wet fabric touched his skin.

Rather than a choked, breathless, “I’m sorry,” his nose took precedence over the situation and- “rrRR’AAASSCHHIOOo!!!-ESSSCHHIUHh!!! heHh?! HAAAARSSCHHIUHh- *koF, KOF! sddrff! kof-*”

“Bless you, darling, you poor thing, oh- there you are. I’m here now.”

Headlights shone along the sidewalk as Jess’ black sedan arrived. Jack hadn’t heard her last couple of sentences, but he could see her, and quickly used the handful of bunched scarf fabric in his hand to wipe his streaming face. He snuffled hard, and stood, clutching the damp scarf in one hand.

As he walked over to the car, he breathed some hoarse words into the phone. “‘b sorry, *sdrff!*”

“Enough with that,” she’d reached over to open the door to the passenger seat. The rumble of the car filled his ears, and the heat kissed his face, and soon she did as he crumpled into the seat. “Goodness gracious,” she tutted, a hand on his cheek, looking him over.

He coughed and clicked his seatbelt into place. When he looked up, she was reaching over, grabbing something at his feet and placing it between them on top of the drink holders. Tissues. Jack tugged at his scarf and folded it haphazardly in his lap, hiding the sodden fabric before pulling one, two, and fuck it, three…

“Let’s take the highway, yeah? Have you eaten dinner?”

“-‘eEEISCHHIUE-!! Doe…”

“Bless you. You can lie down when we get back. I’ll boil up some ramen and chicken, how does that sound? And I’ve got all sorts of tea from my last client. We can explore that together…”

“Mbkay…”

The sound of ticking joined the humming as Jess turned on the signal. Off they went, under the overcast sky.

[snzspark]

random contagion thought while washing dishes (pretty gross so scroll away if that's not your thing)

ok i went on a complete coldfucker tangent while imagining my gf btw. no promises it makes sense.

imagine a sickie with a really congested cold wiping her nose on the towel she needs to dry dishes with, but she's so out of it she doesn't even notice. she drags the towel under her dripping nose once, maybe twice, then goes back to drying plates. those plates sit on the very top of the stack, ready for her partner to use it for their next meal. if her cold is really messy, they might notice a part of the plate with some... residue on it, but they brush it off as just a spot that dried unevenly and place their lunch right on top. now even if she was so careful not to spread her cold- her partner has already caught it. it's no wonder their nose fills up two days later, dripping thick snot like their girlfriend.

let's be honest though if she's absentmindedly wiping her nose with the towel she's probably not being careful... their tiny apartment is likely already COVERED in her cold. it wouldn't be hard to notice the soaked tissues on nearly every surface. the bedside table was the first to fill up (of course) but in lieu of actually emptying the tiny trash bin, she piles them up on the coffee table and the bathroom counter. couldn't be bothered to throw them away after several wet blows in an attempt to empty her nose. it fails, but this doesn't stop her from finishing her makeup in the bathroom mirror and going to work. she knows it's probably the last day she can manage before she's too tired and stuffy to work tomorrow. she knows from experience how awkward it is to lead a meeting with a thick headcold. she knows said cold will be increasingly obvious as the day continues, as she can already feel it getting worse. her head feels stuffy, nose full and leaking, sneezing every couple minutes (always in doubles). it's no surprise her voice sounds super congested.

even with her lassiez faire attitude about spreading her cold, she does mostly keep it contained to her desk at work. but boy is this desk covered; it's a biohazard itself. with only a couple tissues left in the box on her desk, she can't waste them on covering every sneeze. her desk is constantly getting sprayed. at first she tries to keep them contained, but that effort quickly falls apart as her nose fills up. stifles become impossible and every attempt leads to mess pouring out of her nose, no air able to get past the thick snot. the first time this happens she needs to use one of her precious tissues... but oh shit that's not enough. it's completely soaked and she has no choice but to grab the last one. first to finish what the first started and catch the pools of mess dripping from her nose, and second to wipe off her hand- an unfortunate victim in an attempt to cover herself. it's too saturated to blow but her nose is still dripping... she has to sniffle it back up and hope that's enough.

it's only a few minutes later that she feels her nose tickle again. even on a good day she sneezes pretty often (around 8-10 times) so a cold makes it that much worse. she brings her elbow up to her nose as her breath hitches- the first sneeze manages to stay somewhat contained, but the second sends mess gushing out, landing mostly on her sleeve but some drips onto her desk, joining the rest of the germs from previous messy sneezes. at this point it's obvious she needs to go to the bathroom to clean herself up, so she speed-walks past the other cubicles, elbow still over her face. her coworkers aren't surprised. it would be hard to miss the countless sneezes plaguing the office these days. she finally locks herself in the bathroom and begins to clean herself, but thick snot sticks to the fabric of her dress shirt a little too well... and the spray still shows on the sheer fabric, leaving lots of evidence of her cold all over her sleeve. she blows her nose with a gurgling sound. then blows again. and again. she gingerly places her tissues on top of the private bathroom's trash, the newest addition to a growing pile of similarly sodden tissues. it hasn't been uncommon for everyone to rush off to the most private bathroom to blow their noses these past few weeks. she grabs a couple handfuls of tissues and stuffs her pockets full, hopefully that'll last her until the end of the day.

maybe when she stumbles in the door after work her partner has cooked dinner, she has a hot meal waiting for her. it's worth it even if it makes her nose run, dripping down her face as she eats. after interrupting dinner with near constant sniffles and sneezes, she gives her partner a thank you peck... then offers to do the dishes.

[feverish-cuddles]

For the theme park ask, maybe someone who is coming down with a cold, but since it isn’t too bad, they still show up. Except today they were placed near a station to give out trinkets and balloons near a set of flowers. Normally the flowers just make them a bit itchy, but with the cold brewing in their nose, every patron gets a free cold with their gift (disguised as allergies of course)

Yeeees they're Insistent its just allergies from the flowers, and for a bit its pretty convincing. they don't exactly have the chance to wash their hands or keep tissues on hand. SO most of the cold ends up on their hands which then ends up on whatever they touch. They've definitely had a sudden fit right before giving someone the plushie they won. Their nose is an very angry red, and is very drippy, wiping their nose with the back of their hand or t-shirt is as good as its gonna get though. The cold with their allergies is so itchy, they constantly feel like they need to snz. maybe after a few false starts they end up snzing on a few people convincing through desperate hitching. 'ihhh its just allergiiihhhhh' even with how snotty its getting. Maybe somone offers them tissues, maybe not.

[feverfcking]

The Horrifying Ordeal of Being Known (2/3)

H/eated Rivalry, S/hane (Cold), 6.3k, NSFW

Read pt. 1 here!

Well here it is! Sorry for the wait, but I really enjoyed working on this and I have zero control over a wordcap apparently lol. CW for contagion, mess, graphic NSFW scenes, and some minor dacrophilia if you squint. Enjoy!

With Shane drowsing on his chest, it was remarkably easy for Ilya to fall into sleep as well. He had been up since five to get packed into the team bus, drive to the airport, and catch a flight home. Admittedly, he was a little exhausted. Ilya had planned on arriving to the cottage, getting in a quick fuck, and promptly taking a nap in Shane’s bed or Shane’s couch or honestly wherever Shane was. It wasn’t often that his boyfriend joined him in napping, but Ilya had a way of getting Shane to play with his hair as he drifted under. And that was nearly as good as sex itself. 

Ilya drifted in and out of sleep for maybe an hour and a half, listening to the sounds of people on television bickering over off-white paint. Shane was snoring softly against Ilya’s chest, the sound making his heart squeeze - this was the first time he had heard his boyfriend make such a sound. Firsts were always something he treasured. Shane was soft and relaxed against him, features slack, occasionally snuffling and sighing and burrowing closer. 

They hadn’t really been sick in front of one another before. Hundreds of miles were somehow always between them whenever one of them was down and out. Ilya was pleasantly surprised that Shane was rather sweet and needy when he wasn’t feeling good. 

Shane’s brow furrowed, restless as he coughed softly in his sleep. Ilya rubbed his back with the flat of his palm until he stilled and quieted, soothed back into rest. He felt a bubble of fondness swell in his chest so large it was near to bursting inside of him. The feeling coaxed Ilya into waking fully, tuning back into the weight of Shane on top of him, the gentle sound of the outside wind against the windows, and the afternoon light turning the room golden around them. He continued to stroke Shane’s back slowly, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his head. 

Although he couldn’t say he enjoyed the extents of Shane’s anxiety, his boyfriend was so endearing in how much he cared about everything. Shane had come a long way from when Ilya had first met him in terms of confidence and excessive worrying, but obviously it still could get to him. The crease in his brow and shining brown eyes when he looked at Ilya earlier, the way he nervously bit his lip, eyes searching for permission to just fucking relax already. As if Ilya would be upset that Shane was getting sick - all Ilya really cared about was being there and, well, he had achieved that.  

Ilya honestly had honestly been insistent about kissing him so Shane wouldn’t spend the rest of the next few days freaking out about contamination. The worst had already been done. Additionally, there were worse things in the world than getting sick. And Ilya really wasn’t kidding about the sexy nurse thing either - that would definitely make him feel better no matter what kind of state he was in. 

It was about twenty minutes before Shane stirred. His gentle, congested snoring was cut off by a deep inhale, a sigh, a gentle reverberation in his throat as he began to wake. His face scrunched up adorably as he registered wakefulness, freckles bunching together as he wrinkled his nose. Shane groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, brows pulled together as he registered the miseries of being awake with a cold. 

Shane lifted his head, eyes widening a little as he saw the the way the light had changed in the room. 

“…Fuck. How long did I sleep?” he rasped, voice beginning to turn gravelly and sore. 

“Almost two hours?” Ilya said, glancing at his watch. “I thought maybe you had died.” 

Shane groaned again and ran a hand over his face, thumb putting pressure on his temple like he had a headache.

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be out so long. You must be bored,” he lamented, sighing and pushing his cheek into Ilya’s chest. He sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. 

Ilya smiled and hugged him tight. 

“Is okay. I was tired after the flight, I took a nap with you.”

Shane sighed and deflated. “Okay. Good.” He sniffled and turned away to cough into the crook of his arm, far away from Ilya. As if that would make a difference at this point. 

Shane looked a little miserable already, brow pinched, mouth in a tiny little frown, nose pink and sniffly. Ilya thought he kind of looked like a pitiful kitten, brown eyes big and watery, hair a mess, pout on his lips. And, like a pitiful kitten, he clung to Ilya like he might not make it otherwise. It always amazed Ilya that all six feet and 180 some-odd pounds of his boyfriend was able to look so small and kissable. 

So, of course, Ilya leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Shane sighed with content and wriggled closer.

“You’re very adorable,” Ilya murmured, so very fond. 

“Mmph. I don’t feel adorable,” Shane mumbled, following it up with a soupy sniffle as if to prove his point. His face was scrunched up in some mixture of disagreement and discomfort, eyes barely open. 

“No, is adorable. You are like a baby animal, so cuddly and sleepy and sweet.” Shane groaned and rolled over to hide his face in the back of the couch, but Ilya could see from his ears that he was blushing. Ilya laughed and continued, “Now is my little kotonok hungry now? I am starving.” 

Shane rolled back over to face him, sighing. “Not really, but I probably need to eat.” 

He slowly peeled himself off of Ilya and sat up on the couch, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. He took one and sheepishly turned away, blowing his nose as quietly as possible. It wasn’t as effective as it should have been, leaving him still sniffly and pink-cheeked, desperately avoiding eye contact. 

Ilya patted him on the thigh and got up to look in the fridge, giving Shane a moment to clean himself up in private. It was endearing to Ilya how Shane still managed to get embarrassed at such mundane things. Ilya understood to a degree, as anyone would after growing up with his father, but he did not feel ashamed about most bodily functions around Shane. 

Still, it was cute. 

It was very quickly apparent there wasn’t much to work with in the fridge in terms of sick people food. It was stocked full of vegetables and healthy lean protein and even more vegetables on top of that. 

Ilya groaned and dug through to the back of the fridge, calling over his shoulder to Shane. “You eat like insane person. The insides of this fridge are a disgrace to all kitchens.” 

He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Shane trailing in sleepily, affronted frown on his face. 

“Shut up. I eat healthy. It’s better than the shit you eat,” Shane grumbled, coming to stand beside his boyfriend to peer into the fridge. 

“I am ordering more groceries, there is no food for sick people in here. I know it is not diet-approved but I will make you some borsht later, yes?“ Ilya said, rummaging around and pulling a few things out of the fridge. 

Ilya expected Shane to deny, to interrogate him about the ingredients, to ask for changes here and there to cut back on carbs or fat or whatever. But he just nodded, sniffling, keeping his eyes away from Ilya’s. He still looked sheepish, embarrassed about something. Being sick, maybe. Ilya kissed the side of his head and shooed him over to a stool.

“Sit, I will make us sandwiches. I will make yours with gluten-free bread and everything. Does that sound good? Okay for your throat?” 

Shane settled onto the stool, leaning onto the counter, nodding in agreement. “Sounds great, thank you.” 

They talked idly while Ilya put everything together, sliding a cold can of ginger ale for Shane to drink while he waited. Ilya plated everything, cut the sandwiches into neat triangles, and hopped into the seat next to his boyfriend with a can of coke. They ate, talked, laughed. Ilya told him about his trip, stupid shit his teammates said, chirps towards players from his last game. Shane let Ilya talk as he ate slowly, stopping now and then to cough softly or pull a tissue from his pocket and dab at his pink nose. 

Once they had finished eating, Ilya took their plates to the sink and began washing them. He looked up at the quiet sound of Shane’s breath catching. Ilya watched as his nose twitched, eyes blinking several times in rapid succession. Memorizing every micro-expression. Noticing how similar they were to the ones he made during sex. The way his eyebrows pulled together, floating up and up and up, lips beginning to part. Shane’s chest shuddered with a few near-silent hitches before his expression scrunched up. He turned to the side, ducking away from Ilya and into his elbow. 

“Hih… hehH-hTDSH! Hih-iITChiew! ETshoo!”

Shane pulled away from his elbow slowly, immediately bringing up the tissue from his pocket to pinch and swipe at the moisture left behind. His cheeks were pink, and he was definitely still avoiding eye contact. 

“Bud'te zdorovy. Did that feel good?” Ilya teased, finishing with the plates and drying his hands on a nearby towel. Shane’s blush deepened as he brought his eyes up to Ilya’s to glare. 

Ilya could see the panicked arousal behind it.

“Is it possible for you to not be an asshole right now?” Shane scowled and busied himself with shoving the tissue back into his hoodie pocket. Ilya did feel a little bad for teasing - Shane’s voice was going rough and he was getting more sniffly by the minute. But also he was blushing, so maybe Ilya didn’t feel too bad. 

“I thought you were very fond of assholes the last time I had you bent over and-" Ilya was cut off as Shane groaned loudly into his hands, ears red. 

He was so much more reactive than usual, so much more affected. Maybe because he was trying not to share his germs, Ilya thought, trying to make it seem like he didn’t want. Usually by now Shane be all over him. But either way Ilya was going to make sure his boyfriend was well taken care of, in more ways than one. 

Ilya just chuckled and made his way to the bedroom, tugging Shane along with him. 

“Come, it’s time for more medicine, yes? I will stop teasing you.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Shane grumbled, which was a fair point, but he followed anyway. 

Ilya stepped into the en-suite, pulling open the medicine cabinet. Shane followed in after, sniffling and clearing his throat as he leaned against the counter. He still seemed shy, sheepish. 

“What have you taken?” Ilya asked, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage through the medicine shelf. Thankfully, this was Shane’s cottage, so he was stocked up with absolutely fucking everything. Ilya’s place wouldn’t have had nearly as fruitful findings. 

“Just some Advil earlier.”

Ilya pulled out a thermometer, capsules of DayQuil, name brand decongests, and a large bottle of ibuprofen. He then ducked down to rummage under the sink for a new box of tissues. He rose and dumped his findings on the bathroom counter. 

“It is your nose that is giving you the most trouble, yes?” Ilya asked, choosing to talk about Shane’s nose just because he could, because it was the easiest tease in the world, because it always got Shane so worked up so fast. His cute shy boyfriend with his cute horny sneezes. 

The current circumstances were technically uncharted territory as this is his first time experiencing Shane with a cold, so Ilya continuously kept an eye on his body language. And by his findings it looked like Shane was battling to keep his restraint intact. Ilya watched hungrily as the question registered, then promptly choked him until he could gather back his bearings. Shane blinked twice, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and brought a hand up to tug at his earlobe nervously. His face was still pink, eyes absolutely anywhere but on Ilya. 

“Um— uh, yeah,”Shane choked out after a brief moment of obvious internal struggle.

Ilya frowned at him, feigning ignorance. 

“You look flushed, lubimyy, do you have a fever?” 

“I don’t think so,” he replied. Ilya stepped closer into his boyfriend’s space, cupping Shane’s cheek with one hand and lighting up with desire as he watched the blush there darken. 

“It is okay if you are feeling bad. I want to take care of you,” Ilya said, aiming for earnest and caring and much less horny than he actually felt. He wanted to get to the root of whatever was working Shane up so much, wring it out with his bare hands until the answer was at his feet. 

“I’m. Uh, I’m okay,” Shane said, still struggling to maintain eye contact. He sniffled again, sound wet and thick, and it made him wince. Shane dabbed at his rapidly-reddening nose with the tissue from his pocket, too embarrassed to blow. 

“Let’s check just in case.”Ilya drops the hand from Shane’s face to pop the plastic cap off of the thermometer, shaking it. “You know how to do this part - open.” 

Shane did as he was told, letting Ilya slip the thermometer under his tongue before the words really registered. Ilya saw the moment they did as Shane froze, eyes finally snapping up to meet Ilya’s. His eyes were the perfect deep brown they always were, gaze that familiar curious mix of anger and embarrassment and lust. 

Ilya patted his cheek. 

“Good boy. You always look pretty with something in your mouth,” Ilya purred. Even under the circumstances it was true. Shane looked unbearably lovely even in the midst of a cold - cheeks gently flushed, nose red and twitchy, freckles prominent. His brown eyes were ever so slightly glassy, much like they were when he was sex drunk and sated. 

Ilya saw the moment Shane was about to open his mouth and yell at him a little, so he put a finger to the underside of Shane’s chin, firmly holding his jaw shut with the pad of his finger. Shane could have easily fought it, but his lips stayed sealed, bowing to the faintest pressure. 

“Ah-ah. No talking. We need your temperature.” Ilya continued to look him directly in the eye, still holding his chin so Shane couldn’t tilt his head away. Shane’s face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, a longing look of lust seeping through the seams of his expression. 

They both knew he didn’t have a fever but they played along anyway just for the sake of the game. Ilya was aware Shane knew he was just playing this shit up, but Shane let him anyways. He was malleable and perfect like he always was when Ilya laid it on this heavy. 

Then suddenly, Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. Ilya thought that maybe he was lost in the pleasure of the moment, about to finally give in and reach out and take, but then his breath hitched. 

Oh, Ilya thought. 

Ilya caught Shane’s arm as he brought it up to rub at his nose, lowering it back down to his side. No touching unless I say so, it said. Shane’s eyes snapped open, still squinty and itchy, giving Ilya a questioning glare. The thermometer still poked out from between his pouting lips. 

“Don’t sneeze. We will have to start all over. You can hold it back for me, lubimyy.”

The command landed as they always did. Shane shuddered, eyes squeezing shut again as his brows knitted in concentration, all confusion and frustration replaced by focus. He kept his mouth firmly shut, breathing slowly through his nose only to be interrupted by a hitch in his breath. He scrunched and wiggled his nose, chest rising and falling with each scissoring breath. Shane clenched his jaw, blinking furiously as irritated tears gathered at his lash line. 

There was a second that Ilya thought Shane might loose it, teetering on the very edge of a sneeze - his chest swelled high and stayed there, eyebrows pinched upwards, head tilted back and giving Ilya a perfect view of damp, flaring nostrils.  

But, after a few wavering moments, the urge passed. Shane blinked his eyes open slowly to meet Ilya’s, glassy and teary, still with the thermometer under his tongue. He shifted his weight, bulge now obvious in those grey sweatpants that always drove Ilya fucking insane. Ilya held Shane pinned with his gaze for a couple of long seconds before he leaned forward to whisper directly into Shane’s ear. 

“Good.” 

Shane let out the quietest shaky breath through his nose, eyes rolling up and slipping shut like one word alone was too arousing to handle. Ilya ran a feather-light touch over Shane’s clothed dick just to watch him shiver. 

The thermometer, finally finished with its reading, beeped and flashed numbers on the small digital screen. Ilya stepped back and plucked it from Shane’s lips, not missing as Shane chased his touch with his hips, making a soft noise of protest. 

“Ugh, fuck you,” Shane grumbled, sniffling and rubbing at his nose with the tissue from his pocket. Ilya was unsure which part of the last two minutes he was being cursed at for specifically. 

To Ilya’s surprise, Shane did actually have a low-grade fever: 99.8. He flipped the instrument around to show his boyfriend the reading. 

“You’re warm. Will be a fever later, maybe. We will keep an eye on it,” Ilya purred, setting the thermometer aside and cupping a hand to Shane’s cheek to feel the warmth there. 

Shane was about to respond when his breath caught on a huge inhale, sudden and aggressive. He barely had time to bring up his elbow before he was sneezing harshly. 

“Hah-hiITCHiew! HiINGTShu-hDTCH-ADTChoo! Hih-INGTSHIEW!” 

Shane stayed tucked into his elbow, panting and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. Ilya was a little bit shocked - he had never in his life heard Shane sneeze like that. It was fittish like how it was when he was aroused, but also heavy, harsh, and visibly uncontrollable. Shane’s head had jerked forward with each one, pulled down again and again with the force of the fit. He had to cough several times after like the congestion had shifted wrong and choked him. 

Ilya quickly pulled a handful of tissues out of the new box and pressed them into Shane’s free hand. He quickly brought them up to his nose, still hiding in the crook of his arm. 

“‘Scuse mbe, sorry. Thangk you.” Shane’s voice came out clogged and hoarse and once again, embarrassed. He avoided Ilya’s eyes as he cleaned up and tossed the evidence into the bathroom trash. He started to cough again and ducked back into the crook of his elbow. As if that would save Ilya from the germs he had already kissed right from Shane’s mouth.  

The giveaway that Shane was still enjoying it all was the straining fabric of his sweatpants. Ilya was a little surprised at that - if anyone was a big enough horndog to want to fuck while unwell it was himself. But Shane still looked painfully riled up. Even despite the mess and the sore throat and the headache and the sneezing. If Ilya could have taken a guess before, he would’ve thought Shane would be uptight, overstimulated, and cranky when he was sick. But so far he’s turned out to be needy and panting and pliant, and Ilya is absolutely not complaining. 

Shane was so turned on, and Ilya wanted to get him so desperate that Shane finally broke and went for it, took it with his own two hands for his own pleasure, his own want. 

“Oh, lubimyy, you really don’t feel good do you? Bud'te zdorovy, I have never heard you sneeze like that before. My poor malysh. Someone needs to take care of you, yes?” Ilya brought his hands from Shane’s shoulders, sliding down to his hands, passing over the backs of them to rest on his hips where he rubbed slow, slow circles with his thumbs, arching ever closer to where Shane clearly wanted touch the most. 

Shane’s breath caught as he shuddered. He didn’t speak, currently too overwhelmed for words. 

Ilya wanted him to say it anyway. 

“Yes? Is what you want?” 

Shane nodded, eyes hazy. 

“Tell me,” Ilya purred, thumbs still rubbing circles in the divots of his boyfriend’s hips. 

“I wandt you to take care of mbe,” Shane said, voice hoarse and wavering, increasingly clogged with congestion. Ilya felt through the stretch of fabric under his fingers as Shane’s dick twitched. 

It was then Ilya began to figure out where this heady, needy arousal of Shane’s was coming from. 

“Yes? Because you’re feeling bad? Tell me why.” 

Shane noded again, eager, waiting for Ilya to touch him, to kiss him, to do /something./ 

“I… I wandt you to mbake mbe feel better. Mbake mbe forget. Take care of mbe. Please,” Shane said, voice wavering and nearing a whine. He was panting now, staring blatantly at Ilya’s mouth. His face was beautifully flushed, eyes wanting and glassy, expression so painfully longing that Ilya wished he could take a picture of this moment to have it forever. To sear into his memory. 

Ilya, still holding him by the hips, leaned in and kissed Shane with an open mouth. Shane sighed into it, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head for best access to Ilya’s lips. Their noses brushed, and Ilya was surprised to find he didn’t mind the transfer of moisture that occurred as a result. Not when Shane was gasping into his mouth, unable to breathe through his nose but still desperate to kiss. It was like Shane was starving for it, for the feeling of Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, oxygen deprivation be damned. He was puffing breath into Ilya’s mouth, panting, yet still ravenous with his intensity.

When Ilya broke away to give him a fucking chance to breathe, Shane chased him with his mouth, making a low displeased noise in his throat. His eyes were dark and hungry, covered by a glassy, watery sheen. 

“Fugck, Ilya, cobe on,” Shane whined, still short of breath, almost more worked up and desperate than Ilya had ever seen him. He sniffled thickly and ran a hand under his now-red nose, too distracted to care about how gross he usually found it and that tissues were literally within his reach. On top of all of that, he had a slight wobble to him like he was dizzy. 

“You can’t breathe, milyy, you need to blow your nose,” Ilya replied, hands roaming up and down his boyfriend’s ribs. 

Shane visibly reddened all the way down to his neck. If Ilya looked, it would probably be deliciously spread over his chest. In Ilya’s peripheral vision, he saw Shane’s dick twitch again. Proof that he was on the right track whether Shane would verbally tell him that or not. 

Still making eye contact, Ilya reached over and drew a few tissues from the box. Shane reached for them but Ilya pulled back, making a tutting sound 

“I am taking care of you, remember? This is for me to do.” 

Shane visibly struggled for a second, embarrassment beginning to creep back in, but it was stopped by a furrow in his brow and a twitch of his nose. He hitched, expression tortured and itchy, gearing up for however many sneezes his body decided was enough to express his arousal. He loved Shane’s little fits. They were like music to his ears, visual and auditory proof that Ilya was turning him on just right. 

“Hah- Ilyaahh, I-,” 

Ilya reached out and cupped the tissues around his nose. Shane’s hands flew up to meet them, clamping Ilya’s hand firmly in place. 

“HiISHIEW! HihH-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! HahH-ADTCHOO!”

Shane sneezed harshly, over and over again, breath warm and damp against Ilya’s palm. The tissues flooded with warmth as the expulsions forced the congestion to shift and loosen and expel itself. He finished the fit with a noise between a groan and a whine, equal parts relief, mortification, and arousal. 

“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya purred, pinching the mess away from Shane’s nose with one hand while the other plucked a few more tissues from the box. Shane’s hands slowly withdrew from his face as he let Ilya do the work, face beautifully flushed. Ilya was quick to tent the fresh tissues against Shane’s nose, holding them tightly in place. “Now blow.” 

Shane for a second looked like he would protest, but something in Ilya’s expression stilled it. Instead he took a trembling inhale and blew, a couple hours worth of congestion flooding outward into the folds of the soft paper, warm against the pads of Ilya’s fingers. While Ilya clearly understood this was foreplay (Was it weird? Yes. Did he really give a shit? No.), it also felt sweetly intimate and trusting. Like a skittish kitten eating out of your hand. Or something. Maybe Shane just always reminded him of a kitten. 

Ilya had him blow one more time before cleaning him up, murmuring sweet praise into his ear while he did so. Shane looked so fucking blissed out it was insane and Ilya wanted to swallow him whole. 

Thankfully, it did seem like he could breathe a little better after blowing, which made Ilya feel better about accidentally suffocating his boyfriend during a makeout. Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s collarbone, gently teething on the skin there. Shane shivered and swayed, fingers tightening on Ilya’s shoulders as he moved in for another kiss.  

“You should be lying down,” Ilya breathed into his mouth, kissing him and walking Shane out of the bathroom and towards the bed, pulling their shirts off as they went. Shane fell back on the bed once the back of his knees hit the edge of it, propped up on his elbows and looking up at Ilya through his lashes with dark, glassy eyes. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and nose beautifully red. 

Ilya went for the drawstring of his boyfriend’s sweats with fast, nimble fingers, tugging them down and off in a single practiced motion. Shane shivered as Ilya ran his fingers up his thighs and to the seam of his boxers, throwing his head back and exposing his neck. 

“You have been so reactive to me. So tense, so nervous. But I can see that you like it. I told you, I can always tell when you want,” Ilya said lowly, leaning down to mouth at the skin of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane trembled, sighing, twisting the bedsheets with tight fists at his sides. “You just want someone to take care of you, yes? Fuck the cold out of you?” 

The man beneath him groaned at that, dick twitching in his boxers. And the next moment Shane was sneezing again, gasping once and twisting to the side.

“Hih…hihH-INGTSHiew, ihHITCHuu, hah-ADTCHiew! Ngh, fugck, sngff, Ilya blease-”

Ilya watched, mouth watering as his boyfriend’s abs contracted and released over and over. With the next breath he was begging, panting, sniffling thickly, pulling Ilya closer by hooking his heels around Ilya’s ass and tugging. 

Ilya chuckled and kissed a line up Shane’s throat. 

“Oh, I know that sound. So eager even when you don’t feel good.” Ilya pulled back to look Shane in the eye for a second, savoring the tension and want in his boyfriend’s gaze. His nose was running already, eyes dark, embarrassed flush blooming down his neck at the intense attention. He sniffled thickly then turned to cough into his wrist. Ilya ran his hands over Shane’s ribs. “My poor Shanya, you are so sick.” 

Shane made a keening noise in his throat, reaching up and pulling Ilya down for the neck to mash their mouths together.

Soon enough Ilya had Shane on his back in the middle of the bed, the both of them naked, kissing a line down Shane’s body until he reached his groin, dick straining and untouched. Like the rest of him, it was flushed red. Precome gleamed at the tip. Ilya licked a slow, sensual stripe up his cock before swallowing it to the base in one smooth slide. 

Shane moaned loudly and tried not to writhe, both hands balled into fists in Ilya’s hair. His voice was fully hoarse now, but that didn’t seem to be interfering with his need to be vocal. Ilya took the opportunity and reached up to put his fingers in Shane’s mouth. Shane groaned and sucked on the digits dutifully, coating them with saliva. Ilya focused back on the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head and laving his tongue along the underside of it, pausing to suck at the tip with each slide. He was startled out of his rhythm when Shane caught him by he wrist and tore Ilya’s fingers from his mouth, grip tight and desperate. But then he was gasping, twisting to the side and - 

“Fu-uhhck, Ilya, I- INGtshiew, hDTCH-ahINGTSH-idtSHIEW, ahITSHIEW! Hih-hiISHIEWW!”

Shane’s dick thrusted into Ilya’s mouth with each sneeze, fingers tightening on Ilya’s wrist in time with the expulsions. Ilya stilled and relaxed his throat, feeling as the sneezes forced Shane to fuck forward into his throat again and again. Shane had never let Ilya do this before, too afraid of being rough and choking him. He had this irrational fear he’d make Ilya throw up... as if Shane could be rough enough cause anything other than a ghost of a gag. Ilya groaned at the sensation, eyes rolling back into his skull. Fuck this was hot. He couldn’t believe a cold is what got Shane to finally fuck his face. 

He didn’t give Shane a chance to think about it too hard though, quickly taking his slicked fingers to work his boyfriend open at the conclusion of the fit. Shane was clearly in no mood to wait - as soon as Ilya’s fingers were inside him he was groaning and squirming and pulling at Ilya’s hair, murmuring fever-drunk pleas all the while. 

Ilya was never one to say no to him. 

Ilya pulled Shane closer by the thighs, reaching up and making sure his beautiful head was propped up by a pillow so he at least had a chance at breathing properly. He smoothed a hand down Shane’s chest and stomach, admiring. Shane looked so wrecked already and he had only had a few fingers in his ass. He appeared as though he had already gone a couple rounds, face red, hair a mess, body slick with sweat. Shane’s nose was glistening and he couldn’t go a handful of seconds without sniffing. Ilya put a few tissues to his nose for him to blow, then kissed his forehead. 

Ilya slicked himself up with lube and pushed in slowly, giving time for Shane to adjust. He felt warmer than usual, hot muscle tight around Ilya’s cock. It felt so unbelievably good that he had to stop and breathe for a second one he was fully seated. He was glad he did because seconds later Shane was succumbing to another fit of sneezes, squeezing him tight over and over. 

“Hah! Hah- haAETCHiew, ITCHiew-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! Hih-ITSH-ISH-ADTCHIew!” 

Shane usually had a fit right when Ilya bottomed out, but just how good and warm and tight his boyfriend’s ass was nearly made him forget. The spray fell cool on his overheated, sweat-slick skin. 

Once he was able to access coherent thought again, Ilya said, “Bud'te zdorovy. So sneezy. Does your nose really like this?”

“Shitd,” Shane whispered, dropping his head back and clenching down on Ilya’s dick as he began to thrust. “Yes.”

Ilya pulled Shane’s legs up over his shoulders for a deeper angle, to which his boyfriend cried out. Ilya kept his pace steady and thorough, hands roaming and groping every bit of flesh they could find - his boyfriend’s stomach, his pecs, his thighs, his ass. Shane shivered underneath his touch, overwhelmed tears gathering in his eyes and rolling in fat drops down his cheeks. Every time Shane had to stop to cough or sniffle it seemed to push himself ever closer to the edge. He was moaning and slurring words in that beautiful congested voice of his. 

Ilya was getting close. The feverish heat of him combined with just the sight of his lover was ruining him forever. Shane was a fucking mess - sweaty and fever flushed, lips dry and mess gleaming on his top lip as he’d stopped caring about appearances some time ago. His eyes were hazy, far-off and glassy, with tears leaking steadily over his cheekbones. 

But Shane had to come first. This wasn’t about him. 

Ilya kept his pace steady, bringing one hand down to wrap around Shane’s dick. Shane’s legs clenched around him. He groaned as Ilya thumbed at the precome-wet slit at the apex of each stroke. Shane was fuck-drunk and lost in it, brow pinched with pleasure, mouth open as he continued to lose his voice around the moaning and incoherent babbling for mbore, yes, blease, Ilya, righdt there.

Shane gasped, breath hitching and catching around his desperate panting, and Ilya knew he was close. 

“Come for me, Shanya. I will take care of you, come for me, good boy, yes, /fuck/-“

Shane climaxed with a cry, squeezing Ilya tight with his cry. The come on his stomach was immediately joined by the spray of his desperate, aroused fit of sneezes. 

“Ahhng, fuckfuck fuuhHITSHiew, hiISHIEW, iINGTSHoo, ADTCHOO-ETSHIEW-ITCHOO!” 

Ilya wanted to keep going, wanted to fuck Shane through it, but Jesus fucking Christ the way Shane looked and sounded and clenched down on his cock with each sneeze was too much. 

Quickly, he pulled out so Shane didn’t have to clean out, and was coming hard over Shane’s stomach with three quick stokes of his hand. Shane gasped, threw his head back, and snapped forward with another predictable fit. Ilya shuddered with pleasure as his dick was drenched in it. 

“HihH-idSHiew! hiISHIEW! HihH-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! HahH-ADTCHOO!”

Shane’s face was a mess. His nose was an irritated red, wetness spilling over his cupid’s bow and down his chin. But in the post-coital bliss he didn’t seem to care yet. He was boneless and panting, staring at the come on his stomach and chest with drowsy, leftover arousal. It was unbearably sexy when Ilya made Shane a mess, when he fucked him so good that he didn’t care about the sweat or the come or the spray. That he alone was able to have this, to see this, to make this happen. That he was able to get Shane so fucked out that he didn’t care if he sneezed all over himself or all over Ilya. He cherished the fact that he was the only one who knew how much Shane Hollander liked to be covered in come and sweat, disheveled and messy. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. It felt extremely well-spoken all things considered. 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, just as out of breath. “Fuck.”

Ilya sat back on his heels on the bed and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “So,” he started. “You will catch a cold again soon, right?” 

Shane burst into surprised, hoarse laughter and Ilya thought it was maybe the sweetest sound he had heard all day. 

…

After Ilya had cleaned Shane up with a warm cloth and fed him a handful of various medicines from the discarded pile in the bathroom, he pulled Shane on top of him for a cuddle before he began to insist on a shower. Shane sounded a lot less congested after the sex and multiple rounds of blowing his nose. Ilya filed this away for later when he eventually caught this - oh Shane, a blowjob would make my nose feel better, don’t you think? But for the moment he was just content to hold his boyfriend and run a hand through his damp hair. His skin seemed to be more sensitive than usual so Ilya kept the pressure firm until Shane stopped squirming at every touch. He still had a bit of a cough and his voice was definitely going out, but Shane didn’t seem to be too bothered by it. 

“So,” Ilya said, “Will we talk about this now or later?” 

Shane groaned and turned red, burying his face between Ilya’s pecs. 

“Never,” he groaned. 

Ilya chuckled. 

“Later, then. I have never seen you so worked up, lyubov.” 

“This is so embarrassing,” Shane replied, still hiding his face.

Ilya rolled them over so they were both lying on their sides, nose to nose. Ilya kissed the freckles on his face, then his eyelids, then his nose until Shane was relaxed and giggling. 

“Never. You are the hottest man alive and it isn’t fair you kept this kind of sex from me.” 

Shane laughed. “It’s not like I meant to. This is like, our first time really together when I…” He gestured vaguely - he couldn’t get himself to finish the sentence. 

“Have a cold? You are very sweet and needy when you’re sick, it’s very nice. I thought you would be a big asshole.”

“Hey!” Shane punched his arm. “I’m never an asshole. You’re the asshole.” 

“Shane Hollander, that is a lie. You and me are the same amount of asshole,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane and rolling on top of him, trying to tickle his sides. 

Shane groaned and tried to push him off. “Ew, Ilya, you’re so sweaty. We need to shower.” “You did not care about this five minutes ago.” 

“Well five minutes ago you had my dick in your hand. Things have changed.” 

Ilya waggled his eyebrows, smirk pulling at his lips. “That can be arranged.”

[boxofmushy]

Buttoned-Up

1k drabble for my OC's Terry and Clive. Quick and h0rned up. No context needed.

Read more about my OCs and the Rookverse

NSFW +18 🍆

Content - holdbacks, Clive being anal retentive and repressed, Terry being sad. Poly relationship, spicy bedroom time implied. Tickling, massages. Another fic where I describe Terry's back for no goddamn reason. The end.

"Dearest Clive, I hope this letter finds you well! 

Filming has been tolerable. Thankfully, that oaf of a director was fired. I put in a good word for a replacement, my friend Dionne (the lovely girl I met while climbing Mt. Crucious). Unlike that OAF, she actually has a vision! I hope production can finally take a turn for the better now. I can't be in another turkey. 

I'm so glad you are getting on well, I know the holidays are stressful for you. I'm also happy to hear our darling Terry has gotten a raise! It's about time. 

Speaking of Terry, I hope you've received the ointment I sent you for his aches. It hurts me to know he suffers so. 

I hope to see both of you soon, I miss the pair of you terribly. 

Yours forever - 

Merle Das.

P.S. Don't forget to give yourself a break, you idiot!" 

💜 💜 💜

Clive smiled and folded the letter reverently. She was always so thoughtful with gifts. Even just seeing Merle's swirling handwriting made him feel like she was there, an eternal comfort. It's something he needed to get through the absolutely horrible season. 

The considerate Merle was right. The winter holidays were one of the busiest months for the Grand Pietre. Wealthy vacationers fled to the warm Riviera, fleeing snow for sunny shores. The more guests there were, the more events were organized in order to entertain them. Everyone on staff had to pull overtime, and Clive had to step up as ringleader of the chaotic, vacationing circus. 

Of course, as always, with a heavy flow of guests, a holiday bug would inevitably hatch amongst them, the plague spreading from person to person and, of course, to his staff. It was always during the most critical parts of the holidays when the circus fell. All it took was a single sneeze, and the chain reaction would begin. 

This year, in a horrible twist of irony, the patient zero was him. 

His entire career was spent crafting an image of untouchable authority, a servant to guests, someone who existed outside of the physical form. As such, he hid his sickness like a cat. 

Coughing was handled well enough. He always kept a pocketful of lemon drops, even when he was healthy. A stray cough from allergies or otherwise was always seen too, as soon as it manifested. At the first tingle of a sore throat, Clive made sure to keep a cup of hot tea poised on the kitchen counter. He'd excuse himself, take a sip, and pop a lemon drop. 

It was his nose that betrayed him. As soon as the day of a sore throat subsided, the endless dripping began. He kept a handkerchief balled up in his fist, hidden from immediate view but quickly accessed as soon as he sniffled. And he sniffled a lot. He spent the week with a handkerchief poised, sneakily dabbing at the point of his nose. Clive didn't dare blow it properly, as blowing meant a red, raw nose. Unsightly. Diseased-looking. The last thing guests wanted to see while mulling over a dinner menu. 

But because of the lack of a good, proper blow, Clive's sinuses tickled relentlessly. A constant, irritating flutter that begged for relief but was denied every time. And with the tickling came the sneezing. 

Or there would be sneezing. If he allowed it. But Clive was a professional hotel concierge. Professionals never sneezed in front of guests. 

He knew every trick in the book to keep it at bay. As soon as the ever-present tickle burned into something stronger, he'd quickly press at the divot under his nose. Counting from ten backwards also seemed to distract him, his meticulous mind easily occupied. Sometimes, when counting and pressure weren't enough, he'd employ Merle's ridiculous "pineapple" strategy, muttering the word to himself under a hitching, shaky breath when he knew no one was within earshot. 

There were many times Clive found himself trying to stand at still-attention, watery-eyed with the threat of a sneeze tickling him mercilessly. But he never let the reflex win. Not until his shift ended. Then he'd sprint to his quarters, breath hitching by the time he gripped the door handle. 

"hih—oh-hiih—" 

He'd make sure to lock the door behind him, chest ballooning with an inhale. 

"heeehh—" 

"Clive! You okay?" 

"hhh—goddamnit Terry… you scared the life out of me. What the hell is wrong with you?" 

Clive didn't mean to snap. He didn't expect Terry to be waiting for him, and the man did have an unnerving tendency to scare people accidentally. His sinuses burned away as he pinched at the straight bridge of his nose. 

"Hey, don't come at me with that! You said you wanted to go to the pictures tonight." 

Clive's heart fell. He had completely forgotten. 

It wasn't the first time this happened. The day before, he'd also forgotten about having an evening with Terry. And the day before that as well. As soon as the holiday season began, Clive had distanced himself. He didn't realize how distant. A week had turned into a month, and then two months. 

And Terry had been busy too. Overwhelmed with maintaining the changing grounds during the season. Chopping down overgrowth, removing a tree gone sickly. When Clive did see him, he'd be bent forward, his old back injury acting up. He'd keep up a brave face, but Clive knew he was in pain. 

And he didn't even bother to ask about it. He'd been so wrapped up in his own misery, so overwhelmed with the guests and the staff and the budding cold in his head.

"I can't. This day has been miserable. Start to finish. Maybe tomorrow…"  

Clive looked up to see Terry's crestfallen face. The man looked genuinely hurt, but resigned to it in a way that only someone who was used to being hurt could be. He nodded and put his jacket back on. 

"Don't worry about it, Clive." He muttered and left. A dark cloud hung low over his head. 

Merle was right, Clive thought. He was a complete idiot. He needed to rest, to stop micromanaging and let his staff do their job. And he needed to make up for all those missed dinners. 

Thanks to Merle, he had just the thing. He grabbed the small jar of ointment Merle had sent him and ran off to the dark of the gardens. The light was still on in Terry's small house. There was still time. 

——————————

The apology tumbled out of him, clumsy but honest. He was unused to them, and he worried that he'd only dig himself deeper. But Terry understood, and suddenly it was Terry apologizing, and then it was both of them tripping over each other's mutual apologies. Then it was laughter, and then it was relief, and warm embraces. 

And then it was Clive pulling Terry's shirt off. He gently led him to the bed, kissing and murmuring quiet reassurances. Clive eased Terry onto his stomach, straddling him.  

"Clive— you don't have to. You're under the weather…if anything, I should be the one to-"  

Terry gasped as Clive smeared a healthy dollop of oil on his back. It was hot and cold all at the same time, with an intense aromatic scent that filled the room. 

"Hush. I've been an ass." Clive bent forward and pressed a kiss to the small of his back. "I'm not that sick, anyway." 

That was a lie. Clive could feel a fever setting in. His eyes were heavy with it, but that didn't matter. He wanted to make it up to Terry, to make him feel good. He added more oil to Terry's back and sank his fingers into the tight muscles, searching for knots. The scent of the medicine was overwhelming, it made Clive's stuffy nose run, and he sniffled with it as the aroma loosened the congestion in his head. 

It seemed to affect Terry, too. In between the shameless moans and sighs from Clive's soothing ministrations, Terry began to snuffle from the odor. He rubbed his nose against a pillow, growing more and more bothered. 

Clive smiled. He knew what'd come next. He could feel it happen right under his fingertips. Terry's ribcage fluttered and expanded with a hitch, muscles tightening as he wound up for a sneeze. 

"Heeh—HEPT'SHHH!!!—hh—sorry." 

Terry's head snapped forward, spraying into the pillow. The sorry came out automatically, like it always did. A nervous tic developed from a more harrowing life. 

"It's okay.." Clive reassured, stroking a hand through Terry's auburn hair. "I got you." 

"hh—HGG'SHHHIEW!! HRH-PHHHBT!!" 

More sneezes, muffled against the pillow. They sounded watery and wonderfully relieving. Clive couldn't help but feel his own nose tingle with envy. It'd been denied for so long, and the odor of the ointment made a sneeze enticing. Clive wriggled his nose back and forth, trying to ignore that old feeling of shame and scrutiny that came with it. 

"Heh—" a hitch warbled out of him, hesitant. He felt his nostrils twitch in anticipation.

Terry softly huffed underneath him. 

"snff—you gonna finally sneeze or what?" Terry peeked over his shoulder, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His hand found Clive's knee and gave it a squeeze. 

Clive blushed from the attention. 

"Oh shut up—hih—you know I can't concentrate with you waiting on it like that." Clive scrunched up his face, feeling the sneeze dangle at the tip of his pointy nose. He pinched at it a little, trying to lean into the sensation. 

"Just like that one night at Merle's…" Terry winked. 

Clive lightly spidered his fingertips against Terry's ribcage. The man spasmed, and his arms quickly coiled over his sensitive sides. 

"CLIVE!" He yelped. 

"Oh-oh scared of a little retaliation-snff—" Clive rubbed at his nose, trying to escape the clawing tickle that bounced between his eyes. "Now-just let-let me—hhh—HHH—" 

His mouth parted, and his nostrils curled open.

"hihp-tSHHiew!!" 

Annoyingly small and shy as always. But a sneeze was a sneeze, and he felt all the pressure of the months behind him crack open with it. His shoulders sagged, and he smiled through the second hiccup of a sneeze, a soft but relieving "Hh'Shieww!!" 

"Bless ya." Terry's voice was muffled in the pillow, his body still tense from the threat of being tickled. 

"..hhh Thanks…" Clive sighed and returned to the task at hand. There'd be no more teasing for Terry tonight. The massage continued, melting into heavy caresses as what little clothing remained between the pair of them peeled away. 

The fever made Clive's movements sluggish, the night blurring into a melange of pleasure and release. 

And sneezes. Encouraged by the mentholated ointment. As Clive hitched and against the skin of Terry's throat, his mind drifted to Merle…

She really was amazing at gift-giving. 

[boxofmushy]

Two for One and Done (oneshot...maybe)

A vampire bites a priest with a cold and has to live with the consequences. 🦇 🎃

Hey everyone. its vampire sneezing. That's it. That's the fic. you're welcome. Unbeta'd, written in a fever of h0rniness. Kind of gross.

18+ (SFW)

CW | horror movie level violence, mentions of blood, no egregious descriptions of gore. Shared psychic sneezing, general spooky vampire vibes, eternal colds, empathy sneezing, some slight SWH elements, monster snz, are you into priests? I'm not really, but I do like vampire priests I guess, happy halloween everyone

Special thanks to @shamefilledsnzblog, who shared a tumblr post that filled me with such wanton lust that I vomited this into my word processor.

Prowling cemeteries at night wasn't something the seminary prepared him for. But after serving the small community of Cat's Cradle, Reverend Nathaniel Lark knew better than to question the concerns of a worried mother knocking on his door at 11:00 pm. 

He swore it was the trees—Cat's Cradle was a mountain town surrounded by an ancient forest. Tales of ghosts and monsters flourished in the dark, and it wasn't his place to disprove or deny the concerns of his parish. Their belief was real, and that was enough for him. So he peered down every haunted well, climbed up every ominous staircase, and looked under every bed. He hadn't planned on becoming an official boogeyman hunter, but he preferred it over listening to his pompous, bigoted peers back home. He took up the collar to bring comfort to others, and if bringing comfort meant going out into the dark with a crucifix and a jar of garlic in the middle of the night, he was going to do it. 

"Igheh'Hhh—Hihff'Shhiew!!" 

He unfolded a new bundle of tissues, already exhausting a box. The miserable cold that spent its time passing from townsfolk to townsfolk in the winter had finally caught up to him just as spring finally came around. He practically sneezed his way through the last mass. It was a proper head cold, one he hoped would dry up in a week. Thankfully, most of his colds were short-lived. 

"Heeh-hh—ohdearmbe—hehh'IGHHFFF!!!" 

That one bent him in half. His back twinged in pain, and for a moment, he stayed bowed, lower half of his face buried in a handkerchief. The airy sneeze rang out in the graveyard, the only sound of life amongst the dead.

Wincing, he slowly, carefully straightened out again. The grand age of forty-five had done his spine no favors. Or his knees. Or his neck, for that matter. Funny, the things one took for granted. Working backs and knees. Graveyards had a way of making him meditative on his own mortality, as graveyards should. They were places for contemplation. To honor and grieve loved ones. They were places where memories were buried forever.

They were not supposed to be dug up again, least of all by the local priest. But the kindly baker told him she'd seen a vampire take its residence in what should have been her auntie's final resting place, and he wasn't going to argue with her. If a flock of sheep bleated at a wolf in the woods, the shepherd would be foolish not to go and chase it away. 

He still felt foolish placing the jar of garlic on top of the grave. He felt even more foolish when he nearly jumped out of his skin in fright when the caretaker yelled at him. 

"What the hell are you doing?" The old man stood at the stoop of the funeral house, weathered face lit by the glow of his outdated lantern. 

"Oh, hullo!" Rev. Nathaniel Lark smiled awkwardly, trying to make the act of digging up a grave look perfectly normal. "Just uh—snff—checking for…something." 

The caretaker scowled. 

Nathaniel cleared his throat. 

"You haven't uh—seen, any..oh..I don't know—uh—vampires around?" 

The caretaker grumbled a string of colorful expletives and returned to the funeral home, slamming the doors behind him. 

"Have a good evening!" Nathaniel lamely called after him. He always tried his best to end every interaction on a positive note. You never knew when a goodbye would be your last. 

Nathanial was unsure if a jar of processed garlic with "a hint of rosemary" would have the same effect as an actual garland, but he didn't have any time to sew one together, and frankly, he didn't feel well enough to focus on crafting one. He took a small bottle of holy water and gave the top of the grave a generous sprinkle. Though he seriously doubted a vampire had exhumed the body in order to take up residence in its place, He hoped the process was convincing enough ward for the baker to feel comforted by it. 

She was waiting for him in the parking lot, watching from the safety of an old truck. The baker still seemed worried as he approached, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"You think that's enough to keep it away, father?" She asked. 

He coughed lightly into the crook of an elbow, the cold had passed the point of scorching his throat, but the drip of it remained. 

"—I don't see why it wouldn't, Mrs. Keller. From what I'm told, even jars of garlic are enough to keep evil spirits from harassing the dearly departed remains." 

He wasn't told about any of this. But he wasn't lying. Lying was a sin. He was comforting someone, and there was nothing wrong with that. The look of relief on the baker's face was enough to make the harmless pantomime worth it. 

"Thank you so much, Father! You'll get a whole month's worth of fresh bread, I guarantee it." 

"It's the least I can do—Now, is there..any-anythihg—anythingelse-??" 

A sudden tickle fluttered between his eyes, and he quickly pressed a knuckle to the underside of his nose. Guiltily, he begged for the conversation to be over, so he could get back to bed and sneeze out the rest of this cold. 

Mrs. Keller took her time thinking of another investigation while Nathaniel tried to smile through the burn of an approaching sneeze. 

"Mmm…I don't suppose you could check the graves tomorrow, just to make sure?"

"Hhhh!!—"  He held his breath, eyebrows lifted dramatically as he clamped his nose between the tissues. "—HFFFHIEW!!" 

"Oh! Bless you!" Mrs. Keller grinned, suddenly amused, "How funny, me blessing you. Feels a bit strange." 

Nathaniel sighed into the tissues, still muzzy with a second sneeze brewing. He did his best to extricate himself from the ever-gregarious Mrs. Keller, finally leaving the dark graveyard parking lot for a long walk back home. It was a bit of an eerie walk, the kind where you were almost sure someone was following behind. Perhaps the superstitious nature of the town was starting to influence him. 

At least he didn't live far away. For that, he was grateful. He was even more grateful when his landlord remembered to let the plumber in to fix the sink. But it was odd that the plumber showed up so late at night and didn't actually fix the sink. It still leaked when he trudged into the kitchen. He rolled his eyes at the puddles of water on the kitchen floor, snuffling thickly as he tried to mop them up. 

Nathaniel knew he had many flaws, as all humans did. One of them was self-pity, something he tried to dip in only occasionally. But tonight, being sick as a dog and with a busted sink, he let himself wallow in it. Poor Reverend Nathaniel Larkin, crawling on his hands and knees mopping up puddles, nose as leaky as the broken sink. 

Another puddle mopped, another one to go. Nathaniel's mouth slowly swung open as yet another sneeze tickled him. He would have had it too, if he hadn't wiped away a splatter of blood. 

He bolted upright, eyes following the trail of blood to the couch. A man lounged there, leg crossed. He looked perfectly cordial despite the front of his shirt being covered in blood. He grinned crookedly up at Nathaniel. Teeth razor sharp, eyes glowing in the dark. 

"Heads up. You might need a new landlord." The man said. 

Nathaniel didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. Only feel pure terror. 

"He was kind of a boring guy. Talked too much, no real flavor to him." The man's eyes flashed. 

"Worst of all, I'm still hungry." 

Before Nathaniel could even think, the creature pounced on him. 

His head slammed against the floorboards as he felt the fangs sink into his neck. Nathaniel yelled for help, flailed, and shoved at the monster on top of him. Strong hands (or were they claws?) held him fast, all he could do was scream.

But there was no pain. That was the odd thing. After the agony of the bite, there was nothing. He felt the blood and the cold skin of the creature's lips against his throat, but he didn't feel pain. His mind fogged over, and his vision went blurry, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was being fed on by a damn vampire, it was almost…good. 

Really good. 

In the cloud of sensation, Nathaniel felt a sudden inhale against the divot of his neck, where throat met chest. Then another sip of air, and a distinct sound of a sniffly nose. He thought for a moment he was sniffling, the cold chasing him to his death. But he felt the fangs unhook from his flesh, and he looked up to see that the vampire was rubbing at his nose against the heel of his hand. Panting, his glowing eyes hooded as it sucked in another gasp of air, nostrils fluttering open—

"What—heh—the-h-hell—HH—" The vampire's voice wavered as his lips curled up in a snarl. But he no longer looked ferocious. He looked confused, almost soft…

Sneezy.

"Ah—Ahh—HAHk'SHHH!!" 

It exploded out of him, spluttering messily between sharp teeth. Body cringing forward, eyes closing despite his best efforts…

It was just enough time. Nathaniel used the moment to shove the vampire off of him and reached into his back pocket for the crucifix. The world swam before his eyes as he lurched forward with it, pressing the holy object to the vampire's back. He heard the creature cry out in pain, saw the smoke, the fire, and then nothing.

Reverend Nathaniel Larkin swooned, and his world went black. 

———————-

It'd been a month since he got a crucifix to the back. 

He sat at the empty bar, nursing a full glass of beer. Just for looks, of course. Human drink could never satisfy as much. It might as well have been air. He wasn't there for the drinks, he was there for the music. Soft guitars strummed effortlessly from the modest stage, and a handful of true devotees sat and enjoyed the gentle ballads. Every Saturday he'd go to sit and listen, music was the last true thing that made him feel alive. 

The fucking scar itched. He thumbed at his back uselessly. What did it look like? Did it leave a mark?  There was no way he could know. 

"You gotta leave." 

The bartender gave him a final warning. Nice guy. Knew about the whole vampire thing. Knew enough to let him in and leave him be, at least. Nodding, he slid off the barstool and skulked into the dark. One of the things they didn't tell you when you became a child of darkness was that you should always honor a few spaces. You couldn't run your whole immortal life. He had quite a few spots across the globe by this point, places he could rely on for shelter, at least briefly. Some were permanent, some less so. 

For now, his less-permanent shelter was a trailer, the final home of his last meal. It was ratty, but it was dark, and it had a couch. And a tv. He could hardly complain about that. Flopping on the sofa, he kicked up his boots on the coffee table, and reached for the remote. He was almost at peace.

Almost.  

He hissed, and pinched at the bridge of his nose as a sneeze sparked to life. He'd felt one coming on all damn night, a tickle that flowed and ebbed seemingly at random. He never thought he'd be bothered with sneezing again. He hadn't done it for hundreds of years. Up until the encounter with that priest, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. At first, he thought it was a fluke, perhaps drinking the blood of a clergyman ignited an allergy he was unaware of. Whatever it was, he hadn't indulged in it since. 

Until tonight. He woke up with his nose buzzing, and he'd almost been excited to try for one again. Almost. But every time he seemed to work up to one, it went away, leaving him stuffy and frustrated. Twice during the concert he nearly got an AH in, but the fucking Choo would die away. At one point, his ridiculous gasping made someone's head turn, drawing unwanted attention. He flushed with embarrassment, just thinking about it. He didn't know he could still blush either. 

"Oh-come on.." He sniffed at the cold air, twiddling his wide nose against the palm of his hand. His breath snagged, and he felt a swell of anticipation in him as his chest rose, and rose, and rose—

"Ah—hh-hh—AHHH!!" 

He tilted his head back, as if the sneeze was a thing to be caught in the air with his teeth, a thing just right out of reach. 

Curiously, he could hear someone else hitching, too. Someone unseen in the dark. Someone close by, who didn't want to be seen, was struggling not to be heard. 

"—AHt'CHHHHSH!!!" He launched forward with it, exaggerated. The sneeze scraped through his sinuses in a wonderfully relieving way, like a rake of nails down his itchy nose. He licked his lips, indulging in the strange little reflex he thought he had left behind ages ago. 

"Hhh-INDG'T!!" 

Someone else sneezed. Or rather, tried not to sneeze. 

Someone else was in the dark with him. Unusual, not to see someone in the dark. Humans were easy to spot, animals too. The only thing that could hide from a vampire was another vampire. 

He bolted from the couch and flicked on the light. Standing in the corner, with a finger hovering uselessly under his nose, was the priest from a month ago. Tall as ever, but this time without the silly white collar they all wore. In its place was a red scar wrapping around his neck, a permanent ring burned into his skin. 

The priest grabbed him. Lifted him up by the jacket collar and shoved him into the wall. He'd been weak as a human. He wasn't weak anymore. 

"Turn me back! TURN ME BACK NOW!" The priest spat. His nose ran, and his pupils glowed bright. "YOU DAMNED ME!" 

"What the fuck are you blabbing about? I can't turn you back! What the hell do you think this is??" He struggled to pull the priest's hands (or were they claws?) off of him. 

"You gave me this dark gift. I never wanted it. You…you ruined my life." 

"I..I think you need to be a bit educated on this one." He grinned, trying to placate the newly turned spawn. "I was gonna drain you. Right? You'd be dead if I did. But you're not. You're a spawn now. Fresh as a daisy. And I'm your sire." 

The priest sniffled. A dribble of mess trickled down his lip. 

"You're… like my father now?" 

"NO! Fuck no. Disgusting." He wrinkled his nose at the idea. "No, I'm like…your friend. You have my power now, and my thoughts. And I have yours. If I die, you die." 

The priest's grip loosened, and he released him. 

"Look, let's try this over. Hello there! My name's Quintus." He held out his hand for a shake. "You can call me Quint. What's yours?" 

The ex-priest, now-vampire, glowered at him. He wiped his runny nose with a cluster of tissues. 

"Nathaniel." 

"Nice to meet you, Nate. Now, let's not tear each other's heads off tonight. Let's just talk. Can we talk?" 

Nathaniel nodded. He understandably wasn't happy about it, but he was willing to hear Quintus out. 

And he did hear him out. For an hour, they sat and talked. Quintus shared his own fractured knowledge of vampirism and how to live the life, and Nathaniel quietly moped and took it in. No doubt it would be years for him to really adjust, but Quintus wasn't about to let a spawn go on in the world, sad and clueless. He wasn't responsible for spawns, but he felt responsible for this one at least. There was something inherently sad and puppyish about the man that compelled him to charity. Besides, it didn't seem like he was willing to just leave Quintus alone. Whatever situation they found themselves in, they'd have to work it out together, since killing each other was not an option. For now. 

"Excuse—mbe..hih-Igh—" Nathaniel reached into his pocket for another nest of tissues, eyebrows rising. "Th-this stupid cold—been'd taking forever to—hhhh" 

Quintus felt the tickle crawl up and down Nathaniel's sinuses. It made his own nostrils pulse and his own breath wobble. Dread realization hit as his lips curled away from his fanged teeth in an itchy snarl. 

"Ah-AHH'GHSHHOOH!!" 

"HF'Fhieww!!" 

They both sneezed in tandem. Quintus first. Nathaniel second. They both sniffled and looked at each other, surprised. 

It was the first time in a long time Quintus felt real dread. 

"You were sick when I bit you?" 

"I was, yes. Horrible little cold-snff-snff-" Nathaniel dabbed at his runny nose. "I just don't understand. I thought I'd be over it by now. Sickness doesn't linger with me." 

"As a human no." Quintus's glared. "But whatever you are when you are turned, you remain."

"…Are you suggesting I will have this cold…forever?" 

"I don't..know. Maybe, maybe it'll last for a year, or a hundred years. Or it'll go away tomorrow..I don't know. What I do know is— I think we're sharing more than power. If you sneeze, I'll sneeze." 

Nathaniel sniffed, looking sulky. He pinched his nose between a clean fold of tissues and gave it a loud blow. Quintus wrinkled his own nose at the sound, he could feel his sinuses shift from Nathaniel's exertion. 

"Well. Snff—looks like someone will have the sniffles for a while then. Should have thought about that before you feasted on my neck."  Nathaniel lowered the tissues, his septum a red, raw streak. Twitching his nose back and forth, his chest began to huff up and down, and a small, sarcastic smile spread over his parting lips as his nostrils ticked open. "Speakig-of..get ready..I think'g—this is gunna be a big—one…" 

Quintus couldn't help it. Despite hundred's of years' worth of power, of sheer focus on survival, he couldn't stop the tickle crawling up and down his nose as Nathaniel's face crumbled. He pinched at his widening nostrils, trying to stop them from flaring. 

"Don't! Hh-Come'd on-Nate-don't—Don't s'deeze—I—ah-" 

"-S-Sorry—Hhhh—" 

In a last, pathetic effort, Quintos slapped a hand over his mouth. He could feel his sharp teeth parting open, desperate, helpless. 

Oh fuck. Helplessness. That was something he hadn't felt in a long time…

"AH—AH—" 

It terrified him. 

"AH-AHKTCHH!!" 

There was a time, long ago, when he knew how to stifle a sneeze. To properly bottle it up. Some murky part of his past where he was hiding, the last time he felt fear. He couldn't remember how to do it now. The sneeze sprayed wetly against his hand, his ears popping with the painful explosion. 

"Hieh'FFHshh!!" Nathaniel smiled wryly as he blew at his nose and folded the tissue neatly on his lap.  "Snff-Snfff. Gesundheit, Quint." 

Quintus groaned and slowly lowered his hand and wiped the drool on his pants. That stuck-up, whiny, no-good, asshole Nathaniel was doing this on purpose. To think he almost pitied the guy! He wanted to punish him!

 If they couldn't kill each other, they'd have to resort to annoying each other. For all eternity. And beyond. It was a fate worse than death. 

Though…sneezing wasn't so bad. It did feel good. 

[boxofmushy]

Roughing It (Oneshot)

A glimpse into Terry's past, and a quick glimpse at his present.

----

Story Notes | Oneshot set in my Rookverse continuity. Connecting some characters together. You can meet the dubious treasure hunter Mad Marn in my multichapter fic "Adventure, Wherever It calls". You can meet my polycule Clive, Terry and Merle in the fic "In Good Company".

Or you can skip all of that and just enjoy this oneshot of a sad, sad wet dog of a man getting bullied.

NSFW 18+ 🍆

Content | holdbacks, femdom, sub!m, messy sneeze (no graphic descriptions) stifles, polycouple, sex favorable ace representation, implied spicy content, really this is like a prologue to a much more explicit idea I have working up that involves those three in a tent, praise kink, the author's thinly disguised fetishes (as is expected)

They were five weeks into the heat of the desert when Mad Marn realized they were headed in the wrong direction. 

Because of course they were. 

She crouched over a map, the tent oppressively hot despite the sun having finally set over the horizon. Despite her line of work as a dubious go-getter for rich losers, she always hated camping out. Roughing it. Terrible.

Taking a sip of coffee, she re-read her geographical notes. Despite her best efforts to bargain for the best map, they still managed to overshoot the supposed location of the supposed damned tomb. 

There were plenty of times when she'd accidentally led her men to the wrong location. Bum maps, bad hearsay. Nothing was guaranteed in her line of work. It's why rich idiots hired her crew in the first place. No matter how badly some aristocrat wanted some supposedly magical ruby, they were loath to actually break out a tent and get it themselves. Of course, she'd be out of work if they did. 

She sat, nursing the butt-end of a cigarette, trying to make her limited supply of smokes last for who knows how long. She turned the map upside down, cursing, and turned it right side up. Nothing made sense. 

"Ma'am? The crew is waiting…" 

Dynamite expert Pierce stood at attention, her shaved head having grown out to a teddy-bear length after weeks in the desert. She looked washed out and sweaty. Granted, everyone was sweaty. 

"I got nothing to tell 'em." Marnie killed the cigarette, crushing it against the table. 

Pierce coughed. It was a wrenching, painful one. 

"—You gotta tell 'em something, Ma'am. Word is going around that we're lost." Pierce's voice was strangled and stuffy. Whatever wretched illness that'd been hopping from one mercenary to the next had finally found her. 

Mad Marn sighed. Pierce was right. When the crew started having enough time on their hands to wonder about being lost, that's when they got out of line. That's when she had to put the fear of the gods into them. It was a pain in the ass, really. But it had to be done. 

The desert winds raged against the rickety walls of the hangar. Her men stood at attention as she slowly walked down their ranks. They were dirty and banged up from survival. Some are sick and feverish. A flurry of irritating coughs and sniffles echoes through the hangar, a symphony of illness. 

She lit a fresh cigarette. 

"You all look like shit," Marnie announced, her hands clasped behind her back. "Sad, pathetic. If I had half a mind, I'd leave the lot of you for the buzzards." 

She gave one particularly woozy-looking mercenary a sharp look.

"But, I am, as always, merciful. And I do believe I've found the right path to—" 

"HIh-FSHHHIEW!!" 

A sneeze exploded from somewhere in the crowd. It was wolfish and itchy. It was also instantly recognizable. The perpetrator's voice lived in it. 

"Terry!" She yelled.

The crowd parted instantly, revealing the sniffling culprit. Upon discovery, he straightened his posture and put his arms behind his back, standing at stiff attention. 

"Tinfoil Terry…you look as fresh as a carcass." 

The mercenary was the shortest in her crew, a chewed-up coyote of a man. One ear with a chunk bitten off from a match in some godforsaken fighting ring, a wild desperation in his eyes. He held his dubious nickname for being the one member in her crew who always ended up in the worst predicaments. Terry was as crumpled as a piece of tinfoil. 

Terry was the weakest of her crew, and yet the one man she could never quite get rid of. 

"You feeling alright?" She asked, eyeing him. 

He nodded curtly. 

"Yes, Ma'am." 

"You know. There's been a bit of a plague going around the crew recently. Even Pierce caught it. Plagues are spread by rats, you know." 

Terry's brows furrowed, confused.

"Tell me, Terry. Are you the plague rat who gave everyone the sniffles?" 

"-No? No Ma'am!" Terry's steely demeanor broke into panic. "I'm not even sick, I swear!" 

Mad Marn knew toying with Terry was cruel. But she knew the others needed to know their place. Terry was just a casualty. As usual. 

She grabbed his chin in a rough pinch, tipping his head upwards, examining him. He was ugly on the best of days, but the fever made him worse. 

"Mm. Not sick, huh? You sound really congested to me. Are you my rat?" 

His eyes watered. Marnie could tell he was ready to explode again at any moment. His nose was a dead giveaway. Nostrils dilated open, tickled by the cold he no doubt carried and passed on. 

"N-no Ma'am—snff—I'mb-snff" His chest swelled. His words warbled at the edge of a sneeze. "—feeligfin'ed-" 

"Sorry, didn't catch that. Speak up." Keeping his chin tight in her grasp, she dragged a thumb across his raw septum, wiping at a dribble of mess leaking from his nose. He stretched his upper lip at the light touch. He seemed desperate for the contact, anything to scratch at his nose. She was merciful to oblige him. 

"I'm-I'm.. feelig—hhhheeh—" 

A sharp intake of breath hissed between his clenched teeth, and he quickly curled his lips together. Trying to bottle up the inevitable. Eyes squeezed shut, he held his breath for a moment, then breathed out a shaky "—euuhh.." 

He looked relieved not to give in to the reflex. Despite the wants and needs of his body, he obeyed orders. Sniffling fitfully, he seemed almost proud of the accomplishment.

"You're Feelig Fide?" She mocked his stuffy voice. "You don't look Fide to me."

Taking a drag from her cig, she exhaled directly at Terry's face. The acrid smoke stung him, he scrunched up his face, nose flaring, angry and red as his sinuses tickled at the irritating smoke. His chest hitched up, up, up…

Marn quickly pinched the round bulb of his nose between her fingertips, just as the sneeze crested. 

"HIHP-BBHHPTTT!!!" 

It was a terribly loud, spraying excuse of a stifle. Spittle trailed down his lips as she released his burning nose from her fingers, wiping the mess against the front of his jacket.

"Look at you. Can barely hold a damn sneeze in. How you're still alive I'll never know." 

"S-sorry..ma'amb.." Terry flushed, humiliated, and bleary-eyed. 

She put her hands on either one of his shoulders and spun him around, facing the rest of the crew. 

"Plague rat here got you all sick. Plague rat stays quarantined in the shed out back for the rest of our cursed tenure here. Got that?" 

Terry hung his head as the rest of the crew nodded, unable to look Terry in the eye. Pierce escorted Terry away, coughing and sniffling as she went. Mad Marn was satisfied, her ever-disloyal crew of mercenaries properly threatened.

Still lost in the damn desert though. With nothing but the moon to guide them. 

———

The moon was still out when Merle awoke. It was a gloriously clear summer night. She had to commend herself (as she usually did) for picking the best time to go for a bit of camping with her lovely friends. As nice a stay as a hotel was, the majesty of a good night roughing it was needed. She sleepily undid her curlers, 

and her hair net, 

and her face mask, 

and her nose strip and…

Okay, okay. Just because she was roughing it didn't mean she'd abandon her nightly routine. She scaled mountains in the past while still maintaining a healthy skincare routine. It's more than possible to do both. She was fabulous and enjoyed the great outdoors.

There was a brief stirring from Clive, who was dead-asleep. He was still naked, legs tangled in the sheets. She smiled warmly at him, tucking one of his wavy curls behind an ear. The darling had quite a night. She didn't expect him to be up any time soon. 

"Hehff'SHHHHIEW!!" 

Merle jumped, startled by Terry sneezing outside. Pulling a thin silk robe over her shoulders, she left the tent. 

Her dear Terry was sitting at the edge of the river, washing his face in the cool water. His auburn hair was wet and slightly wild-looking. 

"Bless you, darling." Merle sat next to him, dipping her feet in the river. Bliss. "Still a bit tickly from last night?" 

Terry looked sheepish at the observation. He shrugged and gave his nose a quick swipe. Despite having known Terry for nearly half a year now, he was still so shy around her. Like a stray dog just learning to trust again. 

Clive had told Merle that Terry had a rough past, though the details to her were still unknown. She never pressed Terry about it, but whatever life he lived before was slowly being corroded. He grew softer each day, less hunched and less jumpy. 

They sat together in silence for a bit. Still dreamy from the night of passion. Merle knew when Terry was in a wistful mood, and she respected his quiet. Leaning her head against his, they listened to the frogs singing. 

Eventually, Terry spoke. 

"Hey, Merle.." 

"Yes, dear?" 

"…Nothing.." His voice sounded heady and nasal. Soft. "—I just feel lucky right now. That's all." 

There was a weight to what he said. A melancholia. Merle furrowed her brow and gently cupped his face in her hand. He leaned into the warm contact before taking her hand in his. He held her between his rough palms, reverently. 

"A guy like me doesn't get lucky often. Ever." 

"A guy like you? Terrance. You are an absolute catch! You're kind to animals, great around a garden, an absolute wildcat in bed-" 

"Merle!" Terry flushed bright red, unused to the compliments. 

"Don't you dare stop me now Mr. Penton! You're thoughtful, sweet, beautiful—" 

"Okay, now you're fucking with me." He frowned, "I don't know a lot, but I do know I'm not handsome.." 

"I didn't say you were handsome. I said you are beautiful." Merle pressed a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Anyone can be handsome. Not everyone is beautiful." 

Terry sniffled. He looked away from Merle, eyes getting misty. 

"And. Confidentially." Merle leaned in, close. "I've had to kiss a lot of actors in my day. Occupational hazard. And trust me, you outshine them all." 

"Fuck Off." 

"I won't fuck off! I'm deadly serious. I'm always serious, as you know." 

She could see his light eyes drift to her lips, he swallowed thickly. 

She didn't wait for him to ask. Merle leaned in for a kiss, one that started slow and gentle, then heated as he pulled her close. 

Merle, despite making a career out of pretending (what is acting but well-done lies?), was always truthful when it came to matters of the heart. She was not flattering Terry. He really did kiss well. There was a naive desperation to them, as if a part of him knew he might never get the chance to kiss again. He flushed easily, face hot against hers as she straddled him. 

Traditional sex was never something she could fully enjoy. All the main bits were boring at best. But everything surrounding it was great fun.

"W-wait a minute.." Terry gasped. Merle leaned back, pushing the hair out of her eyes. 

"What is it, dear? Getting a bit excited? We can rouse Clive to jump in if you need him. Or I could just—" 

"No, I just—hhh-feelig a sneeze coming on—" His voice caught on a hitch. 

Oh. Ah. 

Merle smiled, overwhelmingly fond. Terry's nose always gave him away. Nostrils ticking open, he made to pinch them shut. But Merle grabbed his hands and pinned them to the ground. 

"Now now. You know that's terrible for your ears." She cooed. 

Terry sniveled and hitched between her legs, eyes bleary in concentration. 

"Come on then, give us a nice big one." 

"Hhh—heeeh.." 

"There we are. Ahh! Ahh!!" She coached, gently. Merle loved how flustered he got from teasing. His breath stuttered, and he nearly lost it before another sharp gasp pushed him over the precipice. 

"HHss'SHHIEW!!" 

It rushed out of him, dizzying with relief. She felt his body seize with it. Curiously, her stomach flutter at the sound, and she wondered if Clive's own proclivities were starting to rub off on her. He did have exquisite tastes in things. 

"Good boy. Marvelous." She purred. 

Terry looked up at her, eyes wide and face flushed from the praise. He practically glowed with it, and she felt his body respond to it. Perhaps he, too, discovered something new about himself tonight. 

And that's what camping is about, after all. 

Discovery, adventure. Roughing it. 

[shamefilledsnzblog]

Friends in Deep Places

More Crawford fic! This soggy wizard is very much in my brain right now... This time, featuring an ancient and mysterious friend. Well, she considers Crawford a friend. Crawford still hasn't gotten that memo...

Enjoy more cold-stricken wizard, and mysterious dream companion!

White Water Point was no stranger to bad weather. The lighthouse had stood for over a century, and bore the scars of those many years of wild winds, crashing waves, and the simple passing of time.

For it to be raining inside the lighthouse, however, was a touch more than it had been designed to endure. And yet, endure it did, and rather frequently at present, as Crawford Seaver, the weather wizard who resided there, battled his way through a truly relentless cold.

Tarps had been strung up to protect the table, and the seat by the fireplace, and in a separate room, another covered Crawford’s bed. The bookshelf overflowing with books, and the masses of charts covering the walls, had all been treated with the waterproofing spells Crawford had learned out of necessity when his powers had first begun to run away with him all those years ago. Lightning rods had been installed, protecting the occupants from any sudden bursts of lightning Crawford happened to sneeze up. And yet, no amount of prevention and preparation could keep the chill, misery, and rain from the air as Crawford battled his way through his ailment.

Crawford himself stood before his wall of charts, frowning at one in particular, watching enchanted lines of ink move about, indicating wind and air pressure, forever shifting. He shivered constantly, despite the thick woolen blanket wrapped about his gaunt frame, the scarf wrapped around his neck, and the cup of tea clutched in both hands, sweetened with honey and spiked with rum. His prominent nose, red and raw from constant blowing and wiping, twitched with constant, useless sniffles, each one holding back the tide for mere moments. He desperately needed to blow his nose, but that would mean letting go of his mug and loosening his blanket, and Crawford had no desire to relinquish either.

Sniffling, however, could only serve him for so long, and before long, his bleary eyes began to grow hazy and filled with dread, and his chapped lips parted as his breath began to catch.

“Oh… Ehhh… Huhh… Oh dear…”

Neptune, Crawford’s scruffy little terrier, let out a whine, and retreated under the table, where his bed had been moved to protect it from the rain.

“Sorry, Neptune, I… HhhYUSSHOO!”

Occupied with both mug and blanket, Crawford merely turned away from his charts, narrowly avoiding catching them with the spray of mist that burst from his nose and mouth. Not that it would have mattered much; they’d been rained on enough already.

For just a moment, Crawford hoped he might have gotten away with a single sneeze. So long as he could keep it to just one, all would be well. His magic would remain at bay. The moment seemed to drag as he waited, eyes closed, lips parted, nose quivering, until…

“HhhuHHESSSHOO!”

And that was that. When there was a second sneeze, a third followed, as inevitable as the tide. And with it…

“HhuhhHAASSSCHOO!”

A crack of thunder sent Neptune whimpering and huddling into his blankets, as lightning struck the rods outside the lighthouse. Inside, a gust of wind swirled about the room, tearing a chart from the wall. The rain, which had slowed to a miserable drizzle, began to patter down anew, dripping from the light fixtures, the furniture, and Crawford’s long-suffering nose.

Crawford heaved a sigh that turned into a cough, and looked apologetically to Neptune.

“Sorry, old man. I am trying.”

Snuffling, groaning, rain splattering into his spiked tea, Crawford made his way across the room to collect the chart. It had landed dangerously close to the fireplace, and he hastily snatched it away from the reach of any errant embers. Sighing, Crawford dropped his rain-soaked blanket and settled into his chair by the fire, the tarp protecting both him and the flames from the sneeze-induced rain for now.

He stretched his feet out towards the fire, though only one could actually benefit from the warmth. The other, a wooden prosthetic, served as a grim reminder of the consequences of careless magic. Even over twenty years after the loss of the leg, Crawford still felt a dull ache where the limb ought to have been. It was always the way, when he was ill.

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, shoulders heaving with the effort of an enormous snuffle, Crawford looked wearily over the chart. One finger came to trace a pattern of lines. A hurricane in its infancy, and in a region where no hurricane should ever be. His sigh turned into a cough.

“Again… Less than a year since the last… What’s going on there..?”

Neptune, seeming to trust that no further sneezes were imminent, ventured out of his bed and came to sit at Crawford’s feet, looking up at him and heaving a sad, doggy sigh. Crawford echoed it with a sigh of his own, and reached down to scratch the little terrier behind his ragged ears.

“No two ways about it, my friend. This one’s got me at a loss.”

For some time, Crawford sat and puzzled over the chart, turning the matter over with a mind muddled from both congestion and weariness. He sipped his spiked tea, the honey doing a little to soothe his raw throat, the rum not chasing the chill from his bones half as well as he had hoped. He took a sodden bandana from his sleeve, and gave his dripping nose a foghorn of a blow, wincing at the pain it caused deep in his sinuses. The more he puzzled over the chart, the more the lines ceased to make sense, until he felt ready to throw the damned thing into the fire and be done with it.

Not that he would ever do such a thing. Too much hard work had gone into those enchantments. Too much lost sleep…

“… Sleep… Gods, I need to sleep…”

Crawford’s eyes, having been growing ever heavier, suddenly opened, and he sat up a little straighter. Neptune tilted his head, and offered a questioning “wff?”, watching as Crawford stepped out from under the tarp’s protection, shivering violently as he went to rifle through a cupboard.

“Two heads are better than one, as they say, and I know of a head a lot older than mine. Let’s hope Thalassa is still asleep, hm?”

Neptune gave an uncertain whine as he watched Crawford fish out a glass medicine bottle, together with a dry bandana. Trembling and snuffling, Crawford brought both back to the fireside, carefully dabbing at his nose with the latter, and pulling the stopper from the former. Crawford glanced guiltily at Neptune as he poured a little of the bottle’s contents into the remains of his tea.

“I know. Awful stuff. But it’s the only way I’m getting any sort of decent rest right now.”

Neptune gave a noise of discontentment, his expression awfully judgmental for a terrier.

Setting aside the bottle, Crawford took the bandana and carefully blew his nose again. Doing so cleared out another flood of congestion, but ignited a spark of irritation as the blowing vibrated his raw nasal passages. Crawford frowned, wrinkling his nose extensively as he tried to sniffle and snort it into submission. It didn’t seem ready to become a sneeze, but nor did it seem to be going anywhere…

“Ugh.. Right, let’s get this over with…”

Taking the mug, Crawford took a deep breath and drained the contents, grimacing and shaking his head as he swallowed.

“Gods, that stuff is more vile every time! Still, let’s hope it works.”

Settling himself into his chair once more, Crawford wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth into his aching muscles and joints. Leaning his head back, he gazed into the fire, watching the glowing embers, trying to breathe deeply, listening to the sounds around him. The howling winds outside the lighthouse. The slowing pattering of rain within. The gentle crackling of the flames…

As the potent cough medicine began to take effect, Crawford yawned, and Neptune echoed with a yawn of his own, stretching out by the fire and resting his head on Crawford’s foot. As Crawford’s eyelids began to grow heavy, he raised his hand to a thin strip of leather around his neck, drawing a peculiar amulet from beneath his jumper. An odd sort of coral, worn smooth from years of handling, a dull red in colour. As his breathing grew slower and deeper, Crawford turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the lumps and ridges, calling to mind the one who had first pressed it into his hand. As sleep began to claim him, his last thoughts centered on a vision of silver eyes, and a mighty form stirring in ocean depths.

His nostrils gave a warning quiver, but before his nose could be satisfied with a sneeze, his head slumped to one side, a congested snore emanating from his lips instead.

When Crawford opened his eyes, it was to bright sunlight, and sand and stone beneath his mismatched feet. Looking about, he found himself on a sunlit shore, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs. A place he had never visited in the waking world, but in dreams, many times. He took a moment to close his eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves; a far cry from the wild seas he had heard as he slept. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost make himself feel the warmth of the sun, chasing away the fevered chills.

A lingering prickle nagged at his cold-ravaged sinuses, a reminder of the state his body was in. Pawing clumsily at his nose, Crawford made his way further up the beach, where great pillars had been carved into the cliff, standing on either side of the door of a temple long since abandoned. Crawford bowed his head respectfully as he stepped inside, onto cracked tiles half-buried in sand.

An altar stood in pride of place, and behind it, covering one wall, the faded remains of a great mural. It depicted a line of robed figures on a cliff, one in front raising a staff, as the others bowed their heads in worship. Depicted in the sea beneath the cliff was a figure not unlike a stylized dragon. A mighty leviathan, with a mane of flowing kelp, and great branches of red coral for horns, and great fin-like wings.

Crawford was not alone in the temple. A woman knelt before the altar, gazing up at the mural in quiet contemplation. Her robe looked to be made of tattered sail-cloth, and the silver hair that spilled over her shoulders was topped with a crown of red coral. Though plainly not young, her age was difficult to guess; though her eyes were creased at the corners, and laugh lines framed her mouth, there was something oddly ageless about her. Crawford knelt quietly beside her, and nodded up at the mural.

“Memories of happier days?”

The woman turned to him, smiling, warmth in her strange silver eyes.

“Memories of sunnier climes. I thought it might appeal to you. I could feel the chill and heaviness about you as you called to me. You are unwell.”

Crawford tried and failed to suppress a shiver at her words, and turned away briefly to scrub his nose on the back of his hand. The itch still lingered, and he longed to give a good hard sniffle to try and quell it. But not here. Not in Thalassa’s presence.

“It’s nothing worthy of your concern.”

“And yet, I am concerned. I know you do not rest properly when you call on me. And if you are unwell, rest is what you require.”

Crawford felt his cheeks warm a little, and he cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose again.

“I’m perfectly alright. It’s barely a sniffle.”

Thalassa chuckled, shaking her head.

“You admit to a cold like some might admit to a mistress. So be it. So, why is it you felt the need to call on me, when you should be sleeping off your sniffle? Loneliness, perhaps?”

Crawford quickly shook his head, and turned away to scrub at his nose again, growing a little more flushed.

“I would never bother you for something so trifling!”

There was a certain sadness in Thalassa’s eyes as she watched him try and fail to discreetly deal with his troublesome nose. She sighed softly.

“And yet, I wish you would. It pains me, to see a friend lonely.”

Crawford avoided her eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You needn’t trouble yourself over such things. Especially not over me. You… I’m a mayfly, in comparison. Why worry, over someone who, to you, will be practically gone tomorrow?”

“You are here today, are you not? Here, and ill, and troubled. If I can ease your troubles, I want to. Besides, do you see no beauty in mayflies?”

“I… erm… I suppose I…”

Crawford shifted awkwardly, avoiding Thalassa’s eyes. Somehow, she always did have a way to wrong-foot him. He cleared his throat, and sniffled. The irritation in his sinuses was spreading, moving forward, just begging him to…

He forced himself to speak, refusing to let his voice waver.

“There’s a hurricane forming off the coast of Altir. Hurricanes have no business forming there, and yet this is the second in the space of a year. I can find nothing in my research to explain it, and no history of anything similar occurring in the region. I thought… As you…”

He trailed off, rubbing his nose again, cheeks burning as he felt Thalassa’s silver eyes upon him.

“As I predate your written histories, you thought my memory might offer something your research cannot?”

“I… I did wonder…”

Crawford grimaced, feeling almost lightheaded with sheer irritation. He held his breath, and bit down hard on his tongue. His nostrils flared, and he scrubbed beneath them urgently with his fingers. Completely against his will, he gave a tremendous snort, loud and congested and completely revolting. Cheeks now positively flaming, he buried his face in his hands, bowing his head, mortified.

“I… Please, forgive, me, I… This wretched cold… I shouldn’t have called…”

 Though he refused to look at Thalassa, he heard her laughter, soft and warm with amusement, and felt her cool hand on his wrist, forcing him to lower his hands. Chancing a glance at his companion, he found her looking at him with fondness and concern. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, and Crawford only barely stopped himself from leaning into the touch, scrabbling back to some semblance of decorum at the last moment.

“How unwell you must feel, to be in such a state even here! You have nothing to apologize for, my friend, and there is nothing to forgive. I only wish I could do more to set your mind at ease. Alas, I’ve never known the waters in question to be home to such weather.”

Crawford groaned, bowing his head once more.

“I thought as much. I apologize for disturbing you. I should…”

“You should be gentler with yourself. And allow me to help. When I awaken, I shall go there myself. Perhaps I may see more from the depths than is visible from above.”

“I… I never meant for you to awaken, I… I can’t ask you to…”

“And you haven’t asked. I have offered, and will do as I say. In the meantime, I believe you have weather stations in the area? People shall receive warning of the conditions?”

“I… Well, yes, but I…”

“Then for now, you have done all that can be reasonably expected of you.”

“Yes, but I…”

Thalassa shook her head, and reached out, resting a cool fingertip on his lips, silencing him.

‘Go back now, my friend. And sleep properly, without seeking out solutions even in your dreams. Call on me again when you feel well, and I shall tell you what I have seen.”

Crawford sighed, and closed his eyes. His nose threatened to drip, and he snuffled pathetically.

“… May I not stay a little longer?”

Thalassa’s smile widened.

“I would be glad of the company. But I suspect you may not have a choice. Here. Let me help you along, so you can get to your bed sooner.”

With that, the cool fingertip left his lips, and instead flicked lightly against his nose, teasing the raw skin of his septum. The tickle flared to life in response, and Crawford’s breath caught, his eyes opening wide in alarm as he pulled back, covering his nose and mouth with both hands.

“HaaAAhh! Ahhh…”

“Bless you, my friend, and I hope to see you again soon.”

Crawford caught one last glimpse of Thalassa’s smiling face, before his teary eyes closed, his chest expanding with a great, urgent “HhaaAAHhh…”

“HhAASSHOO!”

Neptune, having perched himself on Crawford’s lap, leapt back with a yap of surprise as Crawford was jolted from his slumber, lurching forward with a tremendous, spraying sneeze. Crawford, disoriented and looking borderline drunk from both slumber and sneeze, had no chance of stopping the next, only managing to clumsily bring a hand up in time to mist it with spray.

“Uhh… HhhUHHhhRUSHHOOO!”

Neptune heaved a sigh, and crawled beneath Crawford’s chair as he helplessly gasped in a breath to fuel the inevitable third.

“HhhYYYFFFfffsssSSHHOO! Ughh…”

With a tremendous clanging and clattering, hailstones began to rain down, pinging off various metal instruments and the glass of the windows, and covering the floor in tiny while balls of ice, ready to melt into the puddles of rain already gathered. Crawford groaned miserably, taking his bandana and blowing his nose until he was out of breath. As Neptune emerged from beneath the chair to give him an admonishing look, Crawford reached down to scratch his ears.

“Alright, old man. Let’s go to bed. We can see cleaning all this up in the morning.”

Groaning and snuffling, limping slightly, Crawford hauled himself to his feet and made his slow, shuffling way to his bedroom, Neptune at his heels. As he changed for bed, his thoughts lingered on the beach and temple from his dreams, and the ancient being within. Next time he sought her out in his dreams, he hoped, she might meet him on that same beach once more.

Already, he missed its warmth.

[sf-libet]

alarm clock (F, F/F, illness)

(haha, wow, this didn't take me as long as i thought it would. i wasn't expecting this to be the first one i posted! it's been a hot minute since I've written anything especially celeste centric, and been a while since i've written more typical s/ilence fics, so i'm treating this as a return to my roots (before actually returning to my roots). this idea occurred to me and it seemed very celeste so here we are. refs! art of celeste!)

"hHih-ngxxt! Uh-hmgxxt!"

celeste ducked into her palm, panting briefly, feeling the pressure in her head build as she stifled what feels like the 100th sneeze tonight into her hand.

"Ugh...hh-" breathing through her mouth, the edges of her nostrils felt cold and wet and prickly, pink little rings flaring as she sniffs and snuffles against unshifting congestion; stuffy but not stopped up (yet). the dull pounding from somewhere inside her skull mingles with the uncomfortable feeling aching in her tired, chapped, reddening nose.

"Hgh-nnxGxx!"

she attempts to groan, before gasping again-

"-nngxx!"

-blinking tears away, squishing her freckled nose into her wrist in an effort to squash the cold leaving her perpetually sneezy and exhausted. she couldn't really deny it anymore, but she could do one thing.

juno wordlessly rolled over in bed, even breathing indicating to celeste that--thankfully, despite her nose's best efforts--juno was still asleep.

it wouldn't leave her alone. blowing her nose hadn't helped much earlier, and she didn't really want to do that now. she needed to sleep, but for the past half hour, celeste just couldn't stop sneezing.

it might be somewhat enjoyable, that is, if juno hadn't just gotten home after working for 16 hours straight, running on 3 hours of sleep and a whole pot of black coffee. she was a heavy sleeper, but...

"Hh-ihH-nNxggt-uh-hieH-nnXGgtuh! Nmf...ugh..." and sneezing in doubles just made the whole thing worse. ordinarily, she enjoyed how much she would sneeze whenever she found something that set her off. a headcold was just an excuse to lay around all day, sneezing her head off.

it supercharged any stimulation of her nose at all into-

"Nnggshxx-! Hngg-xxtt-ew!"

-2 sneezes, sometimes one after another, sometimes-

"Ugh...nnGxxt-! Ugh!" her complaint is louder, but still appropriately whispered out of respect to her girlfriend's relaxed face looming beneath her.

sometimes one, and then-

"Nngsshhh-! N-nuh-hhH-! No...! I-I gotta-" she coughs, recoiling and flailing her hand around her bedside table, searching for a tissue--sending things clattering to the floor, to the bed, grateful her water glass was empty-

"Hh-hihh-! Hghh! HiEHh! N-no! No, I-! I need-"

despite her best efforts, her eyes shut tightly, her mouth hangs open, sitting on the pitiful edge of an overdramatic sneezing fit.

a sudden sharp edge of the tickle pricks at her nostril, and-

"HIUEHH-"

at the last moment before release, celeste's thumb and forefinger found their way around her nose, and-

"NNngxxxxt! HUuhh-nnXxgtt! Nnxxghh-uh, eh, hHnNggxxt!"

-new pressure explodes over and over; her throat is ablaze, her entire head feels like a cement block recently caved in with a sledgehammer, and there's now a mess of random items on the floor.

she needs to let these go. she needs to get something out. she needs to-

"Hnn-KKIIishHHhnnggsh-!"

-she doesn't want to get up. she really doesn't. all this is doing is exhausting her, and it's so warm, and juno is right-

"NnNggxxt! Mmm..." she's struggling not to cry from how much that hurt, a whiny sound that-

"What's wrong?"

celeste nearly punches her she's so shocked, but sure enough, juno's sitting up and reaching for the light.

"Uh-I-I'm j-hehh-" her jaw goes slack and her eyelids droop dangerously close to closing, her nose not quite finished with the fit she was just having.

well, she's already failed her goal. the tickle in her nose was too overwhelming to ignore, and this cold was too miserable to hide at this point. she might as well just...

just-!

"HhnnNKkKsssHHeww...! Uh-hiehh-kKKSSSHHH-uffh...s-sorry..." she cringes at the sound of her voice, which is presently very rough, and sounds...

"S-sorry, I'm a little stduffy...uh, I..." she clears her throat, glad she doesn't have to stifle anymore, but still in a fair bit of pain. she doesn't have the energy to really explain herself.

juno is quiet for a while, then simply reaches her hand up to her-

"H-hey!" -forehead, although celeste doesn't feel much warmer than normal, if she's being honest.

"...No fever from what I can tell. That's good."

she groans, crumpling into her hands as juno scoots to the edge of the bed, pulling the covers aside and standing, ignoring the dull ache in her legs as she does so.

"You have tissues?"

"Y-yes. Really, I dond't ndeed-"

"Blow your nose."

juno still rises, giving what she intends as more of a friendly suggestion than a command, but it still sounds the same.

celeste sighs, acquiescing, pulling the tissue box up from the floor, retrieving a few sheets, and quietly attempting to clear the blockage in her sinuses.

juno returns with a thermometer in hand, as well as a fresh glass of water.

"It's late, but if you need anything-"

"You."

juno stops, eyes dulled with exhaustion raising to meet hers, despite the dark lenses between them. celeste wipes her nose and sighs.

"I just ndeed you. In bed, preferably, and cuddling with me."

...she smirks, and juno huffs out a chuckle under her breath.

"Okay. I can do that. But let's actually take your temperature first, no?"

celeste shrugs, smile unmoved, until-

"HhgkKsHheww! Un-Nkkshhhoo!"

she pitches forward twice, head jerking into the pile of soft tissues in her hand.

"If I can stop sneezing..." she groans again, frustrated.

"It doesn't have to go on your tongue, you know."

[shamefilledsnzblog]

The Weather Turns

Giving Perry a break for a bit, and introducing a new OC! Crawford Seaver is a weather wizard with an unfortunate cold, and an even more unfortunate quirk that comes along with his sneezing.

Part of the Perryverse, but stands on its own for now. Just a simple, soggy, sneezy wizard for your reading pleasure! Enjoy!

“Looks like bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Ruby, polishing glasses behind the bar, rolled her eyes as a fisherman, dripping wet from the rain outside, approached her Aunt Hortense with this grim warning. Two weeks working at the Dropped Anchor, banished to the tiny fishing town of White Water for “unbecoming behaviour” with the attractive son of a prominent cleric in the city, had done little to curb her impatience, or tendency towards sarcasm.

“It’s bad weather everywhere. Look outside!”

The fisherman looked to Ruby with disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Aye… But it’s bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Aunt Hortense gave a disapproving tut, looking up from polishing the bar and meeting the fisherman’s eyes.

“Ignore Ruth. She…”

“Ruby!”

“Ignore Ruth. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and won’t be staying. Does it look bad? Poor Mister Seaver, out there all alone…”

Ruby snorted.

“Does he expect a social life, living in a lighthouse?”

Her elders ignored her completely, with the fisherman going on in grim tones.

“We’ll see how bad soon enough. His supply run day, isn’t it? And if he’s got what half the town’s had…”

Aunt Hortense’s brow creased with worry.

“If he’s got what half the town’s had, he’ll be sneezing up a storm. I’ll see that there’s something on the stove in case he wants to stop by for a meal, and we’ll just have to hope he has matters under control.”

As Aunt Hortense retreated to the kitchen, Ruby turned to the fisherman with interest, no longer even pretending to polish the glass in her hands, instead leaning in for a chat.

“So, what’s the big deal about this Seaver? Someone important? How come I never see him around town, if that’s the case?”

The fisherman shook his head disapprovingly.

“He’s a wizard, is our Mister Seaver. A weather wizard, and a good one, too! So mind you show him proper respect, and leave him be, he likes his space.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, turning back to her glasses and making a half-hearted effort at polishing one.

“Who ever heard of wizards these days? I thought they all live off in towers somewhere, all high and mighty and above it all. And if he’s so good with weather, can’t he warm things up a little? It’s been miserable for days!”

The fisherman opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise her, only to be cut off by a gust of bitter wind as the door opened, and a stranger entered. A tall figure, clad in an oilskin coat dripping with rainwater, his face largely obscured by a blue woolen scarf, and his hair wild and damp from the weather. Ruby caught a glimpse of hazel eyes over his scarf, looking watery from the chill wind.

A terrier trotted in ahead of the stranger. A scrappy-looking little creature, with one ragged ear, and a tail held proudly in the air like a banner. He looked up at the stranger, all attentiveness, and Ruby heard a soft, hoarse voice from behind the scarf.

“Go and sit, Neptune.”

The terrier, Neptune, plainly familiar with the place, trotted over to an isolated table in the corner, while his master approached the bar, hanging back a little as if unsure if the fisherman sitting there was being attended to first. The fisherman nodded respectfully and gestured for him to approach, and shot Ruby a warning glance, as if silently urging her to show respect as well. Evidently this was Mister Seaver, the local wizard.

Never one to blindly bow to those deemed respectable, Ruby had a quip ready along with an empty glass, when the stranger stepped forward, carefully unwinding his scarf. Ruby’s cheeky remark died in her throat.

The term ‘wizard’ had conjured up a mental image of an old man with long white hair and an equally long white beard, with flowing robes and perhaps a pointed hat. A somewhat ridiculous creature from a storybook. Instead, the man revealed as the scarf peeled away was strong-jawed with a hint of stubble, his age hard to determine. Handsome, in a weathered and weary sort of way. Jaw-length brown hair peppered with grey, gentle, intelligent eyes, and a prominent nose, the bridge of which was a touch irregular, as if broken sometime in the past.

Said nose was absolutely ravaged with a seemingly brutal cold. Rubbed red and raw, decidedly damp about the nostrils, it sounded dreadfully congested as the wizard wrinkled it and gave a marshy snuffle.

Ruby felt her cheeks flush. Something about a handsome man with a cold always made something inside of her squirm. It was no coincidence that the cleric’s son who had been her undoing had constantly been catching the sniffles. She broke into a catlike grin, leaning forward on the bar a little, displaying herself to best advantage.

“You must be Mister Seaver. I’ve heard all about you.”

The wizard only briefly met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze. Not to where Ruby wanted it, annoyingly, but rather looking at a corner of the bar, as if embarrassed to look her in the eye. He sniffled again, his nostrils arching with the effort of it, and he rubbed a knuckle beneath his leaking nose.

“I am. Crawford Seaver. At your service. You… erm… You’re new…”

He turned away slightly to cough into his fist, and Ruby took the opportunity to tug the neckline of her blouse a little further down. The fisherman, watching her disapprovingly, tutted and shook his head.

“I am indeed. Ruby. A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? You look as if you need warming up…”

Her attempt at a sultry manner was ruined by Aunt Hortense returning and taking her shoulder, pulling her back and directing her towards the kitchen, scowling all the while.

“If you’re not going to make yourself useful out here, you can go back there and start washing dishes. Now, Mister Seaver. You look wretched, I imagine you’ll want something warm in your belly. We’ve a mutton stew, if that suits?”

The wizard, Crawford, nodded, fishing a frayed old bandana from his pocket and roughly pinching at his nose. For a moment, his eyes took on a distinctly absent look, and his breath caught. Ruby, lingering in the kitchen door, watched unashamedly, and tried not to feel too disappointed when the vaguely sneezy expression faded, and Crawford breathed a sigh of relief.

As did the fisherman, who, Ruby noted, had been watching Crawford nervously.

Odd.

Crawford spoke up again, his quiet voice muddled with congestion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Platt. And if I might have some tea? My throat…”

“Sounds like you’ve gargled gravel, and no doubt you could use some steam to clear you up. Go and sit down, the girl and I will take care of it. Ruth, kettle. Now!”

Ruby shot a sulky look at her aunt, and, before retreating into the kitchen, looked back over her shoulder at the ailing wizard. As she watched, he took his bandana again and mopped at his streaming nose, before rubbing it none too gently. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Ruby noted both Aunt Hortense and the fisherman tensing up, the fisherman edging away a little. Both only relaxed when Crawford let out the breath as a soft moan, rubbing his nose once more.

Aunt Hortense spoke up.

“You have those sneezes under control?”

Crawford’s cheeks coloured a touch, and he nodded, avoiding her eyes. Stranger and stranger, Ruby mused, before retreating into the kitchen as Aunt Hortense turned and glared. Grumbling under her breath, she set about filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire, while Aunt Hortense came to fill a bowl with steaming mutton stew, and slicing bread to go with it.

“Why’s everyone so nervous of him sneezing? It’s just a cold, and we’ve had half the town hacking and spluttering all over the bar these last couple of weeks. No more risk of catching it from him than any of them.”

Aunt Hortense shot her an irritable scowl, placing the bowl and bread on a tray and passing it to her.

“Don’t you go meddling in our Mister Seaver’s business. It’s none of your concern. Now, take that out, and then leave him be. The poor man’s ill, he doesn’t need any of your nonsense!”

“Oh, I don’t know. He looks rather miserable. A little nonsense might cheer him up!”

“Ruth, I swear to whatever god happens to be listening, if you keep talking back…”

“Alright, alright, I’m going!”

Tray balanced on one hand, Ruby made her way back out to the bar, spotting Crawford now seated at the corner table, his dripping oilskin removed to reveal the same sort of cable-knit woolen jumper the local fishermen wore. He rested his head on one hand, and with the other, kept his bandana pressed to his nose, alternately pinching and rubbing. Evidently the swollen appendage was troubling him immensely.

The little dog, Neptune, sat obediently at his feet, and alerted him to Ruby’s arrival with a sudden “Wuff!”. Crawford sat up a little straighter, and lowered his bandana, avoiding her eyes once more. Up close, she could hear him giving soft little sniffles with every other breath. Offering her most charming smile, Ruby set down his food, and lingered, holding onto the tray.

“That ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to begin eating in her company. No doubt unused to the charms of city girls, Ruby mused, toying flirtatiously with her braid. She offered a teasing smile.

“Everyone says you’re a wizard. You don’t look like one.”

Crawford blinked up at her. There was a hint of feverish haze to his eyes that melted something inside of her, and when he replied, soft and hesitant, his voice was so heavy with congestion, he struggled to make himself understood.

“Erm… Then I must resort to the old cliché, Miss Ruby, regarding appearances being deceptive.”

“I suppose they must be. Your appearance says you should be in bed. Yet here you are, up and about!”

Crawford flushed a little deeper, and looked down at his bowl as if it might hold the answer to escaping this conversation. Unwilling to let him get away just yet, Ruby grinned, leaning her hip on the table.

“So, if you’re really a weather wizard, can you conjure us up a ray of sunshine? Gods know we could use it around here!”

Crawford continued to stare down into his food, stirring it idly and addressing the bowl.

“That would be inadvisable for a number of reasons. Natural conditions shouldn’t be… Hehhh… Shouldn’t be tampered with. Too much… Huhhh…. Uhh… Sndfff!... potential for… for unforeseen… consequences… I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I…”

Shaking his head as if he might somehow deny the inevitable, Crawford lurched forward into his much-abused bandana, though, having struggled to talk his way through the build-up to his sneeze, he buried his nose in the damp folds too late, failing to entirely cover an impressive plume of spray.

“HhhhHHRUFFFSSSHOO!”

It was as if someone had suddenly pulled out a weapon. The various tavern patrons, who had been shooting Crawford the occasional worried glance, suddenly pulled abruptly away. One or two leapt to their feet. One dived under his table.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by Crawford’s unsteady breathing and pitifully damp snuffling. At length, cheeks and ears flushed red, looking as if he wished to disappear, Crawford emerged from behind his bandana at last, and chanced a brief look around the tavern, raising a hand apologetically.

“… Sorry… Under control…”

The patrons returned to their drinks, though wary glances continued to be sent in Crawford’s direction.

Ruby, mouth dry, face warm, struggled to find her words. Gods, the man sneezed like a thunderstorm. Loud, and wet. She swallowed hard, and struggled not to giggle as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll bless you, even if no one else here has manners. It’s alright. No need to be shy. Sneeze as much as you like.”

Crawford shrank into himself a little more, and dabbed at his long-suffering nose.

“I’d very much prefer not to. Apologies. I… You ought to keep your distance.”

Almost as if he meant to chase her off, Crawford buried his nose in his bandana once more, and, thin chest expanding with a slightly wheezy inhale, let loose with a blow that rivaled a foghorn, giving his nostrils a vigorous rub afterwards. Three times, he repeated this process, and at last tucked his bandana away once more, drooping over the table, somehow still looking heavy with congestion.

Far from being deterred, Ruby clucked her tongue sympathetically, and tried not to squirm. If ever a man needed to be held…

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I never catch anything. Except when I decide to chase something.”

Once again, her flirtation fell on deaf ears. Crawford merely shrank in on himself further, and shivered. Ruby fought back a sigh.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to eat, and get that tea ready for you.”

As she passed the bar, the fisherman, now being poured a glass of ale by Aunt Hortense, let out a low chuckle.

“You’re barking up the wrong wizard there, my girl!”

Ruby’s cheeks flushed with annoyance as she stormed back into the kitchen, and poured hot water into the teapot to prepare it for the leaves.

“Honestly, does anyone in this washed-up wreck of a town have taste?”

Waiting for the pot to warm, Ruby went to listen by the door, and struggled not to squirm as she heard another sneeze from Crawford’s table. Once again, it sounded loud, soaking, laden with cold… And was once again it was accompanied by the scraping of chairs and sound of movement as patrons drew away, followed by a hoarse, miserable apology, and assurance that all was under control.

“Honestly, they can sail through a storm but can’t handle a man with the sniffles…”

As Ruby emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of tea, her attraction to the ailing wizard merged with sympathy. Looking to his table, she saw him shivering hopelessly, having pulled his oilskin back over his narrow shoulders, poking miserably at his food. And, as if to further compound his misery, all those who had been anywhere remotely near his table had relocated to the other side of the tavern.

“Honestly, it’s just a cold…”

Ruby glanced at Aunt Hortense, and found her at a table at the other side of the room, laying down the law regarding a patron’s unpaid tab. Taking her chance, Ruby ducked beneath the bar, seizing a bottle of whiskey and adding a generous shot to the mug of tea. That ought to chase away the chills!

Crawford, feeding Neptune a piece of mutton from his stew, looked up at Ruby with bleary eyes as she approached his table, setting down the mug with a smile.

“There. That’ll have you nice and warmed up in no time.”

Worn and weary and wretchedly full of cold as he looked, this time, Crawford managed a slight, shy smile in return.

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford wrapped his hands around the mug, sighing in relief at the warmth, and raised it to his lips, attempting to inhale some of the steam through his stuffy nose. Failing this, he took a deep sip instead.

His eyes, closed in relief at the warmth, suddenly opened in horror.

“Is… Huhh… Is there… Snff-SNF! Huhhh… HaAHhh… whiskey in this?”

“Just a nip! I thought it might warm you up?”

Crawford gave a flustered snort, setting the mug down and pushing it away, and grabbing urgently for his bandana. His reddened nostrils flared wide, and he shook his head, as if he might somehow refuse the oncoming sneeze, even as his eyelids fluttered closed and his chest and shoulders jerked with violent hitches.

“I… I can’t… Ihh… I’m sorry… I… Ehh… HehEHhh… HhhHRFFFSHHHOO!”

Crawford did his best to smother the explosion in his bandana, but to no avail. It was torn from him, throat-scraping and violent, and already he was gasping in air for another. Neptune gave a sharp yap, and retreated under the table between Crawford’s feet. The patrons at the other side of the table rose to their feet, and Ruby heard one of them cry out.

“Best clear out, here he goes!”

“HhiieeffsssSSHOO!”

The second sneeze left Crawford panting and teary-eyed, bracing himself against the table, coughing weakly, but already drawing in air for a third effort. Several patrons hurried out the door. Others ducked under their tables. Aunt Hortense, spying Ruby, came storming over and seized her by the arm.

“Get away, you silly girl, before…”

“HhhHHRAAASSSSHOO!”

The sound of the sneeze itself was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, and a blinding brightness as lightning flashed just outside the window. Wind shrieked through the tavern, blowing an abandoned newspaper about the room. Ruby gave a shriek of alarm, clutching Aunt Hortense as the sudden violent gust tore at her hair.

Crawford, rubbing furiously at his swollen, leaking nose, attempted to stammer out an apology.

“I’m so sorry… The whiskey… I… Iihhhh… AhhHAAaahh… AHHhhHASHOO!”

Aunt Hortense swore, shoving Ruby aside and taking Crawford by the arm, trying to haul him to his feet.

“What whiskey? Who… Alright, time for you to step outside!”

“I… Hhhehhh…”

“Oh, no you don’t! You keep that nose of yours under control!”

Crawford struggled to get to his feet, but, seemingly clumsy from illness, stumbled back into his seat with the sheer force of the next sneeze.

“HhhhHHYAAASSSSHH!”

Aunt Hortense took Crawford by the arm once more, snapping at Ruby as she did so.

“Help me get him out, girl! Before…”

“EhhhHESSSHOO!”

Another violent wind ripped through the tavern, and this time, fat, heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first, then thick and fast. Ruby gasped as they splashed against her skin, rapidly cooling her flushed cheeks. Seeing the urgency of the situation now, she took Crawford’s other arm, and between them, the two women helped him to the door, the poor wizard already shuddering with urgent hitches, fueling the next sneeze.

“I… I’m really so… Huh! UhhHuhh… sorry, I… HhHRUFFFFSSSHOO!”

The force of it nearly sent Crawford stumbling, and Ruby put an arm around him to steady him as they stepped out into the street, where wild winds tore at their hair and clothes, and sleet stung their skin. The chill, Ruby noted, made the feverish heat radiating from Crawford all the more pronounced. With her arm around him, she could feel his chest heaving, readying for the next effort. The little dog, Neptune, yapped urgently, getting underfoot in his attempts to herd them onwards.

“HhhHRASSCHOO!”

Ruby felt the spray of that one on her cheek, and the shiver that ran through her wasn’t entirely from the cold.

As Crawford, teary-eyed, nose streaming, looking exhausted, stumbled to a halt as the next sneeze began to overwhelm him, Aunt Hortense took Ruby by the arm and tugged her back, looking grim. Still reeling from all that had unfolded, Ruby watched with wide eyes as Crawford leaned back in readiness, and was flung forward by the force of one final, exhausting sneeze.

“Ehh… Hehh… Huhhh... HhhhHHUUURUSSSSHOOO!”

 One last burst of howling wind swirled outwards from the unfortunate wizard, followed by an eerie silence, broken only by his soft moaning and snuffling, as the pattering rain turned to a thick, heavy fall of snow.

Crawford, shivering as snowflakes settled over his hair and clothes, raised his now all but useless bandana to his nose and gave an exhausted, careful blow, and looked to Aunt Hortense with rheumy eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.

“I… I’m really so terribly sorry. I could have sworn I had it under control, only…”

Aunt Hortense folded her arms across her chest, shooting Ruby a look that promised dire consequences to come.

“Only this one slipped you a shot of whiskey, it seems. That’ll be coming out of your pay, girl! And as for the mess…”

Crawford held up a hand apologetically, wrinkling his nose and snuffling terribly.

“You mustn’t blame her, she didn’t know. And if you’ll let me catch my breath, I can clear all this up…”

“She knows better than to slip people drinks they haven’t asked for! And by the time you’ve collected yourself enough for that, you’ll have sneezed us up a proper storm!”

Unable to argue with that, Crawford visibly slumped, hanging his head, mopping at his nose once more. Aunt Hortense strode briskly back inside the tavern, and returned with Crawford’s scarf, which she briskly wrapped around his neck, before pulling his oilskin coat around him tighter.

“Go home, Mister Seaver. I’ll speak to the grocer and have your supplies sent to the lighthouse.”

“I… You mustn’t go to any trouble…”

“Did it sound like I was asking?”

“… Thank you. Good day, Mrs Platt.”

The wizard and his little dog turned to walk away, Neptune with his tail still carried high, Crawford with his metaphorical tail between his legs, sniffling and coughing all the while. Ruby watched them go, vaguely aware of Aunt Hortense scolding her.

“And you, my girl, can spend the rest of the day with a mop for company!”

“Mh-hm… Of course… So… Whereabouts is this lighthouse..?”

[sickflipped]

Visit Original Link

pov your friend/roommate had to call out sick and just left you the most pathetic voice message

[rozsnz]

misconduct 🧽

hayden deals with a sick cliff for the first time

3.1k includes bitchy hayden, implied contagion, allergy inducing & caretaking

November, 2013

Cleo M

18:23 On my way!

18:24 *omw Autocorrect lol

Hayden stared at the texts on his phone screen, sat in a little armchair in the corner of his hotel room. When Cliff gets here, this will be their fifth hook up.

He could admit, it was exciting to keep this secret. He did feel like a traitor for fucking the enemy between games, but God did it make things more interesting. He was definitely the first to do something like this.

Hayden got up to do some stretches, leaving his phone on the chair. There was no need to stretch himself out, Cliff was the one to do that for him; he insisted every single time. The man had hands the sizes of hockey sticks, it worked out.

After Hayden's last nervous stretch, there was a knock at the door. Very light for the beast of a man that was behind the door.

Hayden stepped to the door, letting the man in. Hayden was worried that he would feel like a slum for wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but Cliff was stood in sweatpants and a hoodie. Nice.

"I told you we'd beat you today," Hayden started the conversation, plopping down on his hotel bed so he could send a smug look to Cliff through his lashes.

Cliff let out a breathy scoff which turned into a chesty choke into his elbow, head bobbing with it.

Hayden stared, forehead creasing between his brows at the man across from him. "It wasn't that funny."

Cliff sniffled, catching his bearings as he cleared out his throat with a syrupy cough. "You're n'dot fu'ddy."

"Uh," Hayden said, the initial heat in his stomach slowly departing. "Why the fuck do you sound so weird?"

Cliff blinked, expression stone on his face as he eyed Hayden. "My tea'bm has a cold," Cliff paused to wipe his nose with a little crumpled tissue from his pockets that looked like it got passed around the whole team. "'S why you bea'dt us today. Go'dt off easy."

Hayden's eyes flickered somewhere else in the room, trying to make sense of the given information. "So you thought it would be a great idea.. to still come here? For sex? Are you kidding me?"

"Wha'dt?" Cliff mumbled, looking uncharacteristically sheepish as he attempted to catch Hayden's eye again. "I do'dn't see the pro'ble'bm."

"You don't see the problem?" Hayden mimicked with a hiss, truly dumbfounded. "I don't wanna catch that shit!"

Cliff frowned, looking as if he just found out what contagion is. "We jus'dt wod'n't kiss. N'do biggie."

Hayden grimaced, throwing his arms in the air in frustration. "Are you fucking stupid?"

Cliff blinked, shifting his weight on his feet as he stood there, taking the insults. "N'do.. chill.."

Hayden scoffed, stretching across his hotel bed to open the window. Was it a requirement for the Boston Raiders to be obnoxiously unaware of how germs spread?

"There's no way we're having sex. I can't risk that," Hayden laid it out, glancing back at the bigger man. Cliff was looking down at Hayden's tummy from where his shirt had rode up to open the window, glancing back up to his eyes as Hayden turned.

"Fi'dne," Cliff murmured, shrugging a little. "Blowjob?"

"Fuck no," Hayden spat, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrists. "I don't want you snotting on my dick."

Cliff continued to frown, not a smile on his face the whole time he'd been in the room. "You give m'be o'dne, the'dn.."

"In your dreams, man," Hayden mumbled, blinking up at Cliff. Something in Hayden stuttered as he took a moment to look at Cliff's face. His eyes looked softer than usual. His nose was a comical shade of red, harsh against the tone of his skin. He looked.. lethargic. Worn out.

Hayden inhaled a big breath, feeling slightly guilty for how he'd treated the man who just wanted some attention. The man who drove himself here after losing a home game — with a nasty cold — just for Hayden. The man who hadn't spat an insult back like he normally would. "Have you taken something for your cold?"

"Mmbh," Cliff reached into the right pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out a little vial of DayQuil cold medicine. "Bee'dn ta'kging this."

Hayden swiped the medicine from the mans hand, reading over the label. Hayden frowned suddenly, looking up at Cliff through furrowed brows. "This expired in 2010. It's 2013."

"Oh, uhbm," Cliff sniffled, pursing his lips. "Whoops. Aha.."

Hayden shook his head a little, getting on his feet to look through his own bag under his bed. Thank god for choosing an overthinking best friend like Shane. Hayden got out what he was looking for, holding his bottle of Buckley's out for Cliff to see.

"Alcohol?" Cliff cocked his head at the Canadian medicine like a dog, sniffling thickly. "Right o'dn."

"Medicine," Hayden corrected, snapping off the cap as he hadn't had to open it yet. He poured some into the cup cap for Cliff, holding it out to the man. "Drink, like a shot."

"Ger'mbs.." Cliff mumbled as if it was a question, eyeing the cap.

Hayden frowned. "It's fine, I'll wash the cap." Fuck, Hayden was an asshole. Now the man was thinking about germs after being yelled at.

Cliff held the cap off Hayden, taking the medicine like a shot as told. He grimaced lightly, keeping hold of the cap. "I'll clea'dn i'dt."

"It's alright," Hayden murmured, taking the cap from Cliff's fingers. "Just.. lie down or something."

Hayden stood, stepping into the connected bathroom to give the cap a rinse. Once the cap was screwed back on, Hayden returned to see Cliff sat on the floor with his back against the hotel bed.

"I thought I told you to lie down," he mumbled, leaving the bottle of Buckley's on the desk by the television.

"I'bm good," Cliff replied, tightening the strings of his hoodie. "I go'dt n'datural pillows."

"Well, suit yourself," Hayden shrugged, seating himself on the bed next to where Cliff's head was. "So, your coach let you play like this?"

Cliff nodded, knuckling at his nose subtly. "Yeah, he did. Cap didn'dt wa'dnt any of us ou'dt. Coach listens to hi'bm."

"Man, fuck him." Hayden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Rozanov is an asshole for that. And many other things, but."

"He's no'dt so bahhhd.. hh.." Cliff hitched a little, hands grasping at the neck of his hoodie so he could bring it over his nose. "hH-H'RRSSHHuu! uRRRSShhjjww! RJJDDZZ'HHWWGgh.."

"Jesus, shut the fuck up," Hayden hissed down at Cliff, eyes wide. "My teammates are next-door."

Cliff produced an unproductive sniffle, glancing up at Hayden with his hoodie still held over his nose. "So?"

"So, they'll recognize your sneezes!" Hayden spat, as if it was terribly obvious.

"They won'dt," Cliff scoffed weakly, feeling like a burden with every minute he spent in this hotel room. "Tha'dt's stu'bid."

Hayden stood to stretch out his stress, rubbing at his forehead. "I can't believe you played like this. You shouldn't play tomorrow."

Cliff shrugged, not feeling up for another argument tonight. "It's u'bp to Roz."

"He's your pal, right? Just talk to him or something," Hayden said, sitting himself back down on the bed.

Cliff sniffled, shaking out his hair. "Mm, yeah. He'd probably le'dt us to'bhorrow. Agai'dst Thham'bpa.. easy. Hh- hih! G'nna s'deeze," Cliff warned, blindly feeling around the floor next to him for his tissue. Cliff grabbed the first thing he felt under Hayden's hotel bed, shoving it up to his nose.

"No, no — not my — !"

"Ktt'rRRSHHwwGgh! Kihh'tssSHHRRgghh! Hih — hhHK'hiht'rRSHHDDJjzzw!" Cliff sneezed into the material balled up into his hands, his sneezing not allowing him to breathe between them.

"Oh my fucking god." Hayden mumbled somewhere behind Cliff, eyeing the man on the floor with a grimace.

Cliff coughed a little, taking the material away from his nose. He straightened out the material, realizing that it was a Metros shirt. The logo was now.. thoroughly used. Cliff let out a stuffy laugh at the sight of it.

"Man, fuck you. You're fucking disgusting," Hayden groaned out, moving off his bed. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Cliff balled up the shirt so his mess was contained, keeping the shirt in his hand. "N'do, asshole! I trie'dt to b'he quie'dd." Cliff looked up at Hayden, his brown eyes shining under the cheap light.

Hayden let out a dramatic sigh, bending down to snatch the balled up shirt from Cliff's stupid hands. Hayden threw the shirt in a little plastic bag that he kept for laundry. "You should have told me to come to you or something. I would have declined, but it's better than going out sick."

Cliff stretched his legs out on the floor, rolling his ankles. "I ha'be two roo'b'ates."

"Can't afford a place of your own?" Hayden chirped, eyeing the man on his hotel floor.

Cliff shrugged, closing his eyes for a moment. "I pay their ren'dt. M’by brothers," Cliff babbled, not looking at Hayden. "-a'dt tuitio'dn."

Hayden blinked, not expecting that. They never talk about anything personal with each-other. "Why would you do that?"

Cliff blinked, lazily scrubbing at his nose. "'Cuz I wan'dda? They're m'by brothers. I a'bm rich."

Hayden shifted his weight on his feet, taking in the information. "That's.. nice of you. Surprisingly."

"I ca'd be nice, you know tha’d," Cliff mumbled with a sniffle, stretching out his weirdly long arms. "You live alo'de?"

Hayden gave a nod, adjusting his shirt on his shoulders. "Got a place in Montreal.. obviously. Close to the rink."

Cliff made a little noise in his throat, which Hayden took as a scoff. Before Hayden could retaliate, Cliff was hitching again. Oh. So he wasn't scoffing..

Hayden winced, anticipating the loud sounds before they started. Cliff continued hitching, hands shielding his face.

After about 30 seconds of pure hitching, Cliff groaned, hands dropping down to his lap. He looked weirdly humiliated. "Los'dt it."

"Bummer," Hayden snickered a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you usually sneeze this much with colds? Or, try to?"

Cliff nodded, puffing his cheeks. "Fu'gck, nor'bally a lot more. This o'de has me stuffed."

Hayden hummed in thought, feeling guilty for being such a bitch to Cliff. He couldn't help it. "Remember our first meeting? The hotel bar. Nashville."

Cliff grinned a little, recalling the event. "Mmh, yeah. Yu'bp. Wha'd abou'd it?"

Hayden rubbed at his chin, eyeing his suitcase. "I was wearing that one cologne.. you hated it. Remember? We had to go outside to talk because you got all.." Hayden trailed off, making a gesture to his nose.

Cliff bent his knees to plant his feet on the floor, patting his knees. "Tha'dt was stro'g s'duff!"

Hayden pursed his lips. "Well, I have that in my suitcase. I still wear it sometimes, not around you though."

Cliff eyed Hayden's suitcase, not able to catch up. "Okay.. n'diceee.."

Hayden scoffed a laugh, shaking his head a little. "Nice? Fuck, do I have to spell this out for you?"

Cliff blinked up at Hayden like a wet rat in a cold alleyway, looking back at Hayden's suitcase. "Oooh.. it, uh. You wan'dt to — hel'bp?"

Hayden nodded, eyes wide with sarcasm. "You're so smart. So smart."

"Fucki'd bully," Cliff mumbled, shaking his head. "Okay, wha'dever. How do we do t'hhis?"

"Alright," Hayden took a breath. "Just — get on the bed. Take off your disgusting outside clothes."

Cliff frowned, looking down at his outfit. He started toeing off his shoes, pulling his hoodie over his head. Cliff moved himself up to sit on the bed once he was left in his sweatpants and black vest.

Hayden was crouched over his suitcase, holding the cologne in his hand. Ralph Lauren Polo Black. "Wait, shit, I don't wanna mess you up even more or something. Will your throat swell?" Hayden eyed Cliff, standing straight with the cologne in hand.

Cliff shook his head, lapping his dry lips. "N'do, it won'dt swell. C'mo'd. Hel'bp me."

Hayden made a sound of contentment, stepping into the bathroom to get a spare roll of toilet roll for.. the inevitable mess.

"I know this isn't what you had in mind when coming here, but," Hayden said, coming out of the bathroom to step to the bed. "You'll probably feel.. way better. Hopefully."

Cliff sniffled, sitting crisscrossed at the head of the bed. Hayden moved to sit at the centre. Cliff eyed the man in-front of him, the closest they had been all day.

"Alright, you ready?" Hayden asked, putting the roll of toilet roll between them. The cologne was beside Hayden.

Cliff squinted. "Will you co'blai'd about the 'doise?"

Hayden shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't even think the guys are in their rooms. Probably out.. partying or something. It's Boston."

"So I won'dt ge'dt yelled at agai'd.. n'dice."

Hayden made a face at that, reaching for the cologne. "Alright. Let's do it."

Cliff nodded a little, watching as Hayden spritzed the cologne on his wrist, neck, and t-shirt. "If it gets too much, just hop in the shower. There's a bunch of towels, it's crazy."

Cliff hummed, nodding although not really taking in the information. Their knees were practically touching now.

Cliff leaned in, taking a sniffly whiff of the crook of Hayden's neck.

"Whooohkay. Bold," Hayden mumbled, feeling Cliff's nose against his neck.

Cliff leaned back into his prior position, producing a little sniffle. "Uuf, yeah. I'b feeli'g i'dt."

"Sensitive." Hayden noted, surprised by how fast it hit.

Cliff ducked his head, giving his nose a little rub to satisfy the itch. The squelch that sounded throughout the room made Hayden feel almost sympathetic. The man sounded absolutely miserable.

Cliff desperately reached out, snatching some toilet roll and cupping it over his nose and mouth. "hHH' H! Hh — hHHHRRRUSHHhiue.. hooh.."

Hayden felt the bed shake with just one sneeze, raising his brows at the sight play out in-front of him. "Jesus, bless you. That's one."

Cliff blew his nose out in the same tissue, tossing it into the trash can he saw next to the bed. "Hh- hhHHI'DDTSShhh! H'RUSSSHHHooie! Agh, fu'gck!"

Hayden stared for a moment before quickly ripping more toilet roll for Cliff, passing him some. Cliff hadn't managed to cover that time, instead he baptised his own lap. Probably Hayden's too.

"Are you good?" Hayden mumbled, trying not to think about how he was in the spray zone. Cliff hadn't lifted his head.

"M'by ears are so fu'gging blo'ged.." Cliff managed, pressing the tips of his pointers into his ears.

Hayden reached out to grab his wrists, bringing the mans arms down from his ears. Pressing on them couldn't be good for him. "Hold your nose and swallow, they'll unblock. Hopefully."

Cliff obeyed, bringing a hand up to pinch his nostrils together. The man swallowed, followed by a quiver throughout his body. "Whoa, tha'dt was weird."

Hayden breathed out an amused sigh. "Did that work?"

Cliff nodded, closing his eyes from how much his nose tickled. He grabbed the toilet paper between them, ripping multiple squares off. "hHH! HHRRSHHOO! HrS!- HRRsshu! TDJJSHWW! HrR — RSSHWw!"

Hayden pursed his lips, watching as the man began to blow his nose again. "Jesus, you're worse than a zamboni. So loud."

Cliff smiled a little, taking a big breath. "I feel a little better."

Hayden nodded. "You sound better. I can actually comprehend what you're saying now."

Cliff sniffled lightly, shoving one of Hayden's knees. "Mm. Uh, thanks. For that."

"Yeah, whatever. It's cool," Hayden shook his head, making sure all of the tissues were in the trash. "You owe me a blowjob whenever you feel better."

"You bet." Cliff stretched out, flicking at his nose. "You were a little mean earlier, though."

"I can be meaner," Hayden scoffed, watching Cliff. "I'm.. yeah. I know I can be intense. You just — caught me off guard."

Cliff shook his head, pinching his nose. "Mm, that's fine. Your fuckin' cologne is still irritating me."

"Shit," Hayden moved himself off the bed, standing by the far wall. "Okay, I'm due a shower. Are you staying, or..?"

Cliff made a face, looking down at the trash can. "Ehh, nah. I should probably get home."

Hayden found himself nodding a little, although he didn't want Cliff to leave. "Ah. You got somewhere to be?"

Cliff hid a smile behind his hand, rubbing at his stubble. "No, not necessarily."

"I'll see you after my shower then." Hayden said, stepping into the attached bathroom before Cliff could muster a response.

—

After coming out of the shower, Hayden found Cliff curled up in the hotel bed.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you." Hayden snarked, fixing the towel tighter around his waist so he could bend down for his shirt.

Cliff peeped from the quilt, sniffling softly. "You took forever. Longer than a girl."

Hayden sent a lighthearted glare to the man, throwing on a Nike shirt. "I got a whole ass routine, alright? Shane helped me pick out some skin shit."

Cliff chuckled to himself, keeping watch over the quilt. "Yeah. You and your perfect skin. Perfect hair. Perfect everything. Get outta here."

Hayden threw his towel at Cliff, grabbing some sweatpants and boxers from his suitcase to wear. He never unpacks. "You get outta here."

Cliff rolled up the towel, tossing it to the foot of the bed. "C'mere."

Hayden obeyed, climbing into bed next to Cliff. Cliff handled Hayden, turning the man over by his waist so they were spooning.

Hayden was the first to talk after a while of comfortable silence. "This is really gay."

Cliff took a breath, rubbing his nose against the crook of Hayden's neck. "We're gay. If you hadn't noticed."

"You're gay?" Hayden mumbled, voice audibly softening throughout the evening.

Cliff hummed behind him, sniffling quietly. "I don't care for a label."

Hayden took Cliff's hand, feeling the callouses on his palms from his years of weightlifting. "I.. yeah. I might be bisexual. Or the other one — pan? Pansexual?"

Cliff nibbled at Hayden's shoulder, sniffling over the area he bit. "I've never heard of that one."

"It's 2013.. get with the times, man," Hayden mumbled, bending Cliff's fingers one by one. "It's listed on that 'You Can Play' campaign thing."

"Huh," Cliff mumbled, fingers curling around Hayden's. He couldn't really come up with a response with his upcoming- "h'httDshx!"

Cliff stifled against Hayden's shoulder, arms tensing where they held the other man.

"Bless you." Hayden mumbled, holding Cliff's hand.

"Mmm," Cliff sniffled, his congestion still thankfully loose. "Tired."

"Sleep," Hayden responded. "I'll sneak you out tomorrow."

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Flu Shot (M, flu)

Heyyy here I am again, going a month without posting a thing and then posting a fic and running away. This is the fic I did the poll about! In it, Greyson gets the flu and gives it to Elijah, who was supposed to get a flu shot and, shocker, didn't. It takes place 6 months into Elijah and Emily's established relationship, and explores their burgeoning relationship a bit. The boys are v sick in it. It's dual POV - Elijah & Emily, it switches back and forth. It's extremely long. If you read it, I hope you like it! I'd love to hear how people feel about this relationship.

CW: Male snz, male illness, contagion (not purposeful), lots of coughing, fevers, dizziness, all things flu-related. Mention of pneumonia, but nothing scary happens. 7kish words under the cut.

Enjoy :)

Flu Shot

The waiting room was a chorus, a cacophony, of coughing.

“I’m ready for whoever’s next,” Emily said to the charge nurse at the front desk, adjusting her mask so it better fit over her face. “And room two is clean.”

Rhonda, the charge nurse, smiled behind her own mask. “Thanks, Em, for being so quick about it. Maybe if everyone was as on top of it as you, we’d get through this waiting room before shift change.”

Emily hummed out a laugh. “Doubt it,” she said, squirting hand sanitizer onto her palms and rubbing it halfway up her arms. “It’s like a never-ending revolving door in this place lately.”

“Mmm,” said Rhonda, handing Emily a clipboard. “Flu season. My favorite time of year.” She rolled her eyes, prompting a giggle from Emily.

“Yours and mine both, sister,” she said, checking her watch with the clipboard under her arm. Elijah had texted her a good morning.“Hey, I’ll get this next one in just a second, if that’s okay.”

“No worries,” Rhonda said. “Not like they’re going anywhere.”

Emily placed a gentle hand on Rhonda’s shoulder before stepping around the corner and into the employee bathroom. Once there, she pulled her phone out and texted Elijah back – first, a good morning, and then, a reminder to get a flu shot, something he definitely should have already done, right? They had talked about it at least twice. The restaurant was a cesspool when it came to illness, Emily had come to realize in the six months the two of them had been dating. Close quarters, no one able to take a sick day, and long and late hours basically guaranteed that at least one person was sick at any given time, and this flu season really was shaping up to be… intense. Emily bit her lip as she typed; Elijah was a smart guy, with self preservation, she reasoned with herself. Certainly he’d already done it.

Pressing send on the message, she stepped back out into the hallway and grabbed the clipboard again, cracking her neck on the way to the waiting room. Only two hours into the shift, and she was already on her fourth clipboard. It was going to be a long day.

***

good morning <3. hey, random, and I know we talked about it a few weeks ago, but make sure u get ur flu shot if you havent already, its a srsly rough season this year xx

For the tenth time in two minutes, Elijah reread the text from Emily with his heart in his throat. Fuck, he knew he’d been forgetting to do something this past week – now, he remembered what it was. They had talked about flu shots when Emily got hers, courtesy of her work, last month; Elijah had promised he’d get his in the next few weeks, despite how busy the restaurant was. He did not.

Elijah slipped his phone back in his pocket, making a mental note to find the time today or tomorrow to get the shot. It would take less than thirty minutes, he reasoned with himself. Even he had thirty minutes to spare during the day. Thinking better of it, he pulled the phone back out, sitting back in his seat and perusing the closest pharmacy’s website for open flu shot slot times. There was one tomorrow afternoon, three pm – perfect. Before service, after manager meeting, and the pharmacy was barely a five minute walk away. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? Elijah pressed the time he wanted and began filling out his information, when he heard the back kitchen doors open and slam shut.

He heard Greyson before he saw him.

“HTTSHHH-uhh! Hhh… hh -! HRRTXXCH-ue!” The two massive sneezes were followed by a round of coughing, deep and chesty, the type of cough that you hear from the person next to you on the bus and start to hold your breath. Elijah’s head whipped up from his phone, mid-typing. No, he thought to himself, standing to walk toward the sound of Greyson’s suffering, please no.

“That had better not be you, Greyson,” he said, heading towards the back kitchen, phone long forgotten. Elijah thought back to Monday, when Greyson had texted him asking about the place that sold great miso soup near Elliot’s.

It’s called koi fish, Elijah had texted back. Why?

Because Reed was sick. He had the flu, they’d gone to urgent care to confirm, and he was completely miserable and refusing to eat anything. A pit had formed in Elijah’s stomach even then; Greyson, god love him, was absolutely unable to escape anyone near him getting sick without also succumbing. At this point, it was nearly a joke, a bit in the restaurant: if you have a cold, just go breathe near Chef for a minute. He’ll absorb it from you in a matter of moments, and you’ll start to feel better immediately. A rhinovirus succubus.

Please wash your hands while you’re taking care of him, Elijah had texted his friend. Sequester yourself if you have to. We have such a busy week.

Greyson had agreed, said he was being careful. He’d gotten a flu shot! He’d done everything right! He was a chef, he had to update his ServSafe card every five years to prove he knew how to keep his food from making people sick. If anyone knew how to keep from getting sick, surely it was him. And during Tuesday service, he was fine. Elijah thought, stupidly, that maybe they’d made it over the hump, so to speak.

But then yesterday – Wednesday – came around, and he’d been a little off during service. His consonants had been a little muted, his voice a little thin… but surely he was fine. Right? Surely he could make it through one illness his boyfriend had without catching it. Certainly he could.

When Elijah turned the corner into the prep kitchen, his heart, once lodged in his throat, immediately fell to the pit of his stomach. “Jesus Christ,” he said, taking the chef in.

Greyson looked miserable. His coat was zipped up to his neck, the hood slung over his head doing nothing to conceal his red, watering eyes and chapped nose. Clearly he could barely breathe; his mouth hung open, and when the coughs finally settled he was left wheezing into his sleeve, his breath just a catch away from the coughing fit beginning anew. “Hey, boss,” he managed, pulling his sleeve under his running nose. “How goes it?”

“Dude,” Elijah said, crossing his arms from the entrance of the back kitchen. “What did I tell you about sequestering yourself from Reed? Did it look like he was having so much fun on his death bed you needed to join him?”

Shrugging, Greyson turned on the water at the sink and thoroughly washed his hands before turning back to Elijah. “I got mby flu shot,” he wheezed, attempting to clear his throat. “I figured I’d be finde.”

Elijah closed his eyes, gathering himself before responding. “It’s not a magic spell, Grey. If you’re making out with your flu-ridden boyfriend, you’re going to get sick even if you had the shot. Everyone knows that.”

“Huh. Weird. They didn’t teach us that in culindary school. It’s almbost like it’s fuckigg food college. Ndot all of us went to three years of mbed school, Doctor Elijah. Ndot all of us are fuckigg a ndurse. Hh -!” Again, Greyson turned into his coat sleeve bracing himself on the sink with his free hand to keep from falling over. “HRTTTSCHH-ue! Huhh – HUHHTSCHCH-ueee!”

“Christ,” Elijah said, cringing. “Bless you. That sounds fucking painful.”

“It – hh -! Hh… hnng. Snrf. It is,” Greyson said, trying to sniff back some of the congestion and instead coughing hard enough that Elijah felt his chest contract in sympathy. He dipped out of the back kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the beverage fridge in the server station, and brought it back to Greyson, who drank gratefully until the fit abated. The chef took a slow, deep breath, testing the waters of his lungs, and let it back out. He nodded at Elijah, as if to say good for now.

“I’m not a doctor, dickhead,” Elijah said when Greyson regained control. “They literally tell you that when you get the flu shot, don’t they?” Greyson raised an eyebrow.

“Whend’s the last timbe you got a flu shot?” he asked, rubbing his chest with a closed fist. Elijah flushed red and, realizing how close he was to Greyson, took a big step back.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“Clearly,” Greyson said, moving out of the back kitchen and heading towards the office. Reluctantly, Elijah followed him – whether he wanted to sit next to the chef, breathe his germs in, or not, he did have to finish the schedule and the only place to do it was the office. They sat heavily in their chairs, Greyson’s rheumy eyes meeting his boss’s. “And also, I wasnd’t mbaking out with Reed, I was takigg care of himb. Tryigg to be a good boyfriend or whatever.”

“Mmm,” Elijah nodded. “You know you can be a good boyfriend without laying on top of him, yeah? You can take care of him without being attached at the hip.”

Greyson scoffed, coughed, and put his head on his hand, elbow resting on the desk. “Mbaybe you and Embily can take care of each other through a plastic bubble, but that’s ndot how Reed and I fly,” he said, eyes drooping towards closed. Elijah went to answer, but was cut off by a hastily-covered – “HTTSZZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCHHH-uhhh!”

Watching the droplets rush from the chef’s mouth into the air surrounding them in the office, Elijah remembered the disclosure agreement on the bottom of the form he filled out for the flu shot he was clearly going to desperately need. Any persons with cold or flu-like symptoms will not be permitted to receive the flu shot. Shit. He needed to get out of Greyson’s metaphorical splash zone, and quickly.

“Bless you,” he said again, while Greyson pulled a single tissue – then, thinking better, a whole handful – out of the box. “Grey, you are not well enough to be here. You need to go home, when does Matt get in?”

Greyson cringed as well blew his nose. “Yeah, that’s the thigg,” he said, pressing his fingers into his face where his sinuses resided. “Mbatt’s sigck too. I, uh, mbay have recruited himb to help mbe with Reed while Mbark is away.”

Groaning, Elijah sat back in his chair and pulled a hand warily down his face. Fuck. “So he isn’t coming in, then?” he asked, prompting a laugh from Greyson.

“Ndo, he’s combing in. I can’t do this ndight by mbyself, ndot like this. I figured the two of us incapacitated equals about onde of us healthy.”

Great, Elijah thought, giving Greyson an incredulous look. Surrounded by sick people all night. “You’re going to get your whole staff sick,” he warned his friend. Greyson shrugged.

“Is what it is,” he said, pulling another handful of tissues from the box. “Juuhh – just - HNTSZZCHH-uee!” he collapsed forward into the tissues and let out a little moan of frustration, before blowing his nose and tossing them aside. “Just have to tell themb ndot to get too close,” he croaked, coughing into his fist.

“Yeah,” Elijah said, looking down at the confirmation email from the pharmacy. “I’m sure that’ll work perfectly.”

***

Post-shift, and finally back at her Brooklyn fifth floor walk-up, Emily poured herself a glass of wine and sat heavily on the couch. What a day, she thought, downing half the glass in one large gulp.

The twelve-hour shifts she’d agreed to back in July were starting to wear on her. Sure, she only had to work four a week, and eight of those hours were guaranteed overtime, but christ those four days never got any shorter. Not getting back to her apartment until ten p.m. when she left for the day at seven a.m. had her feeling like Elijah and all the other restaurant workers – a creature of the night, relegated to only seeing the outside when it was dark. Less person, more vampire.

Speaking of Elijah, she thought, pulling her phone out and frowning at the screen. Her boyfriend hadn’t texted her since this afternoon, and even that text seemed hasty and distracted. She’d asked how his day was going, and he sent back the emoji that looked like it was gritting its teeth, followed by two words: Had better. To that, she sent a simple ? and had been left on read.

Now, with the restaurant closing in the next half hour, surely Elijah had some time to talk. Without thinking, she clicked on her boyfriend’s contact photo – a very Elijah-coded shot of him mid sip of a cocktail with a hand help up to the camera – and hit the call button.

Almost immediately, Emily was sent to voicemail. Confused, she pulled the phone away from her face and studied it, eyebrows furrowed. Again, she clicked the all button.

Again, voicemail.

This time, though, a text from Elijah popped up.

Elijah

10:21PM

Hey babe, sorry, we’re still finishing up service and Grey had to go so I’m cleaning on the line. Are you okay?

Emily cocked her head to the side at this message. Cleaning on the line? Where the hell did Greyson have to go that meant Elijah had to get on-line? She clicked the text box to reply.

Emily

10:22PM

yes, all good. what happened to greyson?

A few minutes passed before Elijah finally texted back.

Elijah

10:31PM

I sent him home. He and Matt have the flu.

A sigh escaped Emily’s lips as she read her boyfriend’s message. Of course the chefs had the flu. She put her wine glass on the coffee table and typed out another text.

Emily

10:34PM

oof, the worst im sorry. good thing u got the flu shot, right?

Another five full minutes went by without an answer. Finally, as Emily got up to pour herself another glass, a text pinged through. She looked down at the phone – Elijah had ‘liked’ her message, but didn’t send anything back. Emily pressed her lips together and put the phone down. Self-preservation, she thought to herself for the second time that day. He does have it… right?

***

T-minus six hours until the flu shot appointment.

Elijah let himself in through the back door of the restaurant and immediately pulled a hand down his face, still exhausted from the night before. He may as well have not even left; by the time the line was clean and the paperwork was done, it was nearly three in the morning. The seven a.m. wakeup call to come back in had come in the blink of an eye.

Slowly, Elijah made his way to the office at the front of the kitchen, typing out a text to Greyson as he did.

Elijah

8:55AM

Are you alive?

The evening previous, to call Greyson alive would have been more than a stretch. The chef had made it through about half of service, coughing and sneezing and wiping away fever sweat, but by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he was swaying on his feet. Dishes were leaving the kitchen ungarnished, temps unchecked, and seat numbers given to food runners forgone. Elijah knew if they wanted to keep their Michelin star, he needed to send his friend home. Greyson was entirely too sick to put up a fight; he’d yanked his apron off, donned his coat, and left the building without even saying goodbye to the cooks.

In Elijah’s hand, the phone buzzed.

Greyson

9:01AM

barely lol. fevers down tho, so ill be in later. like noon.

Relief washed over Elijah as he read; Greyson was able to text, he was up at nine a.m., he was joking around. Most likely, the worst was behind him.

Elijah

9:02AM

Matt?

Once Greyson was gone, Matt tried to step up to the plate and take over expo, but the poor kid was down just as bad as Greyson, and Elijah had to send him home about thirty minutes after the executive chef. Whatever Reed had passed along to the chefs was fucking lethal.

Greyson

9:05AM

mmm havent heard from him yet. probably not coming in tho. like I wouldnt bet on it

Elijah sighed; well, one was better than none, he supposed.

He stood from the desk and turned to the kitchen, moving slowly to turn on the lights and the gas and to crank up the heat. Outside, snow had begun to fall, and for once he was grateful; maybe it would be a slow evening. Maybe they could all get out and get to bed before three in the morning. Elijah’s bones ached with the desire to crawl up in his bed, Emily’s warm frame wrapped in his arms, nothing to do but listen to the snow outside and… and…

“Hhh…” Elijah’s breath caught, and he pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth to quell the itch in his sinuses. No, he thought, pinching his nose hard between his thumb and pointer finger. Not now.

It would have been a lie to say that Elijah felt… completely put together. Try as he might, he was just unable to ignore his body in the way that Greyson and Matt always seemed to; he was hyper-aware of it, in fact, tuned in to even the smallest twinge of difference. He’d felt it yesterday, just the tiniest bit off; he knew the second he swallowed and it went down a little weird. Oh, he thought to himself as he watched Greyson and Matt cough themselves dizzy. It’s so over.

Then, despite the late night, Elijah had gone home and tossed and turned in his bed from four until six in the morning, unable to breathe out of one nostril or the other, sitting up every few minutes to guzzle water, his throat dry and sticky despite the wild amount of liquid he was ingesting. As he lay pre-feverish in his bed, he thought of Emily. He thought of the busy-as-fuck week they’d had. He thought of Greyson.

Greyson was sick. And Matt was sick. And Elijah was getting a flu shot today, and Emily had warned him about the flu not just yesterday, but multiple times since fall had turned to winter, and he could not be sick. So when his alarm went off at seven, Elijah took the hottest shower he could handle and looked himself in the mirror. “You are fine,” he said to his reflection. “You are not sick.”

Manifesting had always been one of his strong suits, after all. Had he not manifested this life he made for himself? Manifested the restaurant and its accolades? Manifested his nice apartment, his happy life? Sure, some would say that he worked his ass off for it, had scrimped and saved and worked two or even three jobs at a time when he was young, learned how to wire and plumb and interior design when he finally saved enough to buy the restaurant so that he wouldn’t have to pay someone to do everything for him. Some would certainly argue that he even had to work to be happy, to feel deserving of all that he had, but who were they to say those things? It was all manifestation, baby. One hundred perce -

“HXTSH-uhhh! NTSHH-ieuu! Hh - ! HhIGTXTZCH-uee!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneezes into the back of his wrist, an effort that left him groaning at the pain behind his eyeballs. Can’t manifest health, he thought, then quickly pushed the thought away. Yes, he could manifest health. Of course he could. Mind over matter.

Elijah sniffed experimentally, testing to see how congested he really was. The sniffle barely moved any of the sludge beginning to build in his sinuses, and in fact only managed to make the constant buzz at the back of his nose and throat burn stronger. Again, he pinched his nose shut, this time managing to fully stifle two, three – four – shit – five sneezes in rapid succession, leaving him panting and stuffed up to the gills in the wake of the fit. Who the hell was he holding them in for, it’s not like anyone else was here. But Elijah knew, he was doing it to prove a point to himself – that he was well, that he was fine, that this afternoon he would be allowed by the pharmacy to get the flu shot. Manifesting. That was the reason. He checked his watch, and sighed.

Five hours, twenty-five minutes until the appointment.

***

Emily was sure this week was never going to end.

Eight hours into her fourth twelve-hour shift in a row, and she was the kind of tired you feel in the depths of your bones. The waiting room never got less full. The people never got kinder. At every new patient, every new throat she had to swab and temperature she had to take, she could feel herself untethering more and more. It was barely December – was this going to be the way it was all winter? She shuddered at the thought. Maybe she needed to take a mid-winter vacation.

Also, why the fuck wasn’t Elijah texting her back?

For the third time that hour, Emily checked her phone. No text from Elijah. She checked his location – still at the restaurant. It was two p.m., for god’s sake, it’s not like they were in service. What the hell was he doing?

The thought that she had often, the one she got whenever things seemed to be going well in a relationship, slipped into the back of her mind. Maybe he’s just done. Emily bit her cheek at the thought; much as she wished she could count it out, call it nonsense… it would honestly make sense. Elijah was chronically single, as Greyson put it when they all went out back at the beginning of her and Elijah’s flirtation.

“I mean, same,” Emily had said, smiling. Greyson had put his drink down on the bar top, turned away from the seat Elijah had just left to go use the bathroom, and looked at Emily, his face set into a serious look.

“No, like… look, Emily, Elijah does really like you. And like, I’ve known him for almost ten years and he’s never liked anyone, so that’s huge. But when I say he’s chronically single, I mean he doesn’t know how to be in a relationship. At all. He’s quite literally married to that restaurant. He’s there over a hundred hours a week.” He’d picked the drink back up, swallowed the remainder of it, and shrugged at her. “Just… I mean, just don’t be surprised if he picks it. When he picks it. He picks it over everything. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That had stuck with her, much as she didn’t want it to. Emily wasn’t the type of person who needed constant validation, truly; she was independent, she loved her space, and she knew Elijah was the same. It was something she enjoyed about their relationship, the fact that they didn’t have to be in constant contact or see each other more than once a week. It worked for them. But she couldn’t deny, six months into the relationship, that Greyson was right: Elijah did pick the restaurant over everything. Dates were often canceled, sometimes at the very last minute, and holidays and birthdays were a moot point. Elliot’s came first, always. And that was okay with her, really, she understood. Elliot’s was Elijah’s lifeblood, what he’d always dreamed of. She was proud that he was so passionate.

She just wished, sometimes, that he could be… more human about their relationship. Like now. When he was refusing to text back. She looked down at their text thread again – three texts from her, sent hours apart, two this morning and one an hour ago on her lunch break. No response. Fucker, she thought, annoyed. Again, the thought: maybe he’s just done. Emily sighed, clicked her phone off, and put it back in her pocket, heading towards the front for another patient clipboard.

Maybe. But she really, really hoped not.

***

“Elijah.”

“Sshh. I dond’t wandt to hear it.”

“Lij, c’mbon mban, you kndow they’re ndot going to let you -”

“Greysond. Shut the fuck up. Can you watch the servers for an hour while I’mb gone?”

“I mbean -”

“Can you?”

Greyson gave Elijah a withering, pitiful look. “Obviously I can,” he said, coughing into his elbow. “But you’re quite literally about to be turned away at the door,” he finished, voice croaky and waterlogged. Elijah placed an overly warm hand onto his own throat to keep from dissolving into his own coughing fit. He shook his head.

“I wond’t,” he said, “because I’mb ndot sick.”

The day had been… humbling, to say the least. Elijah had tried his best all morning to heed off the oncoming illness; downing tea and ignoring the constant itch in his sinuses, sucking on endless lozenges and then finally, after a couple hours of insisting to himself that he did not need it, giving in and shooting back double the recommended dose of dayquil. By the time Greyson trudged in at noon, Elijah could feel the mask slipping more and more with each passing minute.

“Oh, ndo,” Greyson said when he walked into the office and found Elijah doubled over into his elbow, coughing up a lung. “You sound like fuckigg shit.”

Painfully, Elijah rolled his eyes at his friend. “Pot, kettle,” he said, yanking a tissue out of the nearly depleted box just in time to – “HRRTSHHH-uhh!”

Greyson grimaced while Elijah blew his nose uselessly. “Bless you,” Greyson said. In return, Elijah flipped him off. “Sorry.”

Annoyed, Elijah tossed the tissue into the trash can by their chairs and squirted hand sanitizer onto his hands. “How are you feeligg?” he asked, ignoring Greyson’s blessing.

“Bad. But probably better thand you.”

Elijah deadpanned his friend, pushed up his glasses, and sat back in his chair, an attempt to look blasé. “I feel finde,” he said, trying to clear the congestion from his voice. “I amb fine.”

A soupy-sounding laugh escaped Greyson’s lips, followed by a crunching, painful cough that lasted entirely too long for Elijah’s liking. Despite his aching limbs, the GM pushed himself to a stand and went to the server station to make Greyson a tea, sickly sweet with honey, the only way the chef would drink it. By the time he returned to the office, Greyson had managed to collect himself.

“Thangks,” he said, taking a sip. “Where’s yours?”

Without meaning to, Elijah’s eyes panned over to the two empty coffee cups by his computer monitor. Greyson smiled and hummed to keep from laughing, to save his fucked-up lungs. “You sound like you have fuckigg pneumonia,” Elijah said, an attempt to change the subject. Shrugging, Greyson sipped his tea.

“Ndah,” he said, rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand. “Reed sounded the sambe the first few days; I’mb okay. Pneumonia feels way worse thand this.” If he wasn’t worried about collapsing into his own coughing fit, Elijah would have laughed.Only Greyson would have that reference point.

“You’re sickly. Like a Victoriand child. Has andyone ever told you that?”

Greyson raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said, a smile dancing on his lips. “I thingk that’s fairly well-established. I also thingk,” he said, reaching over to press the back of his hand to Elijah’s forehead, “that you’re deflecting.”

Elijah tried to pull away quickly, but his reflexes were slowed by the ache in his joints. “I’mb getting a flu shot at three, and they wond’t give it to you if you have...symptoms,” he said swatting at his friend’s hand, a poor attempt to ward off the accusation of illness. “I cand’t be sick.”

“Uhh,” Greyson said, pressing his lips together. “I mbean, I thingk your body doesn’t really give a fugck about what your plans for a flu shot were. Clearly,” he said, motioning to the GM as if he was flu-incarnate. “Also, didn’t Embily tell you to get a flu shot, like, two mbonths ago? Why are you just ndow going?”

A flush burned across Elijah’s face. “I mbay have forgotten. Like. Every time she said it.”

Greyson bit his cheek, a laugh catching in his throat. “You’re a bad boyfriend,” he joked, kicking Elijah.

“I’mb workigg on ihh – hh…” Elijah’s hand flew up to his nose, once again pinching it to keep the sneeze at bay. Not just to prove that he wasn’t ill – though that reason still stood – but because they were just exhausting. Grating and throat-scraping and seemingly endless. Before the chef had arrived, he found himself doubled over, sneezing so hard that his vision began to dance at the corners of his eyes. Passing out was not in the cards today.

“Good luck with that,” Greyson said, turning away from his boss to turn his computer on. Then, as he watched Elijah struggle out of the corner of his eye – “Lij, just let yourself -”

“HRTSCHHH-uee! GTSXXCHH-uhh! HhhhITSZCHHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-uhhh! Huh -! HuhhhETSZCHH-uee!” Again, Elijah found himself doubled over into his lap, the sneezes painfully and uncharacteristically unrestrained. Panting, he grabbed the last three tissues from the box and wiped himself up, afraid blowing would set him off again. He coughed into the handful of tissues, swallowing compulsively to try and make the fit stop quicker.

“Wow,” Greyson said. “There is ndo way in hell they’re goigg to let you get that flu shot.”

The next few hours had gone as terribly as Elijah could’ve imagined they would; he felt like fucking dog water, a descriptor the servers loved to use that felt so apt he couldn’t help but pick it up. Sludgey, tepid, nasty. The fever he’d felt warming the back of his neck at the beginning of the day now felt like it was boiling his brain, turning it into soup. The cough felt constant, and he suddenly understood why Greyson was spending so much time rubbing his chest – it hurt, hurt like a gorilla was sat between his neck and stomach. And then, there was the – the…

“IGTSZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCCHH-ieuu! Huh -! Huhh…! HuhhhETSZCHH-ieuu!”

“Bless you, Elijah.” Matt, who they thought wasn’t going to make it in, had come around two, and pointedly blessed his boss literally every time he sneezed. Greyson, who had given up on getting Elijah to admit to having the flu, had stopped an hour in and gone to the back kitchen to prep. Matt wasn’t giving up nearly as easily.

“Boss, you ndeed to take some more medicinde,” Matt said placing the dayquil that he and Greyson had just taken doses of on the desk beside Elijah. The GM shook his head.

“’m okay,” he said around the congestion in his throat. “Thangks.”

Matt sighed stuffily and shook his head. “I’ll leave it there just in case,” he said, turning to go back to prepping the line.

The cherry on top of this shitty day, though, was Emily texting him.

Emily

8:41AM

morning <3 hope you have a good day

Emily

10:12AM

are greyson & matt coming in today? fingers crossed it isnt too busy tonight!

Emily

1:20PM

this place is a fucking madhouse. think im getting misophonia from hearing so much coughing lmao

Emily

2:48PM

hellooo? earth to elijahhh

He wanted to text back, truly, but every time he opened their text thread he felt that familiar sense of dread; he’d promised her he’d get a flu shot, promised he’d stay healthy. And, of course, he’d managed to somehow fuck it up. There was little more he wanted than to text her, I’m down so fucking bad can you please come to my house tonight? To say, I feel like I’m dying and all I want is to be in bed with you. But he didn’t; he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to her.

And now it was nearly three, and Greyson was stood in front of him telling him he was going to be turned away from the pharmacy. Which of course he was right, of course he was sick, but for Emily and for his own stupid pride, he just could not admit it.

“I’m ndot sick,” he said to Greyson again, donning his coat and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So please, watch the servers. I’ll be back whend I’mb done at the pharmacy. Okay?”

Greyson just shook his head, obviously too tired and annoyed to continue to fight his friend. “Whatever, Elijah,” he said. “Good fuckin’ luck, bro.”

***

Thirty more minutes, Emily thought to herself. You can do anything for thirty minutes.

It had been just about the longest day of her life; she had to get off these twelves, they were quite literally sucking the life out of her. The stream of patients refused to let up, and all she wanted was a hot shower and a fat cocktail. And maybe Elijah to text her back, but at this point even that was neither here nor there.

“Em,” Rhonda called to her as she put yet another finished patient clipboard at the front desk. Emily grimaced at the sound of her name. Please, please don’t need anything from me.

“What’s up?” she said, trying to sound bright and happy, not like she was ready to lob someone’s head off. She walked towards Rhonda, who was holding yet another fucking clipboard.

“Room three was asking if you’re around,” she said, handing over the clipboard. Emily couldn’t help herself; she groaned aloud.

“Can Paul just tell them I left? Please? I only have thirty minutes left, Rhon. I’m so done.”

Rhonda shrugged. “Paul already said that you’re here, doll. Sorry. Just tell the guy you’re about to be off, let him know you’ll put the night lead on him if he’s so worried.” She held the clipboard out a little more forcefully, prompting Emily to, begrudgingly, take it.

“Fine,” she said, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “But if it’s that weirdo from last week who kept pretending to have a broken leg to see me, I’m calling the cops.”

Rhonda laughed. “Show ’em how it’s done,” she said. “I’ll take your name off the board for the rest of the shift.”

“You’re my hero,” Emily said.

Without looking at the clipboard – she could hear the coughing from the hallway, at this point she could diagnose the flu in her sleep – Emily knocked on the door of room three. She adjusted her mask, squirted some hand sanitizer on, and pushed through the heavy door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. -” she glanced down at the clipboard then, and stopped in her tracks. At the top of the patient intake form: Elijah Morrison. Emily’s head shot up from the clipboard and – oh.

There, on the paper-lined bench, sat her obviously very ill boyfriend. Beneath his glasses, Elijah’s eyes were lined with bags, his cheeks and nose scarlet from fever and constant rubbing, respectively. As she walked toward him, he removed the elbow he was coughing into and attempted a smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, his voice low and scratchy with illness. “I, uh… I thingk I mbight have the flu.”

A wave of deja vu passed over her, and Emily couldn’t help but to smile as she pulled down her mask. “Hmm, do you think?” she asked, placing a cool hand on Elijah’s hot forehead. “Jesus, baby. You’re burning up. What the hell are you doing here?”

Elijah managed a little laugh without coughing. “Grey wouldn’t let mbe combe back to work, said I’mb gonna scare off mby own customers. And I wanted to see you.” Ever the charmer, even when he’s on death’s door, Emily thought, shaking her head. “Is this how you talk to all your patiendts, by the way?” Elijah asked, grinning goofily – oof, that had to be a high fever for him to be making that face. “Kinda undhinged,” he said, tugging playfully at the braid she had hastily done this morning. Emily rolled her eyes, gave Elijah a little push.

“Yeah, that’s how most patients describe my bedside manner. ‘Kinda unhinged’,” she said, making Elijah laugh and then cough again, grating and painful. She stepped briefly into the hall to grab a cup of water for him, catching Rhonda’s eye as she did. Rhonda raised an eyebrow, pulled down her mask. I thought you were passing him off? She mouthed.

Emily sighed, shrugged. “It’s Elijah,” she said. Rhonda eyes grew to saucers. She shooed Emily back towards the room with her hand.

“I’ll mark the room as unavailable until you leave,” she said. Emily smiled. Truly the best, she thought as she walked back in and handed Elijah the cup. He drained it, finally catching his breath.

“Thangk you,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I’mb sorry.” Emily pressed her eyebrows together, confused.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked, taking his temperature and using the light on the otoscope to look into his ears and throat. Temp was high – 103.2 – but no ear infection, and it didn’t look like strep, so she put her tools down. “I can see why Greyson wouldn’t let you back, jesus,” she joked, hopping up on the bed to sit beside her boyfriend. “No need to apologize – I figured you’d probably end up sick, since Greyson is. You two are on top of each other like ninety percent of the time.”

Elijah shrugged, rubbing his nose and eyes – was he about to cry? Distraught, Emily started to say something, to take it back, when Elijah wrenched to the side, away from her.

“HHRDDTSCHH-ieuuu! RRTSCHH-uee! HTSZZZCHH-ieuu! Hh… hhITSZCCCH-uhhh!” Elijah folded in on himself over and over, the paroxysms so intense that they nearly moved the bed beneath them. Finally, Elijah sniffled, out of breath, and Emily jumped down to hand him a box of tissues.

“Thangk you,” Elijah said, stuffily. Emily nodded.

“Bless you,” she said as he blew his nose. “That sounded… painful.” Elijah laughed as he wiped his nose.

“That’s exactly what I said to Grey yesterday,” he croaked. Emily smiled.

“And?”

“And they are. Paindful. He said as mbuch.” Elijah shrugged. “He didn’t lie.”

“Mmm,” Emily hummed, placing the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and listening to Elijah’s crackling lungs. “You need to rest, by the way,” she said, taking the buds out and slinging the stethoscope around her neck to hold with both hands. “Your lungs sound rough. That could easily develop into walking pneumonia.”

“I also said that to Greysond,” Elijah laughed. Emily smiled again, a little sadly.

“It sounds like both of you need a day off,” she said, pointedly. A nod, a shrug from Elijah.

“Probably,” he said. There was a beat, then, a moment of silence before Emily couldn’t help herself.

“So, I assume you didn’t get a flu shot, like I told you to?” she asked, trying to play it off as light and playful, despite her worry. If Elijah didn’t get a flu shot, this was about to be a rough week for him. She made a mental note to ask when his symptoms started, to see if she could get him on Tamiflu. Elijah cringed.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why I was apologizing. I, uh, actually wendt to go get onde this afterndoon. But… they turned mbe away.” He smiled goofily again, shrugging. “Said you cand’t have a fever and get it.”

Emily pressed her lips together. “I could’ve told you that,” she said, sitting next to him again. “If you just asked.” Elijah nodded, turned to look at her.

“I’mb sorry,” he said. “I didn’t wandt you to worry. Or thingk I don’t listen to you. It just slipped mby mbind. But I should’ve just done it. I’mb sorry.”

Placing her hands on either side of Elijah’s hot face, Emily gently massaged his sinuses, nodded before he closed his eyes in relief. “Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked. One of Elijah’s eyes opened, just a bit.

“How could I forget,” he said. “I thingk it was ind this very roomb.”

“It was room nine. But close enough.”

Elijah smiled, hummed. “Dond’t mbake mbe laugh,” he said, closing his eye again. “Hurts.”

“Sorry,” Emily said, continuing to massage. “Do you know what I said to Rhonda, after you left that first time I saw you?”

“Mmmb?”

“‘That’s the hottest sick man I’ve ever met. I’d hate to see him well. It would be too much for my heart to handle’.”

This time, both of Elijah’s eyes popped open. “Yeah?” he asked. Emily nodded. “Well, Grey was basically mbarrying us the whole rest of the day. Called mbe ‘Mbister Doctor Embily’.” Emily’s face flushed – what happened to ‘he’s married to the restaurant’? – and Elijah chuckled. “That whole saga was so embarrassing,” he said, leaning his face onto Emily’s hand. He looked at her earnestly, then. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Emily’s heart thumped in her chest, butterflies swimming in the pit of her stomach. Maybe he’s just done, she’d thought earlier, but that wasn’t true. This man, this passionate and stubborn man… he couldn’t be just done. She wasn’t sure how she’d thought he could. “Lij?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Elijah looked into her eyes, his bloodshot and watery. His nose was running, just a little, his glasses askew from leaning on her hand. She’d spent all day annoyed at sick people, going from room to room to room wishing them all away, but somehow Elijah – sick Elijah, contagious and fluish Elijah – erased all of them, the whole day’s worth. Sick or well, she could look into his eyes all day long. “You’ll get sick,” he croaked out, sniffling. She nodded, brought his face close.

“I could use a day off,” she said, bringing his face close and pressing her lips to his, the kiss too warm and too wet and somehow perfect, the perfect kiss for the moment. He kissed back, hungrily, until he had to pull away to breathe.

“Thangk you,” he said. “And sorry. For giving you the flu.”

Emily pushed Elijah’s sweaty hair out of his face. “It’s okay,” she said. “It won’t be too bad. After all – I got my flu shot.”

This time, Elijah laughed in earnest, ending again in a crackly cough. “Touché, baby,” he said when he got himself back together. “Touché.”

[sniffly-soap]

C/lark K/ent snz fic (with some S/uperbat caretaking <3)

Y'all see @peachsnz's Clark snz drawing?? Yeah, this is definitely born from that xx. There are going to be at least 2 parts to this, the second part is almost complete.

MINORS DNI. Contains: m snz, cold/flu, mess (no fr, this is def for you messfkers out there)

3.5k | part one/two(?)

Bruce taps the side of his phone absentmindedly at the end of his Watchtower shift. He had sent a quick message at the beginning of his shift, and Lois was just getting back to him now. 

BW: Did Clark seem…? LL: Like he's been fighting the headcold from hell for the past few days? LL: Pls tell me you have a way to force bedrest. Or at least stop him from spraying his germs all over the bullpen.  LL: Can he even be contagious?  BW: Working on it.  LL: You're welcome. And thanks xo

Apparently, the blue boy scout was sneezing through his Daily Planet shifts too. Bruce had showed up for his watchtower shift ten minutes early, as always, and headed to the main monitoring room to switch off with Kal-El. What he had found wasn't completely the Kal that he knew. Superman, normally picture-perfect and coiffed, had been a sniffly mess. Bruce had watched him try and fail to cover a spraying sneeze, the particles settling on top of the monitor board. He had been able to cover his kneejerk reaction of disgust, instead rifling through his memory bank for a previous example of Kal sneezing. Finding none, he had tilted his head slightly, asking, “Everything alright?” 

Kal had answered with the affirmative, and since Bruce trusted him, he had let it be. Mostly. After he sent a text to Lois and collected a swab of the moisture left behind on the monitors to run via flow cytometry later. 

_______________________________

Bruce had three hours between his Watchtower shift ending and Clark getting off from the Daily Planet. He spent most of it running Clark's fluids through a multitude of tests and getting too many positive results to confidently say which ones might be causing his ailments. No kryptonite readings at all, either. On a good day, Superman had an overwhelming and unique microbiome. He couldn't see many differences between Kal's baseline and these readings, except for a slightly elevated viral load. Was that enough to cause his current symptoms? And why was Clark acting like he was unaffected? It was a mystery, which was luckily Bruce's specialty.

Although he and Clark had an agreement that Bruce would let Clark know if he was breaking into his civilian apartment, Bruce figured this counted as extenuating circumstances. Since Clark had seen fit to lie to him, he didn't feel very bad about a little B&E. 

The apartment itself was telling. It was usually cluttered due to its small size, but it was in more disarray than usual. Although it was early fall, and Clark was unaffected by cold weather, there were many blankets piled on the threadbare couch. Bruce catalogued tissue boxes that usually weren't present on the small kitchen counter, the couch, and the TV stand, and Clark’s small kitchen trash can was set up beside the couch as well, filled a quarter of the way with balled-up tissues. Bruce sat delicately on the uncomfortable sitting chair that he had already tried and failed to get Clark to replace, crossing his legs by settling his ankle on his thigh just in time for the lock on the door to rattle. The door opened, and Clark appeared a few moments later, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned around and froze, wide eyes locking with Bruce's. 

The surprise took only a moment to clear from his face, replaced with a tired resignation. “Lois?” He asked, shoulders slumping in that stupid oversized suit jacket of his. 

“What's wrong with you?” Bruce always found getting right to the point was best. Clark wrinkled his nose in annoyance. 

“Would it kill you to be ndice?” Clark rubbed at his face before dropping his messenger bag at the door, making his way into the living room and flopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose over the top of his glasses as he breathed through his cracked, parted lips. Bruce hardly saw him so miserable, especially outside of kryptonite poisoning. 

“You look…concerning.” Understatement. Clark looked properly ill, cheeks slightly flushed in what Bruce figured was a fever, his nose red and raw down to the lip, his eyes rimmed pink and watery. Bruce could hear the catch in Clark’s chest when he sighed, the congestion that probably felt like cement in his sinuses (if the way he was massaging them was any indication) bogging down his words, the exhaustion in his words that were punctuated by light sniffles. Even his outfit had suffered the effects of his illness, damp spots sticking out on his gray suit top sleeves from where he presumably wiped his streaming nose into them. “How are you sick?”

Clark huffed out a laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled into the already damp cuff of his sleeve. “It happends, Bruce. Ndot oftend, but I’ve had a few colds and flus.” He sniffled, wiping the corners of his mouth with the wrist of his sleeve. He looked so delicate, which was a strange state for someone who was probably the strongest person on Earth. “Usually whend I’m already runnding mbyself ragged.” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his face where it looked like the congestion was bothering him the most. “I overdid it with that tsunami and the League mission. And a lot of people at the Planet have beend calling out, some sort of flu I think. I’m just the mbost recent victimb.” 

“This information is not in your file,” Bruce said. Discomfort prickled at his skin. Superman being affected by the common cold or Type A and B flu was the sort of thing that should be included in the files that he kept on everyone. What if Clark had fallen ill on an away mission and was unable to tell them what was wrong? Or no one could get ahold of him? A few dozen worst-case scenarios ran through Bruce’s head, but he bit them back. Clark was probably well aware of what points Bruce would bring up. 

“It’s the flu, B,” Clark looked amused. “And I hardly ever ge-heh…hah!” Bruce leaned over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the couch, holding them out to Clark, who was fanning his face with one hand and reaching towards the box with the other. He hurriedly grabbed the proffered tissues and held them firmly over his nose and mouth. “...Hihh!! Heh’KSHht! Heh’ESHH’uh! –TSCHieew! Ngh. ‘Scuse mbe.” 

If anyone had asked Bruce what he thought Superman’s sneeze would sound like, he would guess some sort of loud, abrasive, and succinct, “Ah-choo!” noise. But Clark was a hitching, damp mess, panting into the tissues and seeming almost embarrassed as his voice pitched up oddly in response to his tickling nose. His sneezes wrenched him forward but didn’t incapacitate him, though his glasses were knocked askew and the tissues squelched as he pinched off the mess he had produced. Bruce watched in silence as Clark threw the bundle of tissues away only to immediately grab two more, blowing his nose unproductively before giving a stuffed up sniff and tossing those as well after a final sniffle and a crisp swipe under his nose. He hadn’t managed to catch everything, though, or maybe the nature of his congestion meant that sniffing wasn’t effective, because a small gleam of moisture clung to his reddened nostrils. Clark sighed, exhaustion tinging the noise. “I’m assuming ndo one’s letting mbe go into work tomorrow?” 

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been going at all this week,” Bruce quipped. “It’s highly irresponsible to be around other people when you’re as ill as you are.” 

“I’ve beend masking up,” Clark protested. “And I had a big deadline.” He blinked. “Crap. I took mby mask off when I got into the building.”

Bruce shrugged, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a fever?” 

Clark shrugged. “Probably. I feel kinda achy. What…what are you doing?” 

“Taking your temperature. I assume you don’t have a thermometer.” Bruce stood over Clark on the couch, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Years of fatherhood gave Bruce a pretty good idea of what fevers felt like. “Elevated, but not too far from your normal range. Are you tired?” 

“Exhausted,” Clark exhaled. “Wait, you shouldn’t get too close. You’ll catch this.” 

Bruce ignored him, moving into the kitchen. “Get changed and make yourself comfortable.” 

Clark grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, shuffling into the bedroom to presumably change into something more appropriate for a sick day. Bruce could hear his dry, painful-sounding coughs punctuating his actions, though he was focused on cataloguing Clark’s food supply and medicine cabinet. Predictably, there was nothing stronger than over the counter painkillers, probably for guests, but Clark had a fair amount of ingredients in his fridge and pantry. Bruce wasn’t much of a cook, but Clark could hold his own, even while not feeling his best. Bruce had been witness to many of Clark’s culinary adventures, the man able to balance cooking, holding a conversation, and editing Lois’ article without skipping a beat. Sneezing and cooking at the same time would be a cakewalk comparatively. 

Although he was lacking in medicine, Clark did have some cold packs in the freezer, and Bruce got one out, wrapping it in a towel before taking it back to the living room alongside a glass of water. That was about the time Clark shuffled back in from the bedroom, clad only in a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and thick socks. He had ditched his glasses, which made his eyes look smaller and more watery. He immediately beelined for the couch again, grabbing one blanket to pull over his lap and another to wear over his shoulders. If Bruce hadn't felt his forehead, he'd be sure of that fever now. Clark had obviously chosen his outfit so that he could alternate between feeling hot and cold at a rapid pace. At the moment, he shivered slightly, tightening the hold of the blanket a little. With his reddened nose and eyes, he looked the sick man that he was. 

“Here,” Bruce held out the glass of water, watching Clark drink half of it before setting it back on the side table. He handed him the towel-wrapped cold pack. “Put that on the back of your neck.” Clark did as he was told with a sniffle, eyes fluttering shut in relief as the cold pack soothed his the heat that seemed to be plaguing him. He leaned his head back again on the back of the couch, giving Bruce a clear look into his nose, which was so swollen and red that he was positive Clark had been sick for at least a few days prior and was doomed to many more days of his illness ahead.

“Four days?” Bruce guessed. 

“Hm?” Clark didn’t open his eyes. Bruce looked at him fondly. 

“How long you’ve been feeling sick. Four days?” 

Clark hummed again, this time slightly contemplative. “My throat started hurting Friday.” 

Today was Wednesday. “Five days, then.” Clark hummed once more, sounding slightly miserable about it this time. “That’s one hell of a flu.” 

“The other symptoms didn’t start for a few days.” Clark coughed slightly. “Can we stop talking about it for a sec? It’s making me feel itchy.” His nostrils flared as if in warning, and Bruce knew he would acquiesce to almost anything Clark asked of him when he was looking so pathetic. “Tell me how the family center’s renovations went?” 

Bruce wasn’t pleased with the deflection, but he understood it. Clark wasn’t used to being cared for, he was usually the one doing the caring. He couldn’t count the times that Clark had helped a friend, a family member, or Bruce himself through an injury or illness, and he knew all too well the feeling of weakness that came with asking for help. So he sat back down and started regaling Clark with stories from the renovations. The surprisingly high volunteer turnout, the surprisingly beautiful weather in an otherwise rainy autumn, the general cheerfulness and the stupid speech he had to bumble his way through at the beginning. 

Although Clark didn't move from his lounged position, Bruce could tell he’s listening actively to his words. He puffed out a breath of amused laughter when Bruce mentioned Dick parading in with his friends, all of them playing at being airheaded socialites with minimal gardening skills while also installing an irrigation system in the newly-built front garden beds. When Bruce talked about the innovative updates to the building, he made appreciative cooing noises. And when Bruce shared his annoyance about the shareholders who decided to naysay directly to his face, Clark scoffed hard enough for snot to shoot from his nose, and he quickly straightened up, the back of his hand lifting to cover as the shifting congestion causes his eyes to crinkle, lids heavy as a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his expression turned hazy behind his hand. 

“HEUH’kkSSCHeugh! Gah, ha-h’kchiew! HII’idgsheuh. Ugh.” Clark ended the fit with a miserable gasp, snorting inelegantly into his hand. “Godda be gross for a sec, B,” he said, horribly congested, hand still pressed to his nose. He put the cold pack in his other hand down and used it to pull two tissues from the box on the couch. He probably gave the warning so that Bruce would look away, but instead he watched as Clark pulled his hand away, sniffling in large, soupy sounds but unable to snort back a rope of watery snot that connected his hand to his upper lip. Clark grimaced, looking like he was trying to decide whether to wipe up his nose or hand first, but his hand won, Clark mopping that with the tissues before following the rope of mess to his running nose and blowing, a thick, gurgling sound coming from the action. He balled the tissues up and repeated it, the same germ-laden, snotty noise filling the room. He pulled the tissue away with a thick sniffle, thumbing at his sore-looking nose. 

Bruce looked away before Clark caught him staring, and once he felt his lover’s eyes on him he turned back, smiling in genuine sympathy. “You sound miserable, Clark,” he said. “In what world made you think you should go to work like that?” 

Pink embarrassment dusted Clark’s cheeks, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter to himself. “Like I said, there was a big deadline. But I finished it this morning.” 

“And you still finished out your work day? You’re always on my case about being a workaholic, but you’re just as bad.” 

Clark sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic look, then walked over from the chair to sit on the couch, pulling Clark in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t be sorry. But look out for yourself, sometimes? It’s okay to take the time to be well.”

He could feel Clark’s nod. Once he felt that Clark suitably understood his point, he pulled away and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Put the cold pack back on your neck. I’m going to make you something to eat.” He had made the executive decision that Clark was too ill to have to do anything, especially make dinner, and although Alfred liked to pretend otherwise, Bruce could follow a simple recipe. 

“Don’t you have patrol soon?” Clark asked, squinting up at him like he was trying to remember if he was correct. 

“There’s still a few hours,” Bruce responded. “I’ll get you set up, then into bed, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back from patrol.” 

Clark blinked. “Oh. You’re…staying?” He looked genuinely touched, like his long-term partner deciding to stay in his apartment with him when he was sick from a near-debilitating cold was a gift instead of an expectation. Damn, Bruce loved him. 

“Of course. I’m sorry I have to leave for patrol,” he turned away to wander into the kitchen, pulling out the raw ingredients that Clark had for a simple curry. Potatoes,onions, peas, chickpeas, carrots, chicken, spinach, and apples, all of it with plenty of ginger and garlic. He would make a curry so healthy that Clark would immediately be healed upon eating it. 

Another liquidy sniffle and a loud, “HIh-GGKSSHUU’HA!” followed by another sopping nose blow. Okay, so maybe Bruce was being a bit optimistic. Nevertheless, he was determined to get some nutrients into Clark. 

Clark was mostly quiet in his misery, sounds of sickness but no words coming from him as Bruce chopped the vegetables as quickly as possible. So when Clark stood, he paused, giving his partner his full attention. “Clark? Need something?”

Clark blinked, thumbing at the moisture at his nose. “Bathroom,” he said with a sniffle, then shuffled off. Bruce listened carefully for the door to close, and then followed the noises of Clark relieving himself and washing his hands. He knew that this was Superman, and Superman could handle a bathroom trip, but Clark was so vulnerable looking and miserable that Bruce couldn’t help but worry. He got this way around his kids when they were sick or hurt, too. It irked the hell out of them, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the paranoia that crept into him when his loved ones weren’t feeling their best. 

He was just finishing leaving everything to simmer on the stovetop when he heard the bathroom door open again, though it sounded like Clark was making a pit stop for something in his bedroom.

Then Bruce heard a muffled thump, just a bit louder than it should have been, and he quickly moved from the kitchen towards the bedroom, concern spiking. Did Clark fall? Did he trip over something? Trip into something? He rounded the kitchen in time to see Clark leaning heavily against the wall in the small hallway that led to his bathroom and bedroom, face hovering above his forearm before he lazily brought it towards his nose. “hehh… h'uhhH'EHSSCh'uh! Heh'ESHHuh! Eh’ISHh! Esh'SHiuhh!”

Clark braced himself on the wall, head bobbing up and down with each sneeze. He tried to sniffle between them, but it seemed that his nose was adamant about being cleared, because an itchy look overcame his expression and his glistening nostrils flared again as he aimed the next flurry of sneezes towards his arm again. “-IIhp’sshHHEhww! HiihhhhiH-HiisccHHihwww!!” He tried to dab at the mess, but it was futile, a strand of it connecting his nose to his bare arm. It broke in half, dripping down his face, and it must have been ticklish enough to bother him again because Clark only had time to brace his hand against the wall as he bent in half with a, “IhZZSCHHihhwww!!” that had his huge chest heaving towards the ceiling at its start and snapped him in half by the end, his running nose shooting towards the floor. Bruce was frozen in disgusted fascination at the thick ropes of mucus that stuck to themselves as they were expelled weakly from Clark’s nose, clinging to his septum and unable to be sniffed up, despite the marshy sniffles Clark was attempting between ragged, exhausted breaths. In the sunset of the early evening that filtered through Clark's limited windows, he could see glittering spray in various sizes rain down upon his poor sick partner.

Bruce went from voyeur to witness when Clark looked up, embarrassment written in his expression at the performance being seen by someone else. “Oh mby god,” he mumbled, quickly bringing the corner of his blanket to his nose. “Sorry. Sorry, that was gross.” He snuffled without any progress, and that finally kicked Bruce into action. He turned around and grabbed the tissue box from the TV stand, handing four to Clark. He looked away politely while the other man cleaned himself up, miserable breaths and squelches the only thing letting him know that Clark was still working at it. Bruce pulled a couple more tissues out and offered them again, and Clark took them with a grateful thanks.

Once the noises had subsided, Bruce turned to see Clark still leaning against the wall, red-faced. His chest warmed at the sight. 

“Let’s get you back onto the couch. Want me to take those?” Bruce held a hand out for the used tissues, but Clark’s grip went white-knuckled on the mass of soggy paper. 

“I’ve got it,” he said, and gratefully accepted Bruce’s arm as they shuffled back to the couch. “Sorry,” he said again. “Ugh, I’ll ndever be able to forget that. Absolutely humbiliating.” Bruce rubbed his back comfortingly. He wanted to comfort Clark, but he knew his words probably wouldn't convince the man of anything. The best he could do was hand him tissues and be here to get him through the worst of it without judgement. Then he realized that there was an etiquette faux pas he had been making, something he hadn’t said yet today.

“By the way, bless you, dear.”