Sharing The Wealth

26. minors do not follow or interact

[lilies-and-hyacinths]

Just Tired (H/eated R/ivalry, S/hane)

Summary: S/hane gets sick during the playoffs and tries like hell not to be. I/lya gets big gooey heart eyes about it and gives him a massage. Set during their first year as a couple, right after I/lya switches teams and moves closer. (Contains possible kink I/lya, if you squint.)

*

“You okay, H/ollander? Moving slow this morning.”

S/hane could feel his brain moving at a glacial pace as he fought to comprehend the words that had been tossed at him carelessly by a teammate. He’d woken up this morning feeling like he was half-underwater, like everything was hazy and dreamlike, but not in a nice way.

He’d dragged himself slowly to morning practice, even when I/lya—already out of the playoffs this year, and sleeping at S/hane’s apartment—had teased that he should just come back to bed “if he was going to be such a slowpoke”.

By the time he’d processed JJ’s words, JJ had skated off, leaving him behind. “I’m just tired,” S/hane said, protesting to no one. He swiped a glove under his nose, which had started running from being out on the ice.

That was all it was. Just tired.

He picked up his hockey stick and kept moving.

*

After practice, Hayden was chatting at him by the lockers. Something aimless, about Jackie’s latest bird food recipe for him. Something that didn’t require a lot of participation on Shane’s part, thank God. He hadn’t been able to shake off this morning’s haziness quite yet, and practice had only made him feel slower, heavier in his bones.

“You good, bro?” Hayden interrupted himself to ask. He poked at Shane’s arm, as if imagining that Shane would deflate like a balloon. “You’re really pale over there. Like, more than usual. I think I can count all your freckles.”

Shane cleared his throat, shifting away from Hayden to avoid more poking. He picked up his water bottle and took a long gulp. “Just dehydrated, I think. Skipped my morning smoothie.”

Not because his throat had hurt. He just hadn’t been thirsty.

“Okay,” Hayden said cheerfully. “I bet you could find someplace around here that makes them just as disgustingly healthy as you do.”

Shane flipped him off and headed for the showers, ignoring Hayden’s cackle of laughter behind him. The water was cold when he stepped into the spray, and Shane couldn’t keep himself from immediately snapping forward with a sneeze.

“hh’esshht!”

He caught it in his elbow, thanking God that none of his other teammates were in the showers just yet. He hated when the cold made him… him…

This one, he managed to mostly stifle between his pinched thumb and forefinger. “hh’nkkt!”

And the next two. “hh’ngkt! …HAH’ngxxkk!”

The last one had come with a louder inhale than he’d wanted, and he knew he needed to blow his nose or risk this turning into a bigger fit. He fumbled to turn the shower off, reaching blindly for his towel.

“Hollander, you alr—?”

“HEHHT’sschhh!” he sneezed again, hastily into the palm of his hand, this time only partially keeping the sound of it contained. He could feel the congestion building up, and they were only going to get wetter. Reluctantly, he brought his towel up to his face and bullied his nose with the rough fabric until the tickle died down.

“Jesus, man,” Miitka said, giving him a wide berth as he went to another shower stall. “You don’t sound too good.”

“S’just from the cold water,” Shane muttered, wishing he still had the showers to himself so he could blow his nose without an audience. Giving up on the shower, he wrapped the towel around himself and booked it for the bathrooms so he could clear out his sinuses in peace.

*

Hayden talked him into lunch with the team, some poor eatery that wasn’t prepared for twelve hockey players and their humongous appetites. Shane was just grateful they had a single salad on the menu with his safe foods in it.

They didn’t have ginger ale, though. He was surprised by how actually upset he felt about that, having to push back the barest prick of tears in his eyes.

He felt… raw. Like an exposed nerve. His sensitivity surprised him. Practice had really worn him out.

“You’re shivering, dude,” a teammate told him.

Shane struggled to swallow his bite of salad. His throat was dry, the tiniest bit sore, and he chugged more water to fix it. “Yeah, we’re right under the vent,” he said, though it really wasn’t even that cold.

The next sip of water went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t keep from coughing, pressing his face into his elbow and praying he would stop before his teammates started thumping him on the back. His skin felt hypersensitive, probably from the cold of the vent plus overexercise at practice, and he suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of being touched.

He pushed his chair back, the sound of it scraping the floor hurting his ears, and mumbled an excuse before booking it to the bathrooms. In there, he coughed until tears burned at the corners of his eyes, swallowing tap water from the sink—which he usually avoided drinking on principle—to finally make himself stop.

Hands braced on the edges of the sink, Shane looked up and eyed himself in the mirror warily. He forced himself to take in the facts. A wet shimmer in his eyes from the tears. Dark under eye circles. Skin so pale he could see his freckles standing out. He sniffled—there was a thickness there, like inflammation and congestion both settling in. His throat still tickled a little bit. His skin still hurt, and maybe it wasn’t from overexertion after all.

His grip on the sink tightened. “No,” he told his reflection, firm and insistent. “This is not happening.”

*

He made it through the rest of lunch without doing anything to stand out or embarrass himself, which he was thankful for. Hayden had offered a hangout at his place afterward, a way to chill out before the game, but didn’t seem too pressed when Shane declined. He’d begged off for a nap at his place instead, which was a common thing for players to do before a game, thank God.

He slid into his car and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a minute before forcing himself to sit up. Now that he wasn’t in the group, the pressure to act normal was off him, and he suddenly felt so tired that he thought he might actually nap once he got home. He hoped Ilya wouldn’t mind—he probably expected some marathon sex session, knowing him.

Shane had decided by the end of lunch that his moment in the bathroom had just been pre-game nerves. He was not sick. There was no way, he didn’t have time for it, and he hadn’t been around anyone sick. Well, Hayden’s crew always had some bug going around, but Hayden himself seemed fine, didn’t he? So it stood to reason that Shane had to be fine, too.

“hh’TSSCHH’sheww!” He flinched forward with a sudden sneeze before he could stop himself. His nose tingled, like he’d been dusting or something, and the sneeze felt wetter, heavier, than he was used to. Shane lifted a hand to his face to try to scrub the tickle away, only for it to abruptly transform into another sneeze that refused to be held back, forcing him to shield the spray with only a palm. “hh’TCCHHH!”

Once he’d recovered himself, sniffling into a takeout napkin that Ilya had probably left in his car, and regretting not having any tissues, he slumped back against his seat. “Fuck.”

He drove back to the apartment, suddenly overwhelmed with the proof of his immune system giving up. He kept having to stifle back little fits of sneezes, like he’d done in the shower that morning, so he wouldn’t wreck his car. His throat protested, too, but he wasn’t coughing. Yet, he thought ominously. And his skin ached, worse than this morning.

The drive itself was short and uneventful, aside from all his symptoms refusing to be dammed back anymore, and he’d spent the whole time daydreaming about his bed, but he found himself lingering in the car once he’d parked. He didn’t know what he’d say to Ilya once he got inside, Ilya who’d been waiting all day for him—“hey, thanks for making the inconvenient drive from your new apartment in Ottawa, but I’m sick, so leave me alone? I appreciate your eternal devotion, but my nose is stuffy, so get the hell out?”

He’d never been sick around Ilya before, not beyond little post-game sniffles they’d been able to ignore during hookups, and certainly nothing since they’d made their relationship official. His immune system’s sudden breakdown made him a little nervous for Ilya’s reaction. It was inconvenient, it was gross, and worst of all, it was weak.

Eventually, he had to force himself inside, knowing that he needed the nap before it got too late in the day. What he didn’t want was to go into the game tonight exhausted and… and sick. It was the playoffs, for God’s sake. He cursed, dragging his feet and making his way to his floor.

Ilya was lying on the couch, playing one of those stupid ad-ridden games on his phone that he was addicted to. “Good practice?” Ilya called out, not taking his eyes off his game.

For once, Shane was grateful not to have the weight of Ilya’s full attention on him. Usually he craved it, but today he felt like ducking notice as much as possible. He croaked out a, “Yeah,” and slunk into the kitchen like a dog trying to avoid getting into trouble. He was halfway through making his afternoon protein shake when he felt Ilya slide up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s stomach and pressing his chin into Shane’s shoulder.

“Okay?” Ilya asked.

Shane couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He loved the way Ilya pronounced that word, so quintessentially Russian. “Tired,” he said, clinging onto the excuses that the team had bought wholeheartedly all morning. Just tired. Just dehydrated. Just cold. Really cold, actually, now that he’d stopped moving. He shivered.

Ilya seemed to read his mind, rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s arms to soothe the goosebumps. “Chilly,” Ilya said, an observation and not a question.

“The, uh, restaurant was kind of cold.”

“And the car on the way home?” Ilya asked.

Shane could feel Ilya’s raised eyebrows without turning around to look at him. He stayed very still, like a prey animal hoping to avoid the predator’s eye.

Ilya waited a beat, then sighed and rubbed Shane’s arms again, this time more to comfort than to warm. “Malyyysh,” he said, drawing the word out until it was almost a tease. It was one of Shane’s favorite pet names, and he knew it. “You are getting sick, I think? Yes?”

Shane felt caught, like the prey animal he’d imagined himself as. Maybe he needed to stop thinking in metaphors. “I’m fine,” he protested, but his voice broke awkwardly on the words, leaving him exposed in the lie, and he abruptly knew there was no point in it. Ilya always knew all the things he wanted to hide. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. “You can go whenever.”

“Go? Go where?” Ilya asked, actually sounding surprised. “You think I am going to leave, malysh?”

“I mean… yeah?” He let himself sniffle, feeling the drag as it caught uncomfortably in his swollen sinus passages. What was the point in hiding it anymore? “I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to catch this.”

Ilya shrugged and draped himself over Shane even harder, if that were possible. “I am out for the playoffs already. Does not matter if I get sick.”

Shane groaned at the reminder of tonight’s game. He brought up a hand and scrubbed at his eyes. They were so tired they were starting to pulse, but he was dreading lying down. There was no way he woke up feeling any better than he felt now—most likely, it would be even worse, and then he’d still have the game to play.

“You, though,” Ilya mused, reading his mind again. “We need to do something about this, yes?”

“Like what?” Shane snapped. Immediately, he sighed and rubbed at his nose, feeling it prickle at the touch uncomfortably. “Sorry. I’m… shit, I’m sorry. I don’t feel great. And I don’t have time to be sick right now. I have so much to do.”

Ilya huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder over his shirt. “I do not think you get a choice in this, Hollander. It’s okay, though. We fix.”

Shane couldn’t help but feel curious. “How?”

He let Ilya take charge from there, leading him into the bedroom and gathering up comfy pajamas. “Ilya,” he put up a token protest when Ilya physically pushed him toward the bed, “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel like—”

“Thank you, Shane, I know this,” Ilya put in with patience, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. “I am not here to rock your world, at least not right now. But how will you nap with dress shirt, hm? Put on your pajamas.” Ilya shoved a soft pair of sweatpants in his direction, then disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.

Shane changed his pants and sat down on the bed while Ilya perused the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The prickling in his nose had only grown more insistent, teasing and annoying in equal measure. He stripped out of his dress shirt, making to fold it as he sat there shirtless, but the teasing sensation abruptly transformed into the immediate, undeniable need to sneeze. Casting the shirt to the side, he ducked into his cupped hands, stifling the sneezes back as much as he could. “heh’kxxt! heh… hih’KGGXHHT!”

The two sneezes were rougher than he was used to. Drier, though that was because he’d been stifling; he could feel wetness begging to come out, congestion having thoroughly settled in his sinuses. They had hurt from the force of stifling, too, and he resisted the urge to groan.

“Bless you,” Ilya called out from the bathroom.

And after all that, they’d still been audible, making it hardly worth the effort.

Shane blushed, scrubbing at his nose until the lingering tickle died down. “Thangks,” he muttered, feeling now just how stuffy he was getting.

Ilya returned from the bathroom with a bottle of cold medicine in hand. “You should not hold them back like that,” he informed Shane, measuring out a dose. He handed it over matter of factly, leaving Shane feeling like he was six years old again.

“I’ll keep that ind mbind,” Shane mumbled, flushing again when he heard how congested he sounded in his n’s and m’s. “That’s what everybody says.”

“You will give yourself sinus infection,” Ilya said. He gestured at his own thrice-broken nose and deviated septum with lighthearted self-deprecation. “Take it from someone who gets one every year: they suck. Take your medicine.”

“Jeez,” Shane cracked a smile, unable to help himself. “I wouldn’t have pictured you as such a mother hen.” He downed the medicine like a shot, praying it worked quickly. Sitting down had let him relax a little, and all he could focus on now was the way his body ached. He hoped he wasn’t spiking a fever. He’d be useless tonight if he couldn’t even skate straight.

Ilya only grinned and took charge once again: hanging up the dress shirt so Shane wouldn’t fuss over folding it, putting away the rest of his clothes, and ushering him into bed. He even went to get Shane the protein shake he’d left behind in the kitchen.

By the time Ilya got back from the kitchen, Shane was sitting up against the headboard, trying to coax out the sneeze that had been taunting him for the last few minutes. He had grabbed a handful of tissues from the fresh box Ilya had left on the nightstand, but it just wouldn’t come. He dragged the tissue over his nose, featherlight this time, and felt his breath finally catch in the way he’d been waiting for. Too relieved to stifle, he let it come out a little louder than typical for him. “hehh… HEHHH… HEPT’SHHIEWW!”

“Bless you,” Ilya said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

But he wasn’t done. He rubbed at his nose through the tissue and hitched again, helpless until the itch was finished with him. “huhh—!” It was fighting him. Frustrated, he hovered over the tissue, feeling his breath catch again and again as the tickle teased him some more. “huhh… huhHH—!”

“Oh,” Ilya said, a little surprised but mostly teasing him, just as surely as the tickle was. “Oh, I see. One is not enough, you go again?”

Shane’s eyes were closed, so he was surprised to feel Ilya’s fingers brush against his cheek, the tips dragging at the bridge of his nose.

“You need help, hm?” Ilya murmured, gentle but ribbing him. “A little assist?”

The hockey pun wasn’t lost on him, but he didn’t have time to react as Ilya’s gentle touch, plus the tickle in his sinuses, overwhelmed him. He crashed forward into his lap, the tissue barely covering everything as he gave in and let the explosion burst out. “HUUSSCHHH’OOH!”

It was bigger than any sneeze he could remember having, huge and soaking and demanding. It sounded like one of Ilya’s sneezes, actually, loud and satisfying. Shane moaned, half relief and half embarrassment. Maybe a little bit turned on, too, though he couldn’t explain why. He was Pavloved to Ilya’s touch in all circumstances—even the snotty ones, apparently.

Ilya sucked in air against his teeth, surprised. “Big sneeze, moya lyubov.”

Shane’s shoulders hunched, the embarrassment belatedly winning out. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the tissue he’d sneezed into, feeling its dampness against his skin. Gross. He blew gently, trying not to be as loud as he knew he could be. Jeez, this cold was turning out wet. Just what he needed.

“Is okay,” Ilya said softly. His hands were suddenly everywhere on Shane, rubbing his shoulders and taking away the tissue to throw it away for him. “Lie on your stomach? I have idea.”

Those were usually Shane’s words—he’d have an idea, and Ilya would grumble and groan but eventually give in. The role reversal took Shane by surprise. This whole afternoon was taking him by surprise, honestly. Ilya was being so soft, so calm, so unexpectedly sincere.

It was… nice. So nice he didn’t even put up a token protest, only flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach. It was harder than usual, breathing in this position with his nose so stuffy, and he propped his chin on folded arms to make it a little easier.

Then Ilya sat on the backs of his thighs, and Shane didn’t breathe at all for a second. “I-Ilya,” he said, coughing a little with the shock. “I… I really dond’t thingk…”

“You don’t want back rub?” Ilya teased. “I will be gentle, solnyshko. Will help you sleep, I promise.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of Shane’s neck. His next words came out breathy, his exhale felt on Shane’s neck. “I promise, is all this is.”

Shane could feel the evidence of Ilya’s arousal against his ass, but he didn’t argue. A massage sounded amazing, if he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Why had he ever been against the thought of a nap? Now that he was horizontal, he could barely keep his eyes open. “Mmb… ogkay,” he said sleepily. “No funndy busindess.”

Ilya snorted at Shane’s congested words. “Sure, sweetheart. No funny business.”

For a moment, nothing. Then, Ilya’s hands were on Shane’s shoulders, gentle at first before he started to dig into the muscles. Several minutes of this passed peacefully before Ilya spoke again.

“Was going to do this for you anyway, what with the playoffs. Good for sore muscles,” Ilya mused out loud. He dug his thumb into a knotted spot that had Shane groaning into his folded arms. “But it will probably help you sleep off this bad cold, too, hm?”

Shane shivered a little, though he wasn’t cold, exactly. He felt warm, and hazy with sleep, and cared for even when he was being gross, and the combination was kind of intoxicating. His nose started to tickle, and all he could bring himself to do to fend it off was to rub it hard against his forearm.

“Tired yet, malysh?” Ilya murmured. His touch was firm but not painful, teasing and prying at all the knots of tension Shane carried in his shoulders and back until they simply fell apart. It felt better than any physio.

“Mmb…” Shane knew he’d made a sound in response, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to form words for a response. He felt so sleepy, and maybe a little hazy off the cold medicine starting to kick in, and abruptly ticklish… God, his nose felt so unbelievably sensitive with this cold…

“Shane?” Ilya asked, pressing hard at a stubborn knot in one shoulder.

He couldn’t focus long enough to say something, anything, to reassure Ilya. All of his concentration was suddenly on the tickle, but oddly enough, he didn’t feel like fighting it for once. He sucked in a hasty breath, letting the sneezes burst out of him in a wet, needy rush that felt so, so satisfying.

“heh… hehhh’shieww!” He sneezed, feeling the hot, damp air of it as he sprayed helplessly across his forearms and into the sheets. Immediately, he was inhaling for the next one, no time to even think of covering or stifling it, no desire to do so even if he’d had time. “huhh… huh’hupshhoohh! Oh…. I’mb… huhhsshheww! Ohhh…”

God, the relief of them had been intense. They’d been softer than his previous sneezes, but no less powerful. His nose still tingled, like it might need to sneeze again in a moment but was in no hurry to do so. He found himself completely uncaring of the fact that he’d sneezed so openly and wetly on himself, right in front of his boyfriend. Too tired and overwhelmed with this cold to even be embarrassed anymore.

“Oh, Shane,” Ilya said, a little hoarse. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, chaste and sweet. “Bless you, sweetheart. Feel better?”

Shane smiled into his forearms, half-drunk on sleepiness and the cold medicine. “Bet-ter,” he said, gently mimicking Ilya’s accent. “Will you nap with me?”

Ilya smoothed his hands over Shane’s shoulders and back one more time, feeling for any remaining knots. Then, satisfied with his work, he dismounted and collapsed back onto the bed beside Shane, eyeing him with a lazy smile. “Nothing I’d rather do,” Ilya said genuinely. “Come here, malysh.”

Shane army crawled into Ilya’s arms, resting his head on his chest. With what little remained of his rationality, he hoped and prayed he wouldn’t sneeze into Ilya’s chest. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one afternoon, and even Ilya couldn’t possibly be so accepting after that. He’d already put up with Shane sneezing and sniffling all over himself.

Shane felt like he was dreaming already. He’d never imagined, this morning, that Ilya would stay through all this, would take care of him. “Thanks for staying,” he mumbled into Ilya’s skin. “You’re good at this.”

Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair, so quiet and gentle that Shane wouldn’t have known it had happened at all if he hadn’t felt the slight pressure. “I have been waiting a long time,” he said softly, “to take care of you in all the ways I want to.”

Shane felt a little overwhelmed by that—he was frequently overwhelmed by the depth of Ilya’s love, when he least expected it—and he couldn’t think of the right thing to say. He snuggled further into Ilya’s arms and pressed his own kiss into the skin just beside Ilya’s nipple. “Me too,” he whispered.

“I know,” Ilya said. His hands petted Shane absently, soothing over the nape of his neck and across his back. “Sleep, malysh. I will wake you when it’s time.”

*

It was getting to the end of the game by the time Shane really started flagging.

He’d woken up from his nap to another dose of meds already ready for him, along with hot tea and Gatorade. Ilya had kept him well-hydrated as he’d eaten a light dinner and prepped for the game, and it had done a lot to soothe his headache and growing cough. Keeping hydrated had also kept him with a permanently streaming nose, so Ilya had pushed bundles of tissues into his hands every few minutes to address it, until it was time for him to catch his ride for the game.

Shane had made it to the stadium feeling decently okay to play, though he couldn’t quit sniffling, to the point where Hayden had noticed. “Thought you were just dehydrated,” he’d said dryly in the locker room.

“Caught your Pike plague, I guess,” Shane responded snarkily, thumbing at his nose and praying it behaved itself during the game. He’d been feeling too annoyed and self-indulgent to even pretend not to be sick.

Hayden only rolled his eyes with a grin and shoved a water bottle at him. He’d been nice about it, at least.

Shane had played fairly well, though now as they wound down, he could feel himself starting to droop. There were only a couple of minutes left in the game, and Montreal had the lead by 1, which he felt confident in. They’d win tonight, putting them into the next round of the playoffs, which would earn Shane a couple of nights to rest off this cold. He could feel now how badly he needed it.

He finished his shift on the ice, collapsing readily onto the bench and watching his teammates play with bated breath.

“…hihh—!”

Okay, not so much bated breath, maybe. The sneeze had snuck up on him, but he’d been fighting them off all evening, increasingly more as the game went on. This tickle was insistent, though, and he was exhausted and worn down by all the energy he’d spent playing. Unable to help himself, he snapped forward with the sneeze, hastily buried into the elbow of his jersey. “hiiihh’tiisschhoohh!”

The sneeze was damp, airy, and not half as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be. He sniffled on the inhale of his next breath, and the tickle burst back into life, forcing him to immediately hitch and sneeze again on the exhale. “…sndff… huhh—tchh’shhuhh!”

Fuck, he could feel eyes on him. Maybe even the cameras. He prayed that this wasn’t being broadcast to the whole stadium. He couldn’t check himself, because his eyes were still shut tight, his head rearing back as he got ready for another one.

“hetchhshh!” he exploded for the third time, this sneeze wetter and heavier than the others.

It seemed to be the last, for now. He emerged from his elbow, feeling the redness in his cheeks as he caught the eyes of his teammates watching him. He sniffled, dragging his arm under his nose when that wasn’t enough to stop the flood, and he cringed at how disgusting that was.

The game ended soon after, wrapping up their advance to the next round of the playoffs like he’d hoped. Shane hurried his way through his shower and cool-down, ready to get home. He checked his phone first chance he got, seeing several texts from Ilya commentating on the game throughout.

And then, the most recent text, from the last few minutes of the game:

Lily: God bless you sweetheart! That looked like a strong fit. I will have tissues ready for you when you get home ❤️

Well, that was confirmation that the cameras had caught him all sick and sneezy for the audiences at home to see. Shane knew he was blushing down at his phone, and he hoped his teammates didn’t notice. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the text, only letting Ilya know in a brief message when he was leaving the stadium.

The car ride home was quick, or at least he thought it was, but he was really starting to fade now that the adrenaline from the game was wearing off. Time was losing its meaning. Before he knew it, he was stumbling out of the car and up to his apartment. The elevator ride was equally hazy, and by the time he made it to his door, all he could focus on was the idea of his bed, with Ilya in it. That, and the resurging tickle in his nose.

He pushed his way through the front door just as the tickle caught up to him. Helpless to stop it, and not really in the mood to try to crush it down, for once he just let himself sneeze as loudly as his body needed to. He bent forward at the waist, barely catching a pair of violent, huge sneezes in his cupped hands.

“HUUPPSSCHHOOHH! huhh… sndff… huh-huh… hh’HUUTTSSCHHOOOHH!”

Jesus Christ, that had felt agonizingly good. He panted into his hands for a second, trying to see if there would be more, and decided that that had been enough to satisfy his sinuses for now. He sniffled thickly and straightened.

Ilya, who’d been approaching, stood in front of him, a little frozen in shock from the outburst he’d just witnessed. He blinked and recovered, coming up to hug Shane and produce a handful of tissues for him from his pocket. “Big big sneezes, malysh!” he exclaimed. “Game wear you out? You played well.”

He’d have played much better healthy, but Shane wasn’t in the mood to diagnose his errors tonight. That was unusual for him, but he was just too tired, and Ilya’s arms around him were so warm…

He took the tissues and blew his nose, cringing when he filled the tissues immediately. “Ugh, thangks,” he said, his voice more of a congested rasp than it had been just an hour ago. “Umb, do you have andy mbore…?”

Ilya readily handed over more tissues, and Shane blew his nose again, coughing a little afterward. His nose felt clearer, though, and his head was not-unpleasantly foggy as his body and brain equally decided they were ready to give up for the night. “Bed?” he suggested hopefully.

Ilya laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the bedroom. “Once you have your meds again,” he said, “you can lay down. And maybe, if you are good, I will rub your back again.”

Shane felt pretty sure he’d be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, massage be damned, but he let Ilya talk up the prospect of it anyway as he put on pajamas and took a dose of the nighttime stuff that Ilya had carefully measured out for him. He could cash in on the massage tomorrow, maybe, when he undoubtedly woke up feeling achy and exhausted after exacerbating his cold with tonight’s game.

And maybe, in a couple of days when Ilya inevitably started sneezing and coughing himself, Shane could flip the tables around and return the favor. He was feeling pretty grateful, after all.

“Thangks for all this,” he said throatily, half from illness and half from emotion, as he curled into Ilya’s arms in bed. It couldn’t have even been midnight, but Ilya hadn’t protested the early bedtime at all, and that was making him feel more mushy than usual with this cold fucking with his emotions. “Taking care of mbe, I mbean. Staying.”

Ilya squeezed him a little tighter, like Shane was going to slip out of his arms. “I would not be anywhere else,” was his unusually serious response. “I love you, moya lyubov.”

Shane felt his eyes drifting shut. “Love you too,” he mumbled, just as he fell asleep.

[sickromancer]

That ideal cold sneeze. The ah-part has a horrible phlegmy rattle to it, and the choo-part is eye-watering and slobbery, they need to wipe their mouth afterwards.

[silentsneezes]

Cursed - Part Two

CW — illness, fever, dizziness, sneezing. Takes place around 6 months after season 1, prior to season 2.

D/ennis has been cursed, he’s sure of it. With how terrible his day has been, it must be true… And if this “curse” just so happens to correspond with flu-like symptoms, so what? He doesn’t know the internal workings of whichever etsy witch or wizard had been paid to target him. AKA D/ennis Wh/itaker gets called in to the ED on his first day off all week. He gradually realizes that the headache he sported the day prior was his body’s way of warning him that he had caught cold. As his day progresses, he makes a list of "things that are going wrong today."

After part one, which can be found here, the list is as follows:

Woken up early

Called into work

Empty tissue box

Ran to the bus-stop

No food

No keys

A curse

With that said, here's part two beneath the cut!

The average city block in the US ranges from 250 to 1250 feet, usually falling on the shorter end of the spectrum. Grid-based city blocks are typically around 330 feet– not too long, not too short. A perfect Goldilocks of a block, if you think about it. 

Pittsburgh blocks, on the other hand, are whatever the fuck they want to be. Dennis had done a fair amount of research about Pittsburgh when he first moved to the city. He needed to know the public transit systems, the walking time from shelter to ED, the easiest routes, and safest areas for squatting. So, naturally, he’d learned about the lack of a standard grid system. He vaguely recounts a report about the abnormally challenging, hilly topography of the city– too many inclines, rivers, and unnatural terrains for there to be much organization in the street’s layouts. It’s called a colliding grid, he thinks, or something along those lines. 

To the ongoing list, he adds:

8. Colliding grid blocks 

Because of course the two blocks between the bus stop and the ED have to be the longest blocks imaginable, much closer to the 1250 feet range than the blessedly short 250. The slight uphill gradient doesn’t help, nor does the uneven sidewalk with more cracks and bumps than flat surface. 

Equally as unhelpful is his nose's inability to stop running. He has to stop every twenty or so paces to wipe at the appendage, refusing to blow it and forgo his last functioning tissue unless it proves to be absolutely necessary. 

Sneaker-clad feet drag against the pavement, their ache increasing with every break he has to take. Dennis has grown rather fond of his shoes, even with Trinity’s teasing that he shares the same style as her deceased grandmother. ‘They support my arches’ had been Dennis’s defense in buying them, stylish or not (definitely not). Afterall, he’s on his feet all day at work, he might as well make an effort to accommodate his body. 

Despite these efforts to make his body more comfortable, he can feel it staging a full fledged protest to being upright. Every time his foot meets the ground, the force of the concrete reverberates up through his leg, pinching at every joint it meets. Then, his legs propel him forwards with a stilt-like, uncoordinated gate, only for his other foot to hit the ground. And so on and so forth. 

Upon making it to the ED, Dennis plants himself on a bench just outside the ambulance bay. He knows he should buck up and go inside. People have it worse off than he does; he’s not bleeding, not broken, not needing medical attention. He’s just… cursed. 

The bench’s metal feels cool against his skin and he presses both of his palms to it, ignoring whatever germs are clinging to its surface. A brief reprieve from the heat works its way from his hands up his forearms, leaving a spattering of goosebumps that disappear after a few seconds. He shivers, and they reappear, intermixing with the light freckles speckled over his upper arms. For a second, he stills, and then another shiver sparks through his spine, his body caught in a dance between hot and cold. 

Dennis internally groans, wishing he’d thought to put a long sleeve beneath his scrub top as his overstimulated system settles on another shiver and a sudden chill. He knows he needs to stop sulking outside, to pull himself together and clock in, but the idea of spending all day on his feet is enough to keep him seated. Just one more minute, he reasons. What’s the harm in taking one more minute for himself? 

A distant ringing of sirens echoes through Dennis’s mind as it draws nearer– is the ringing from the sirens? The sound isn’t quite right, not the typical chorus of ambulance blaring, but something louder, harsher. It ricochets from one ear to the other before bouncing back, working its way through Dennis’s brain in piercing jolts. 

“Whitaker?” 

Dennis’s eyes open, adjusting to the sight of a man standing in front of him. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed; they must have slipped shut of their own volition. After a painfully slow second, Dennis recognizes the figure that addressed him, mentally scolding himself for not having done so sooner. 

“Dr. Abbot– whadt are you doing here?” 

“Massive MVC. Six incoming patients with severe injury, countless others still on scene.” Jack answers, recounting the medical details that had slipped from Dennis’s mind. “All hands on deck.”

Right. There was a reason for Dennis having dragged himself out of bed and to the ED. Work. He’s working. And yet his mind lingers for a second too long on the number six, the mention dredging up thoughts about the man from the bus and his evident curse.

Jack’s eyes flick over Dennis’s form, scanning him head to toe. The older man’s lips curve into a slight frown as he catalogues the obvious signs of illness afflicting the other doctor; Dennis remains oblivious to the expression. He’s too busy willing himself to stand, silently egging on his legs to do the things they’re supposed to do– such as taking more than one step without stumbling and functioning non-mechanically. 

    9. Legs

When Dennis finally does stand, he chances a quick glance at Jack– the timid, hesitant kind of glance that he reserves for the twice-his-age-attendings that he finds particularly attractive– and, to his surprise, is met with Jack’s unfaltering gaze. An embarrassed flush blooms over Dennis’s cheeks, mixing with the previous fever pink tint and making him look even more overheated than he previously had. 

“So… shall we?” He gestures towards the ambulance bay doors, silently cursing himself for saying ‘shall we’ to his attending; he hasn’t even entered the ED yet and he’s already proven himself socially incompetent. 

“We shall.” Jack juts his chin towards the doors, a small movement, but one that Dennis reads clearly enough as a prompt for him to enter first. 

The chaos of the ED hits Dennis all at once, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body the second he steps inside. As always, there’s a chorus of medical equipment beeping, blaring, and ringing, but that’s just the undercurrent to the swell of shouting. Everyone is working over one another, weaving around gurneys with clusters of doctors and nurses working to the MVC patients– at least, those who have already arrived. 

Across the room, Dennis catches a glimpse of Trinity performing CPR on a seemingly unresponsive patient, but he doesn’t have the time to give her a second thought. Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing firm before he disappears into the mess of medical professionals. 

Dennis joins the frey too, his body’s autopilot winning over his brain’s fever muddled antics. He jumps onto a case with McKay– a 25 year old male, responsive at the scene, car shrapnel penetrating the chest, broken ribs from the crash’s impact, lung sliding on the left. The patient crashes twenty minutes into treatment; Dennis reclaims his title as the ED’s resident LUCAS machine. 

Robby swoops into the patients room just as they get the patient back, his pulse thready but present. “Who’s this?” He asks, already slipping a pair of gloves over his hands as he approaches the patient’s bedside. His eyes flick from the patient’s vitals, over their chest and abdomen, to McKay, and then to Dennis. It’s only when his gaze reaches the younger doctor that he falters– not from the protruding foreign body in the patient’s chest, nor the blood soaked sheets, but rather the sight of Whitaker sweat soaked and swaying beside the patient’s bed. 

“Marcus Haynes. 25,” McKay rattles off the patient’s known demographics before diving into his physical traumas, symptoms, and treatment. Robby’s hands work their way over the patient’s torso, carrying out an exam as if by instinct as he listens. 

“Good. Page surgery again.” Robby peels off his gloves with a snap. “Tell them it’s urgent. This patient can’t afford to wait for their hour-long stroll down the stairwell.”

The sharp sound of the gloves breaks through Dennis’s reverie. He had been standing idly by, barely cognizant of McKay’s words in the wake of exerting himself to perform CPR. Beads of sweat slip down the center of his back, pooling above the waistband of his scrub pants and slowly seeping into the fabric. Sweat collects on his face too, threatening to form full drops and roll over his flushed cheeks; he swipes absentmindedly at his forehead before they can reach that point. 

“Whitaker. You alright?” 

Dennis looks towards Robby, nodding belatedly. “Yeah.” Another nod. “Yes, I’m good.” 

The attending pauses, eyebrows raised as he watches Dennis wipe his forehead again. “Alright. You’re with me then. Another rig is four minutes out.”

Dennis nods once more, trying to ignore the evergrowing sinking sensation in his stomach. Whatever spurt of adrenaline had carried him through the first patient has left him high and dry– or, rather, feverish and sweat soaked. He follows Robby towards the ambulance bay, weaving through the crowd with much less coordination than necessary. He bumps into at least three people on the way, nearly trips over his own feet, and lets his hip collide with a passing gurney. If he was in a contest for socially and professionally inadequate doctors, he’d win by a long shot, he’s sure of it. 

By some miracle, he manages to make it to the ambulance bay without completely humiliating himself. He didn’t faceplant in front of the nurses station, at the very least. Plus, the air is cooler outside, fresher, less suffocatingly sterile. As the automatic doors slip shut behind him and Robby, they leave a pleasant quietness in their wake. Sure, the sounds of ambulance sirens are ebbing closer with every passing second, bringing with them the promise of more chaos, but at least there’s a pleasant breeze, right?

“So, called in on your day off, huh?” Robby’s tone is conversational, but his eyes narrow as they take in Dennis’s appearance. 

“Yeah, I guess so– er, well, I know so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, obviously.” 

     10. Making conversation with my boss while feverish cursed

Robby’s eyes soften slightly, a fondness easing his evident concern; he’s always enjoyed how easily Dennis blushes. 

“Hopefully you’re not here for too long. Except I can’t make any promises, these–”

“kzXCHh!” 

The sneeze takes the two doctors equally by surprise– Robby at having been interrupted and Dennis at having absolutely no warning for the expulsion. He raises a hand to his face, catching the second, “isXSch’ew!” against his wrist. 

“shifts tend to––,” Robby resumes, continuing his sentence in the brief gap before another “h’txCh–itSch!” double gets muffled by Dennis’s sleeve. 

“–drag on much longer when our systems get bogged down,” this time, Robby pauses his speech rather than being interrupted, allowing just enough time for Dennis to hitch twice and sneeze another fittish triple, “hih’hhH–ksxch’sch’tzch!”

“But for all we know,” Robby stretches his arms above his head, though his eyes remain trained on Dennis, “we might both make it home in time for dinner.”

Dennis buries his nose in his elbow, once again wishing he’d worn an undershirt beneath his scrubs as he feels a bead of moisture press to his skin. He waits, the tickle dancing just beyond his reach, enough to make his breath hitch and eyes water, but not enough to heighten the sensation into anything more than irritation. 

Dennis teeters on the edge, remaining tucked in the same position as he waits. He can feel Robby’s gaze on him and it makes his cheeks flush a darker shade of pink. 

Finally, his breath snags in something more than just a breathless gasp, spurring a light cough and then a half-stifled, “h’gtch!” He hadn’t intended on stifling, but the sneeze gets caught behind the wall of congestion solidifying in his nose. The following sneeze makes more of an effort to escape, but it still gets stuck behind his teeth, failing into a breathy, soft end: “ig’ksst!”  

Unsatisfied with the unexpelled half-sneezes, he shakes his head lightly– a bad idea in retrospect, it does nothing more than make him dizzy. Then, his head bobs forwards with a final vocal, “ik’tSSHh-ue!” that leaves the crook of his elbow dusted with a light spray. 

Dennis gives an involuntary sniffle afterwards, the pent up congestion now threatening to run over his lip like some post-fit humiliation ritual. 

    11. Sneezing in front of my boss

“You done?” Robby’s voice falls somewhere between amused, endeared, and concerned– not upset though, miraculously. Dennis nods and emerges from his elbow, remembering the crumpled excuse of a tissue he has shoved in his pocket from this morning and fumbling to retrieve it. “Bless you.”

     12. Being blessed by my boss

“Thangk you.”

The tissue does a poor job at cleaning him up. Already crumpled from inhabiting his pocket, its structural integrity isn’t nearly as strong as he needs it to be. He resorts to half sniffling, half wiping his nose with his body turned away from Robby as the sirens draw nearer. 

Robby watches, mentally toeing between the ideas of pointing out Dennis’s illness or giving him the benefit of the doubt– although it’s becoming evident to him that the younger doctor doesn’t know when to call it quits. “So,” he begins, but he’s interrupted. He’d underestimated how close the ambulance was to the bay; he’s been at the pitt long enough to be able to identify when a rig is going to pull up to the second, but he’s been uncharacteristically distracted. 

The sirens’ sound grows tenfold as they approach at haphazard speeds, spinning around Dennis’s head as he stares loosely in the direction of the ambulance. He shoves his sodden tissue unceremoniously back into his pocket and finds a pair of gloves held just before his eyeline. With a quick nod of thanks to Robby– a disjointed, slow jerk of his head– he accepts them and starts fumbling to pull them over his clammy hands. 

“What’ve we got?” Robby snaps into action, meeting the paramedics at the rig’s back door and immediately beginning his examination of the patient. Dennis tries to keep up, rushing to follow Robby’s lead and nearly bumping straight into his back in the process. Smooth, Dennis, he mentally chides. 

“50 year old female. She was an unrestrained passenger in the vehicle when–” 

Dennis prays that his adrenaline will take the reins again, silently willing his body to listen, to move, to attend to his surroundings, and to practice medicine– easy, right? 

“Dana, we need a room!” Robby calls across the ED once they make it past the entrance, his hands already carrying out a partial exam. 

“Trauma Two’s open!” Dana bellows back. As always, she’s working in the center of the chaos, acting as the pillar that keeps the whole damn place upright. 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby casts a quick glance around, “McKay! Javadi” 

The resident and student doctor join them in the trauma room at record speed, immediately getting the patient’s run-down, which, admittedly, was helpful for Dennis to hear again. A portable ultrasound is shoved into his hand, his other clutching loosely at a bottle of gel– when had he grabbed that?– “Dennis!” Javadi whispers, giving his elbow a slight nudge and snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Right– uh. Checking for lung sliding,” he spurs into action, his medical knowledge still miraculously intact despite his growing fever. “No lung sliding on the left,” he reports as the other doctors attend to Robby’s instructions, “the right’s clear too. Checking the abdomen next.” 

Robby steps back, allowing Dennis to take his place by the patient’s abdomen and position himself for the ultrasound. The room swirls around him for just a moment, its white walls blurring into a bright haze that forces Dennis to blink a few times to right his vision. One of Robby’s hands settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

As distracting as Robby’s touch can be, it brings Dennis back to his body for a moment, back to the fact that he’s actively treating a patient. “Uh– the gel’s a bit cold, sorry,” he announces to the (unconscious) patient out of habit as he begins the ultrasound. McKay and Javadi exchange a look of concern. 

Dennis glides the ultrasound wand across the patient’s stomach, eyes straining to focus on the screen, “there’s free fluid in the belly.” That gets Robby’s attention immediately. He peers at the screen, reaching over to adjust Dennis’s hand ever so slightly before nodding. 

“Yep. It looks like a splenic injury. Javadi, what are our next steps?”

Dennis stares downwards, watching as Robby’s hand once again steers his own to get a different angle. He shouldn’t need help with an ultrasound, but his hand melts under Robby’s, suddenly incapable of moving without guidance. A tingling sensation pools in the tips of his fingers, and Dennis is unable to decipher if it’s from the fact that Robby’s hand is dwarfing his or if it's from the dizziness tugging at his consciousness. 

Another nudge to his elbow– harder this time– makes Dennis jerk his head upright. All three of the doctors have their eyes trained on him, so he sputters out a quiet, “sorry!” 

Before anyone can acknowledge Dennis’s behavior, Mohan opens the door in a rush, “Robby! We need you in Trauma One!” and with that, the attending is gone and McKay takes the lead. 

Luckily, she knows to delegate most of the tasks to Javadi, giving Dennis simpler instructions and double checking his work. Within thirty minutes, the patient is stable and awaiting surgery, and he’s off the case. 

Within the same thirty minute period, however, his symptoms start hitting him over the head like bricks one after the other: dizziness, headache (which makes the dizziness worse), congestion (which makes the headache worse), and body aches (which make the whole damn day worse). 

    13. Worsening symptoms of my cold curse

As Dennis finally steps out of Trauma Two, he’s met with a resurgence of the pitt’s chaos. More rigs have arrived since he’d last been in the bay, bringing with them emergent patients, some of whom were overflowing into the main halls. 

His eyes flick from patient to patient, his brain lagging as he tries to deduce who to help first. The decision is made for him when Abbot spots him standing idly by, “Whitaker!”

Dennis crosses the sea of gurneys, nurses, and doctors to where Abbot is treating a tearful patient. 

“She has an anterior shoulder dislocation. You’re going to help me reduce it,” Abbot instructs, eyes narrowing as he meets Dennis’s gaze, “got it?”

Dennis nods, looking over the patient's dislocation before recounting, “there’s skin tenting, most likely due to a bone fracture, so… traction-counteraction is needed. Then we can treat the break after.”

Abbot gives Dennis a onceover before bracing himself by the patient’s head and getting into position. “You’re going to provide counteraction. Make sure you’ve got a sturdy stance.” 

He tsks at Dennis, tilting his head to the side and gesturing with a nod of his head for Dennis to shift. “Spread your legs wider. Your feet shouldn’t be aligned with your hips.” 

Dennis adjusts, earning a nod of approval as he tries desperately not to think about the way Jack’s voice had sounded when he instructed him to spread his legs; fever or not, his attraction to his attending persists. 

The reduction itself goes relatively smoothly all things considered, but it seems to zap Dennis’s remaining energy. Sweat is still dripping down his back and pooling in his scrubs, and he’s certain that the pitt has never been hotter. He swipes his wrist across his forehead, collecting an embarrassing amount of sweat and wiping it against his scrubs– thank God they’re dark. He doesn’t need everyone to know just how incapable his body is at regulating its temperature right now. 

To make things worse, Dennis’s sinuses prickle angrily as he inhales, enough to make his eyes water. The sensation takes root in the left side of his nose, worsening with the next inhale, which stutters halfway through and falls into a fluttering exhale. Still standing by the patient’s bedside next to Dr Abbot, Dennis stalls; his feet plant themselves stubbornly in place, refusing to move until the itch is attended to. Two soft hitches build on one another and Dennis presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He can feel his brows knitting together, eyes slipping shut just as the third and fourth hitches make it past his lips. The final hitch is determined, filling his chest with its inhale. Nose buried in his elbow, Dennis shudders with a congested stifle, “n’kGXt!” 

His head bobs down hard and quick, the action unplanting his feet and causing him to stumble towards Jack a few steps. The attending’s hands land on Dennis’s sides, bracing him with a surprised, “Jesus, kid.”

Dennis leans into the touch, his body overwhelmed by– “hn’gxXt!”– the itch that’s now searing through his sinuses, having traveled from just the left side to what feels like his entire nose– “ih’ngXCch!” 

By instinct, Dennis tries to stifle, but his attempts just worsen his body’s need to expel the cold from its system, resulting in a quick gasp and then a cluster of sneezes that tumble out over one another, “ig’ksSst! ngXch-ksch!iih’ksSCHh! kK’tTsSCHhy’w!”

The fit leaves Dennis panting, dizzy, and with his nose running into the crevice of his elbow. He keeps his head bowed and hidden, but an embarrassed blush reddens his ears and neck. 

“Bl–” Jack begins, but Dennis cuts him off with a belated, “t’sSXch’ehw!” to which an older man raises an eyebrow. Abbot hesitates for a second, letting any final sneezes make themselves known before attempting to bless the younger doctor again. 

“Bless. You trying to set a record or something?” 

“No, I’m— sorry. I’m nodt—,” Whitaker begins, words falling from his mouth without any real coherence. The itch lingers in the back of his throat, each word egging it on until, “hnGjXch! S-hihh’iSZSHh!—sorry!” 

A liquid sniffle follows Dennis’s apology, and he shoves his free hand into his pocket in a vain hope that it would contain a tissue. No such luck. He sniffles a second time, then a third, his nose still tucked into the crook of his elbow. Luckily, the sniffles are lost to the chaos of the ED, stamped out by sounds of medical machinery and a chorus of voices. 

Dennis pointedly avoids Jack’s gaze, his eyes skirting around for the nearest exit from the overcrowded room. He can feel the attending’s hands over his scrubs, bracing him with a sturdiness that he desperately needs. 

The nurses station is crowded as ever, as is the rest of the pitt. An overflow of patient beds lines the hallways, blocking the exit nearest to Dennis. Fine, that’s fine. He just has to cross by South 15, pass the breakroom, and take a few minutes in the stairwell by the family room. 

“Sorry,” Dennis offers again, his brain churning out the same useless apology as it works through the molasses clouding his judgement. 

“Whitaker.” Jack’s hold on Dennis’s waist continues, his grip growing firmer as the student doctor takes a step forward. 

Dennis’s fever-addled brain miscalculates. Lifting just a few inches off the ground, his foot collides clumsily with Abbot’s sneaker, missing the ground entirely and instead landing on the toe of his prosthetic. 

Fumbling to find his footing, Dennis feels the room spin as he tries to lift his leg again; the limb shifts off of Jack’s foot, landing on solid ground by some miracle. 

The heat that’s been sitting dormant beneath Dennis’s skin now sears to the forefront of his mind, blurring his vision. His body practically wilts: legs shaking, posture slumping, and head swimming. 

Oh. Shit. 

He just barely registers, “Alright kid, stay with me. You’re alright.” 

Dennis tries to nod, to get his tongue to do anything more than sit like a rock in his mouth. He wants to agree– yes, I am alright– but all he manages is another whispered apology as he slumps further towards Abbot. 

“Fuck!” Jack hooks his arms beneath Dennis’s, keeping the younger— surprisingly buff— doctor upright. He barks, “Robby!!” as he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching his fellow attending in his line of sight. 

that's all for now ~ any and all comments/tags are appreciated :) thank you for reading!

also I think it's funny the places that snzfic brings me because I spent a good amount of time looking up Pittsburgh colliding blocks as well as info about shoulder dislocations... whoops

[sky-snz]

heyo! love your stuff! if you're in the mood for writing a long one person script i have a suggestion: a full day's progression of someone's really terrible cold. they start the day thinking it's nothing and going to work/uni with it, and by evening they are at urgent care getting swabbed for the flu. i'm such a sucker for these lmao

hey anon, I've totally got you. thanks for this, hope you like it <3

the art installation

7:50AM

“Hey. Did you have the last dino egg oatmeal packet? … Oh, here it is. No, I, *g’hm*… I just want something warm. Thanks for collapsing the box.”

“Eight o’clock. I just got up a bit late. Install starts today. I have a full crew called.”

“Vitamins? Wha- I don’t sound weird, I just got up. Fine. Mmm. Chalky.”

9:24AM

“Can you help us bring in the delivery?”

“The- *ah’hemm-g’rmm!* Sorry, the delivery.”

“We’ve got everything we need from carp, but the window still needs rigging hardware, *snff!* so while we move it in, can your guys take care of that? Excellent.”

“How’s the- heHt’Chxgnn-!!-uhh, ‘Scuse me, thank you. Do we have enough- haht’TCHIUHh!! Unh. *snrff!* Sorry. Umb…”

1:02PM

“It’s how she ha’ded it to mbe. *snnrff!* You could see the mbasodite jutting out from behind. I just bade a desciod, took like five bidutes.”

“Okay, I’ll ask her dext tibe.”

“*snnrk!* ….Umb, yeah… *snrff!* Sorry, it’s probably all the dust frob the shop.”

“Uh, after rigging, we still deed to paidt the studio floor, and, umb… Sorry, I thigk I bight sdeeze…”

“…hh-Hh! hih! Oh, is it dot—? Heih! Ohh… Sorry. *snrgk!*”

“But yeah, the… the floor’hh…. hhzZZSCHHIOOO!!! *snnrgk!* Scuse be, lord. *ahem!* Yeah, I’b fide.”

“I did take my break. *snrf!*”

2:15PM

“hh’Thagk you’hh… *hsnnrffh* Yeah. What’s up? Uh, I thigk we bight leave paidti’g for last today. I- hAAESCHhiu!! -Whad? hiHH-! HAAESSCHHIU!!”

“*snrgk!* Sorry, I’b- yY’ESSCHHIOO!! Just give be… ooh… a hot seco’d- eiyY’ESSCHIUE-!!”

…

“Cad’t talk right dow. I’b soh-hiiHh-!”

“hhdt'SCHHIEWW!! AASSHIEWWw!! -heiH?? HAASSHIEWW!!!”

“*sddrff! gsnrf~* Sorry. Thagks. See ya.”

…

*slam, click*

"hhhhHH,”

“HAAAESCHIEWWw!!”

“-ESCHHIUE-!!! heHh! HAAED’SCHIUHhh!!! -AASSCHHIUE-!!!”

“*sddrk*…. g’hh…. h-hihh-??”

“hAAEESCHIEWW!!! *koF, KoFF!* Eesschiew!! -isschiew!!”

“hhhHHHH-?”

“HAASSCHHhioo-!!”

...

“ughh…”

…..

“*koF, sdrf!*”

“….*ahem~*….“

…

“-hAAESSHIEUHh!! -Fugck’s sake, *snNDRFF!*”

2:57PM

“Hmb? *sdrf!* We’re still riggi’g, but- oh. Like, just mbe? I’b… a little tired.”

“Yeah. Baybe. I’ve beed sdeezi’g all day, but I thought it was just allergies.”

“Really? I’b that warb?”

“…Okay.”

…

“Hey, ub. I’b taki’g off. *hsngk* Text be if you have ady questiods.”

3:20PM

“Hi… Ndo, I’b still id the waiti’g roob. UHt’CHIUHhh!! *snrg!* Thagks. Doe, you dod’t have to cobe, I- dt'CHIEWW-!! Ah. *sdrff!* Thagk you. *snrk!* I’ll just cobe hobe right after.”

“But… uhh… I- hiHh-! HAAED’TCHIEWW!!! *snngk!* Ah,*sddrfh!* Unh... I’b so sorry. *sngk!* Thadk you.”

“…Okay. *hsnrf* I’ll see you sood.”

[ari-snez-art]

Zo//oto//pia sneeze commission featuring Ni//ck Wi//lde and an intruder. Artwork by me; please do not share on any non-fetish or non-kink blogs.

[sneezestuck]

Insult to Injury - A Week.end at Bern.ie’s fic, part 3/?

We’ve made it to chapter 3, so now I can a) start sprinkling in all my Sad Headcanons™, and b) make Larry cry. Just a little, as a treat. 80s-era And.rew McCa.rthy was an incredibly pretty crier so that was a big factor in my decision.

CW for some description of mess, contagion (all but confirmed at this point), mentions of prescribed opioid use, and mentions of grief (specifically the death of a parent). This fic also spoils the ending of the film Terms of Endearment if that matters to anyone, and is a bit over 5,000 words long.

Part 1 is here, and part 2 is here. Thank you for the smattering of likes and reblogs so far, it means the world to me that some people are enjoying my fic about this most unlikely hyperfixation of mine!

---

Richard got drenched. It almost would have been funny, how wet he was, if he wasn’t so cold, and if his chinos weren’t suctioned to his legs in a most uncomfortable manner, and if his shoes didn’t squeak with every step. He was shivering hard by the time he got back to Larry’s, his nose running and his hair plastered to his forehead. He was glad, for more than one reason, that Larry was still asleep. 

He abandoned his sneakers at the door out of respect for Larry’s carpet. After dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter, he struggled out of the blue button-down he had on (also plastered to him and dark with rain) and then stood, still shivering and now shirtless, in the kitchen. This wouldn’t do. He helped himself to a towel from Larry’s linen closet and tried not to cringe at how poorly organised it was. He got his hair somewhat dry, but his clothes were beyond saving. Biting the bullet, he went into Larry’s room.

Larry, bless him, was sleeping like a disheveled angel. He was snoring a little, his mouth slightly open, a Kleenex crushed unconsciously in the palm of his good hand. His cast still sat heavily on a pillow, and he was in more or less the same position Richard had left him in. Not daring to wake him when he finally looked somewhat comfortable, Richard decided to ask for forgiveness later rather than permission now. 

He opened Larry’s wardrobe as quietly as possible. It too was organised haphazardly, a blur of loud colours and prints with no obvious sections for different types of garments - in other words, the exact opposite of how Richard kept his own wardrobe. After a few tense moments of rummaging, trying hard not to make a sound or knock anything over, he found some sweatpants. He started to repeat the process, looking for a shirt this time, when the mattress springs groaned softly behind him. Richard froze, held his breath, and waited for Larry to drift back into obliviousness. But after a moment…

“Rich?” His voice, fried from mouth-breathing, was barely audible.

Richard grimaced. “Sorry, Lar,” he said in a loud whisper, realising too late that whispering was pointless if Larry was already awake. “Go back to sleep.”

Larry snuffled and cleared his throat, then squinted at Richard with bleary eyes. “Where’s your shirt?”

Richard grimaced harder, if that was possible. “I went to get a few groceries and got caught in the rain. Mind if I borrow some clothes?”

“‘Course dnot,” Larry replied, his words bleeding into each other, and Richard could tell he was seconds away from falling back to sleep. “Take the…” he paused, yawning. “Take the blue sweatshirt. The Rangers one.” Richard caught a glimpse of a sleepy smile before Larry lay his head back on the pillow, nestling into it. “S’my warmest one…”

Richard couldn’t help smiling too, the warmth of the gesture almost translating some literal warmth back into his frozen extremities. “Thanks, buddy,” he murmured, finding the sweatshirt and bundling it into his arms. On his way out, he paused by Larry’s bedside to straighten the covers over him. “Keep getting some rest, huh? I’ve got it from here.”

Larry’s only response was a raspy little snore, which Richard took as his cue to exit.

—

After getting changed in Larry’s bathroom and relegating his wet clothes to the plastic grocery bag from the bodega, Richard felt marginally better. He was still chilled, and regretted choosing not to have a hot shower to warm up (and to wash off the Aqua Net residue that had no doubt run down his neck after getting his hair soaking wet), but it felt nice to collapse back onto Larry’s couch in cozy borrowed clothes. The royal blue New York Rangers sweatshirt was warm, like Larry had said, and the sweatpants were potentially the same ones Larry had owned since he was nineteen, worn to a state of cottony softness. The downpour continued in earnest, splattering the windows and providing a comforting hum of background noise, which added an extra layer of coziness to the afternoon. Richard would have almost been comfortable enough to doze off if not for the fact that he was still sniffling, a familiar allergic itch lingering in his sinuses and the tender space at the very back of his throat.

He had to get up at one point to answer the phone, catching it on the first ring before it could wake Larry. It ended up being Larry’s mother, who was checking in her own aloof but well-meaning way that her son was alright. She seemed relieved to hear Richard’s voice, and declined his offer to wake Larry and get him on the phone. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands, dear,” was how she put it. 

Richard sneezed the second she rang off, startling even himself, and was forced to open the new box of tissues. He carried it back to the couch with him, resigning himself to hold down the fort a bit longer, at least until the storm let up, or more realistically, until Larry didn’t need him.

—

When Larry finally emerged more than an hour later, most of the daylight had faded and if anything the storm had worsened. Spears of lightning came with increasing frequency, colouring the sky purple every few minutes. 

“Hey,” Larry croaked, then cleared his throat behind a closed fist. He’d pulled on his favourite flannel bathrobe, the sleeves wide enough to allow his cast through easily. His hair was mussed beyond all reason. Cocking his head weakly towards the window, he said, “I was right about the stormb.”

“Yes, you were. Good job, Nostradamus.” Richard set down the magazine he’d been half-heartedly reading and looked at Larry properly. “How are you feeling?”

Larry looked drowsy, but perhaps a little refreshed by his two hour long nap. If nothing else, the circles around his eyes weren’t quite so dark. “Okay, I guess.” He knuckled at his nose with his good hand and sniffled. “Still gross, but okay.”

Richard nodded encouragingly. “That’s a good start. And your wrist?”

After dropping onto the couch beside Richard, Larry inspected his cast and wiggled his fingers, or at least what was visible of them. “Sore. Not unbearable, though.” Dropping his arm heavily into his lap, Larry looked at Richard as if noticing him for the first time and frowned. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” 

Larry looked pointedly at the box of tissues that was wedged between Richard’s thigh and the arm of the couch, then back at his face. Richard had a sudden bad feeling that maybe his nose was noticeably pink. “You getting my cold already?”

“Of course not,” Richard replied, dismissing the accusation with a vague wave of his hand. “It’s just fall allergies. And, y’know, getting caught in the rain didn’t help…” Even just admitting that much was a little embarrassing. More embarrassing still was the fact that just talking about it was making his nose want to drip. He sniffled as quietly as possible, determined not to look as pathetic as he felt.

“Jesus, I thought I dreabed that codversatiod,” Larry snickered, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and dragging it over his legs. “What kind of… heh…” He paused, rubbed hard at his nose, and tried to continue like nothing had happened. “What kind of growd man gets laid out by a liiihhttle rain?” 

Richard stared at him, deadpan. “You’re making fun of me, but you’re literally fending off a sneeze as we speak?”

“Ahh…? Am not,” Larry replied, a blatant lie canceled out by the fact that his eyes were struggling to stay open and his head had tipped back on instinct, caught up in the intensity of the tickle. “Hehh…? Hedd’szchhue!” He snapped forward with the effort of the wet, stuffy-headed sneeze, his good wrist shielding the spray. He half-raised his head afterwards, nostrils still twitching, chest still working on a series of breathy inhales, and it didn’t take Richard’s powers of ‘best friend telepathy’ to know that one little sneeze wasn’t enough to clear that itch. 

“C’mon, Lar,” he said, a hint of teasing coming into his tone as he deposited the box of tissues between them for when Larry was done. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Larry’s breath scissored. He stared through half-lidded eyes at the wall behind the TV, looking tortured as he waited for his much-abused nose to make a decision. Eventually, another sneeze broke through the barrier - “schhhue!” - though just a small one again. It just seemed to make the tickle worse. Two more itchy, useless sneezes followed - “ettschh! Hettschhh!” - and he was left gasping and hitching for a moment before the rest tumbled out. “Ehhh… HEHH…! HEDZZSCH’UE! HETSCHOOO! Uhh’huh…? Hah…? AHDT’CHIEWWW!!” He’d tried covering with his wrist at first, but the last few just ended up being directed at the floor, as if the itch was so bad he couldn’t bear to let anything come between his nose and the sweet relief of a massive, head-clearing sneezing fit. 

“Uh, wow,” Richard remarked lamely when it seemed to be over, torn somewhere between concern and awe. He was pretty sure even the neighbours must have heard that. “Bless you. Are you okay?” 

Larry breathed raggedly through his mouth as he caught his breath, his nose streaming too badly to be of any use to him. “Oh by god,” he moaned, blinking so that irritated tears dislodged from his lashes and inched miserably down his cheeks. “B’sorry. I just really… ugh…” he broke off, scrubbing his nose with his closed fist, producing a sickly squelch-squelch noise as he ground his knuckles back and forth. “Really had to sdeeze.”

“Clearly,” Richard replied, plucking three more tissues from the box and handing them over. It took several more handfuls and a lot of inelegant snurfling and honking before Larry was sufficiently cleaned up, the whole process moving slower because of having to do it one-handed. Just watching him was making Richard’s nose tickle as well, if he was being honest, but he crinkled it in defiance of the itch and mercifully felt it dissipate. 

“Sorry you had to see that,” Larry sighed, lowering the final handful of sodden tissues to reveal his vibrant pink nose. If nothing else, all the abuse seemed to have shifted the congestion in his head a bit, removing most of the stuffiness from his voice. “And hear it.”

Richard petted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You’re sick, Lar. And in any case, in terms of gross things I’ve seen you do, this doesn’t even crack the top five.” He frowned, feeling the tickle in the very depths of his sinuses return, just as soon as it had left. He scrunched his nose again, willing it away, but this time it had snuck up on him too quickly. He ducked away from Larry, bending towards the crook of his elbow to catch it. “Hkt’schhh!” All in all, it was a pretty inadequate sneeze compared to what Larry had just pulled off.

“God bless,” Larry remarked, and Richard didn’t need to look over to know his eyebrows were raised. 

“Thanks,” Richard sighed, swiping a single tissue from the box to wipe quickly at his nose. He grimaced, noticing the splatter he’d made on the sleeve of Larry’s sweatshirt. “Sorry. I’ll wash this before I give it back to you.” When he turned back, Larry was holding open the plastic bag he’d been using for throwing away tissues. Smiling wanly, Richard crushed the Kleenex in his hand and dropped it inside. 

“Keep it as long as you want, Rich,” Larry said noncommittally, putting the bag back on the floor by his feet. Almost as an afterthought, he smiled softly and added, “looks better on you anyway. Blue’s your colour.”

Richard felt his cheeks warm, and hoped it wasn’t obvious. “Says the blue-eyed blonde. It should be your colour.”

Larry shrugged. “I don’t like to be pinned down. Fashion’s a playground, y’know?”

That got a huff of laughter out of Richard. “I know. I was just in your closet.” He cleared his throat and stood before he could say anything else stupid. “You want some hot honey and lemon juice? It’s totally unmedicated and unscientific, but…”

“That sounds nice, bud,” Larry cut in, stopping Richard from overexplaining himself - a critical part of the symbiotic relationship they shared. “Thank you,” he added, pulling his legs up and wedging himself snugly into the corner of the couch.

Larry bought the kind of honey that came in a bear-shaped bottle. He kept it next to the instant oatmeal in his pantry for those rare occasions when he woke up with enough time to eat breakfast. Richard grabbed the honey, a cutting board, and a knife, and wound up sneezing again the second he cut into the first lemon. “Heh’tschh! Ugh, Jesus…” 

“Bless,” Larry called vaguely. “Make yourself one of those drinks too, huh? Vitamin C’s good for colds.”

“I’m not sick, Lar.” It was just allergies. It had to just be allergies because if Richard was sick then he might have to miss work, and nothing filled him with greater dread than calling in sick.

“Huh… hehHTSCHh’uh!”

Richard sighed, cutting the second lemon in half. “Bless you. Again.” And who would look after Larry if Richard was out of commission? That was the real question.

—

The drinks didn’t take long to prepare, since all it really was was boiling water, lemon juice, and honey. Taking Larry’s advice for once, Richard made enough for both of them. Vitamin C was an essential nutrient after all, even if Richard definitely wasn’t sick. 

It wasn’t until he was back on the couch next to Larry, both their hands wrapped around steaming mugs (well, Larry was using his injured hand to awkwardly support the bottom of his mug, while his good one held grimly to the handle), that Richard remembered. “Oh. Your mother rang while you were asleep.”

Larry looked surprised for a second, before a more sceptical and guarded expression took over. “Yeah? What, is she worried about me or something?” 

God, Larry could be so obtuse. “That’s about the size of it, yeah. She loves you.” Richard took a sip of his drink, then added, “You should call her back.”

“Richard, you know my mother and I only speak on major holidays and when she wants me to fix her goddamn VCR.” 

Larry’s relationship with his mother was strained, to say the least. Things between them had been difficult well before the sudden death of Larry’s father in their junior year of college, and it was almost like any chance of Larry and his mom salvaging their relationship had died along with him. It didn’t help that the two of them were practically the same person - both stubborn to a fault, and prone to getting defensive when challenged. 

“At least let her know how you’re doing.” Richard had to pause to sniffle, and hoped that it didn’t detract from the validity of his argument. “It’s not every day your only child winds up in the ER with a broken bone.”

Larry eyed him wearily, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. “Okay. Later.” His tone made it sound a lot more like ‘butt the hell out’, so Richard didn’t say anything more on the matter. He knew that ‘call your mother’ was up there with Larry’s least favourite things to be told, along with ‘I think you’ve had one too many’ and ‘sorry, we stop serving breakfast at ten thirty’. 

To prevent himself from making it worse, Richard took another sip of his drink. He was glad he’d made it; the steam was slowly unfurling the congestion in his head, and the honey was soothing the prickling irritation in his throat. He was almost certain it was still just allergies. Casting a sideways glance at Larry, who was also mid-sip, he wondered if a cease-fire was in order. Larry’s own gaze slid sideways, and when they locked eyes Richard opened his mouth to apologise for overstepping, but Larry got in first.

“Tastes good, Rich,” he said simply, indicating his mug with a slight bob of his good wrist. He smiled, a small, tired thing.

Relieved, Richard smiled back.

— 

The six o’clock news suggested that the storm would let up in another hour or two, and Richard was already about twelve hours deep into hanging out at Larry’s, so they decided mutually that he would stay a bit longer. If the storm was still raging after dinner, he’d get a cab home to his parents’ brownstone in Forest Hills. With that squared away, they just had to figure out dinner. Even with the grocery run Richard had made earlier, there wasn’t really anything substantial in the apartment, and Larry needed to eat something to cushion his final dose of Vicodin for the day. The decision to order Chinese food - hot, comforting, and with just the right amount of spice to unclog a stuffy nose - was made easily. 

“I feel kinda bad making the delivery guy come out here in the rain,” Larry lamented as Richard dug through the junk drawer where Larry kept all his takeout menus. The two-hour nap and his evening Sudafed dose had made him a little more talkative, and had apparently restored his moral compass as well.

“So do I, but it’s this or Cap’n Crunch,” Richard reminded him. He found the menu for their favourite Chinese place and flipped it open. “Soup or no soup?” 

“Soup. Definitely soup.” Larry rubbed at his nose again, seemingly lost in thought, then added, “can we get some crab rangoons too? I’ll pay for it.”

“I can get it, Lar. It was my idea, so I should pay.” In the interest of being tactful, he didn’t say ‘you’ll thank me when you get your bill from the hospital’.

Larry looked at him from over the back of the couch, his eyebrows furrowed. “You paid for groceries and you looked after me all weekend. I’m…” He broke off, squinting, then sneezed - “huhHTSCH’ue!!”  - wet and sudden, forgetting to use his good arm to cover. He inspected the splattered moisture on his cast with a pinched expression and finished his sentence. “I’b paying. Snlf…"

In the end, neither had the energy to continue the argument, so they went Dutch.

– 

“Hey, Terms of Endearment is on.” Richard was flipping through channels with one hand and using chopsticks to dig through a carton of lo mein with the other.  

Larry, who had been rendered extra drippy by the spices in his hot and sour soup, made a noise that was equal parts mucus and derision. “That mbovie’s so schbaltzy.” 

Three days of nursing Larry back to health (or ‘hanging out’, as Larry preferred to call it) had made Richard pretty good at deciphering his best friend’s congested snark, but this time he was at a loss. “It’s so what?”

“It’s – ugh…” Larry turned away, blew his nose snortily into the couple of pulpy tissues held in his good hand, and tried again. “I said it’s schmaltzy.” 

Richard huffed out a laugh. “Well, that’s true. And it always sort of makes me want to run to my mother and apologise.”

Larry raised his eyebrows. “For what, exactly? That woman thinks you can do no wrong.”

That was also true. 

They wound up watching the movie anyway, despite both their misgivings, because nothing better was on, and because they both liked having background noise while they ate. It had only just started, and fittingly, they’d tuned in right at the moment that Debra Winger’s character, newly married and inexplicably sick with a cold, was sneezing her way through her wedding night.

“I never got the point of this scene,” Larry said, setting down the empty container his soup had come in. “Like, what’s the point of her being sick? What does it even add to the story?”

“Funny,” Richard replied, smiling wryly. “I was going to ask the same question about your cold.” 

Larry rolled his eyes and sniffled.

—

“... And in a few years when I haven't been around to be on your tail about something or irritating you, you're gonna remember. You'll remember when I bought you that baseball glove when you thought we were too broke, or when I read you those stories, or when I let you goof off instead of mowing the lawn, lots of things like that. You're gonna realise that you love me, and maybe you'll feel badly because you never told me, but don't. I know that you love me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Richard muttered. No matter how many times he saw this movie, it never got any less grim. They’d both ended up getting more into it than they’d planned, even turning off the lights in the apartment for a more cinematic experience. At first they’d talked over it a little - mostly just Larry expressing his hatred for Jeff Daniels’ character every time he was on screen - but by the time the final few scenes were playing out, they’d both fallen still and silent. It was almost over now. They were at the scene where Debra Winger was saying goodbye to her sons from her deathbed, and it was a tough watch. If the older one being surly and spurning his mother’s final words of love wasn’t bad enough, the younger one’s crestfallen, tearstained face was enough to have Richard suddenly choking down a lump in his throat. 

“That little kid’s one hell of an actor,” he added hoarsely. Larry didn’t reply, not even to tease Richard for falling victim to the biggest tearjerker film of the decade, and Richard turned to check if he was still awake. He was, and Richard realised in slow-motion horror that his best friend’s face was as tearstained as the younger son’s, the light from the TV reflecting off the silvery tracks down his cheeks. “Oh, shit,” Richard said for lack of a better reaction. 

Their eyes met for just a moment before Larry ducked his head, swiping hastily at his face and letting out a strangled noise, half sob and half mortified groan. “S-sorry. Fuck. Just ignore me.”

“Lar,” Richard said gently, trying not to sound too alarmed. He reached across the couch to touch Larry’s arm through the flannel of his bathrobe sleeve. He was very warm - when had that happened? “Hey, what’s wrong? Is it the movie? Your wrist? Both?”

“It’s nothing.” Larry hiccuped and scrubbed at his eyes again, one at a time with his good hand. He couldn’t keep up with demand; the tears kept spilling faster than he could deal with them. “It’s s-stupid.” He exhaled shakily and gave a thick, noisy sniffle. “I thi-ink the V-Vicodin is m-making me all s-sensitive...”

Richard could tell he was making his ‘emotional honesty face’ - an expression he apparently wore anytime Larry was upset, and that Larry apparently hated - but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like he’d never seen Larry cry before, but major emotional scenes between them were still few and far in between, and it wasn’t always easy figuring out the exact right way to respond. Still, the solution seemed obvious enough this time. 

“Hey,” he murmured, opening his arms. “C’mere.”

Larry hesitated, his face still miserable, flushed, and slick with tears.

Richard sighed, almost second-guessing himself. “Don’t make it weird. Just let me hold you for a bit.”

That was all it took. Larry scooted closer and slumped into Richard’s arms, nestling his head into the crook of Richard’s neck. Richard wound his arms around him and held tight. It was a sensory-laden experience, what with Larry’s tears soaking into his neck and the low-grade feverish heat coming off his body and the awkward scratchy weight of his cast crushed between them, but Richard held him anyway. “I know,” he said vaguely, soothingly. “I’ve got you.”

Larry gave a helpless sob, followed by another soupy sniffle. Both were painfully loud by virtue of happening right next to Richard’s ear. “M’sorry,” he hiccuped, his face still buried in Richard's shoulder. “Jesus, f-fuck, I’m such a fucking mess…”

Richard squeezed him. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m sorry. You’re having the weekend from hell and then I go and make you watch the saddest movie ever made.” From this angle, it was easy for Richard to rest his head on top of Larry’s. He did just that, pressing his cheek to the crown of his best friend’s head. “Be honest. Was it all the angsty mom stuff?” Hell, the movie was a hard enough watch for Richard, who had a pretty good relationship with his mother. For Larry, some of those scenes must have been like looking in a mirror. And then there was the broader idea of losing a parent at a young age, like Larry had. The more Richard thought about it, the more it felt like the worst possible viewing material he could have picked.

“I dunno. Kind of?” Slowly, Larry seemed to be pulling himself together. He’d stopped trembling at least, but stayed put in the protective circle of Richard’s arms anyway. “I… I thigk I just feel shitty in general.” He sniffled again, the sound hopelessly wet and pathetic. “This is kind of a… mbiscellaneous cry, I guess.”

Richard smiled sadly. “I get it. I’d probably cry too if I broke my wrist and got super sick in the span of three days. Miscellaneously, of course.” 

Larry gave a startled, wet laugh, followed by a groan. “Jesus, I’b getting snot all over you…”

“Hey, this is your sweatshirt. And it’s going in the wash anyway, so have at it.”

They stayed curled together for a few minutes longer. Long enough for Larry’s breathing to even out, and for his tears to peter out into hiccups. Finally, he pulled back just enough for Richard to see the brave smile on his blotchy face. “Thagks, Rich.” He sniffled uselessly, his nose terribly pink and drippy. He shot a weak glare at the TV, where the credits had started to roll. “What kind of sigk, twisted person mbakes a mbovie like that?”

“I don’t know, Lar.” Before he had time to realise what he was doing, Richard had brushed the wetness from Larry’s cheeks with a bent index finger. It was definitely too much, too tender, but Larry didn’t flinch or pull away. Neither did Richard, in the end. He kept one arm around Larry’s shoulders and used the other to reach around him for the tissues. “Y’know, I think Kleenex owes you money at this point.”

Larry chuckled, the sound still a little jerky from crying. He used his sleeve for his eyes, but gratefully snatched several tissues from the box to tend his still-streaming nose. “Yeah. Should’ve bought shares,” he agreed before disappearing behind them.

—

The storm wrapped up soon after the movie. It would have made sense for Richard to make a break for it before it started again, especially since it was getting late and he had to be up at a reasonable hour for work the next day. Concern trumped logic though, so he hung around just long enough to make sure that Larry got into bed in one piece. His nighttime Vicodin and Sudafed cocktail had taken enough of the edge off to let him get sleepy, and Richard suspected that the Terms of Endearment-related emotional episode had also tired Larry out. Whatever the reason, Larry practically crawled into bed and didn’t even attempt to tuck himself in, leaving it up to Richard.

“I put the leftover lemon juice in a jug in the fridge, in case you wanted to make another one of those drinks,” Richard explained as he tucked the blankets around Larry, making sure to leave an extra blanket within grabbing distance in case he got cold in the night. He scanned the bedside table. Everything was there - water, cough drops, the rapidly depleting box of tissues. “And I put your meds in the kitchen so you remember to take them with food tomorrow morning.”

“Thagks, Rich.” Even those two words sounded like an effort - rough and exhausted and congested from crying. His eyes were still a little bloodshot from before, but he managed a pale smile. “For everythigg, I mean.”

Richard’s breath caught and he felt a vague tug of anxiety and dread in his chest. It was a feeling he was used to, but one that was probably totally unnecessary for this situation. He couldn’t help it - the thought of leaving Larry like this just hurt. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked softly. 

Larry nodded, his hair swishing against his pillow. “Yeah. I’b just godda sleep.” The smile faded slightly from his face, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards with half-awake worry. “Are you? You look wrecked.”

He was wrecked, and, as much as it pained Richard to admit it, definitely coming down with what Larry had. But it was a strangely nice kind of exhaustion - the kind that felt earned and important. As much as it had been a long and tiring weekend tracking Larry’s meds and keeping him out of trouble and waiting for him to wake from his series of naps, Richard realised that there was really nowhere else he would have rather been.

“I’m okay, Lar. Promise. I probably just need some sleep too.” 

Larry seemed satisfied enough with that answer, or maybe he was just too tired to talk anymore. “‘Kay. G’night then, handsome.”

Richard smiled at the petname, which was something Larry occasionally used when he was feeling playful, or in this case, too exhausted to think straight. “Night, Lar. Sweet dreams.”

He only made it as far as the bedroom door when - 

“Rich?”

Richard froze, one hand on the doorframe. “Hm?”

Larry didn’t sit up - in fact, he looked seconds away from falling asleep - but the expression on his face was serious. “It wasn’t the angsty mom stuff that mbade me… you kdnow…” 

It took Richard a second or two to figure out where this was going, before he cottoned on and nodded, listening.

Larry’s gaze slid sideways to his nightstand, and even though the bedroom was dark, there was just enough light from the next room for Richard to see his cheeks go pink. “It was the bit before that. When she’s saying goodbye to her best friend…”

The memory of the scene hit Richard all at once, and he was glad Larry wasn’t looking at him because his eyes felt suddenly, dangerously hot. “‘You’re my touchstone’,” he quoted, his voice soft, only a slight waver betraying him.

Larry sniffed, which could have been from illness or emotion, but the look on his face was peaceful rather than stricken. “Yeah. You’re mine too.”

Richard was saved from having to think of a perfect response by Larry falling asleep about three seconds later. He stayed in the doorway a few moments longer, just looking at his best friend, his favourite person, his touchstone. As he finally headed off towards the subway station, he was sure of two things. First, that he’d be calling Larry the second he got to the office tomorrow to check that he’d made it through the night. 

And second, that the next time they watched a movie together, it’d have to be a comedy. 

—

Notes: they’re forgettable two-dimensional buddy film protagonists TO YOU. I get them, though.

Yeah, I really built a whole headcanon ecosystem around Larry’s dad being dead based on one throwaway line in the film (“my old man worked hard; all they did was give him more work”). Babygirl, I’ve got WAB headcanons you wouldn’t even care about 😎

This might get one more chapter so that I can subject Richard to a rough day of nursing his burgeoning cold at the office, followed by going to check on Larry, but we’ll see. TBH I think my next port of call is to finish one of my fics where they’re in an established relationship so I can put an end to this mutual pining and just make them kiss already.

[secert-sneezy-enjoyer]

Imagine a voice actor coming down with a terrible cold. Their so stuffy and sniffly and can’t go a minute without heh heh hih...Hah'ISSHiueWW! But they need to keep recording because they’re on a schedule. But no matter what they try the Voice actor just can’t stop sneezing long enough to do one take. So eventually the director decides to scrap the episode idea and do a sick episode instead. When the episode comes out people all around the world watch it but little do they know that it was a real cold that brought them this.

[germaphobicsneezer]

Colds vs Allergies? Why fight when you can have both

There is just something about how, even if a person isn’t sneezy when they have a cold, they become much more allergic to things instead

Imagine someone having to read texts for an upcoming project, but they got hit with whatever is going around the university. But it doesn’t bother them, just a little runny nose or a sore throat. But as they enter the quieter and dustier areas of the library, their sniffling becomes more consistent.

They rub their nose, the dust usually made them a little itchy, but they have work to do, no time to worry about that. Until of course the first sneeze catches them off guard. And the next one. And the next. Until they have an itchy fit distracting them from their work. After every sneeze they put their finger under their nose and rub, but the itch is far stronger than they can rub away. Their nose twitches with both the irritant and illness within.

Maybe they are better off asking for that extension.

[sky-snz]

“Well, I’d, *snnrff* I’d probably start over here. *hsnrg* Right besihhde… hh’right besS’ZZISSCHHhiew!! *snnngk!* Right beside your ear. *sngk!* Or… maybe right idto your… hh… hhD’ZZSSCHHhhieww!!! *snngk* idto your ear. *snngk* God bless be.

A’d, baybe thed, I’d… cobe dowd-eEY’ISSCHHIEWWw!!! *hsnrff!* -to your chest, a’d… ah-! I’d-! hUD’SSCHHH!!! Ah-! HaADZ’ESSCHHIEWWw!!! -ohh… *sdrf* … *sddrf, sDRFF!* Ugh. God. 

hhih-! *snnrff* A’d thed… I’d… *hsndrf* I’d cobe dowd to your… hhh’your stobach… heihh… ihH-? HURRUSSCHHIEWW!!! hihH?! Hrr’USSCHHiew!! … ugh. *snrfh* … *snrff!* A’d thed, I’d…

Cobe dowd here… a-hh!-a’d… hihhh… I… heiHhh… I’d… huh-! heuH-?! …. HAAADSSCHHIEWWw!!! *kof, koF!* -Haasschhiew!! heihh-?! HAAESSCHHhiew!!-aasschiew!! hihh! h’ehh??… HaAT’ESSCHHIUH-!!!

Ohh… *hsnrk!* *ahemm* Wow, what a bess. *snnngk!*”

[terrestrialyarn]

Raw

A compact piece of pure horn at least partially inspired by this post by @sf-libet (if you want to be un-tagged lmk)

_________________

She couldn’t help watching his nose. It was so red now, so obviously sensitive, those constantly-leaking nostrils waiting for the slightest excuse. He dabbed it gently- so, so carefully- with a handkerchief, breathing slowly as he tried to eke out another minute of concentration on his correspondence. The right nostril flexed just a little at the touch, but made no trouble. That couldn’t last, surely. The skin around the edge of both nostrils was so raw, so susceptible to irritation from the smallest cause.

As she watched, he turned over a page and sniffed, momentarily absent-minded and unwise. She saw his nose react at once, the oval rims of both nostrils curling up into high arches, triggering a wrinkling of the bridge, a flinch around his eyes. Up came the handkerchief with urgent speed, pressing itself up against the septum in a manoeuvre that had probably seen some success in the early days of this cold. His nostrils twitched a warning.

Unable to delay his breath any longer, he attempted a slow inhale by mouth that audibly warped, his jaw falling slack against its owners will. That poor red nose quivered with over-readiness to sneeze. He covered it at last with the handkerchief, finally understanding that he was past the point of all resistance.

He sneezed, hard and wet and unforgiving. Sneezed again, that red-raw nose stung into further action by the violent unsettling of its fragile equilibrium. He raised his head and tried to breathe, his too-abused nose throbbing now, goading itself towards a cruel cycle of mounting irritation and response. Those shining pink nostrils flared astonishingly wide, and (even over so short a distance) the handkerchief rose just in time.

Unable to break the cycle, he sat hunched over the handkerchief, gasping for breath between each wrenching pair of sneezes. The increasing wetness of his handkerchief couldn’t be doing that raw skin any favours, and indeed as the fit progressed the sneezes became punctuated by involuntary moans. His shoulders heaved and shook with the effort of it all.

When he finally managed to blow his nose, she was certain she heard a badly-suppressed whimper. When his handkerchief had done all that could be done he leaned back in his chair, too weakened in the moment to do more than seek support for his no doubt aching head. His poor sore nose glowed redder than ever in the lamplight.

[polly-pollen]

Thinking about an absolutely pathetic wet dog of a person with a streaming head cold, nostrils chapped red and dripping, standing outside in the freezing snow, hands shaking as they take a drag off their cigarette

[sky-snz]

Try Again (m, illness) aka the aforementioned fic 🙇🏻‍♀️

Jack is a sound designer and he falls super ill once the show opens. a thing goes wrong in the sound setup and here he is trying to give instructions to his assistant on how to fix it.

warning for mess | 525 words

content: messy snz, tissues, caretaking

-

“I dod’t deed to chadge it, I just deed you to listed to be. *snnrff, ah-Hemm!* Yes. It’s id the Saffrod folder. *sddrff!* Uhuh. *hsndrff!* I- hold od, I- yy'ESSCHIEWW!! ESSCHIEWWw!! *snNRK!* g’hhh… *snrk* Thagk you. I’b fide. *hsnnnrk~* Okay, dow add it to the queue…”

Jess is certain that Jack only has a couple of minutes before he drowns in his own snot, trying to get these instructions out. She pulls a couple of tissues from the box on the coffee table and offers them to him. Still in the heat of discussion, it takes a couple of seconds for him to notice, and with a rather thick sniffle, he accepts them.

“Check that… ngh… hihh! k’heihh-! EEIYY’AATCHHIEWWw!!! *hsnNDRFFh! snrgk! snrk*” Thick ropes of mucus burst from his flared, leaking nostrils, oozing down his chin. He has to stop and breathe, finding the rhythm again, eyes shiny and dazed. He lifts the tissues one-handed up to his nose and wipes, pinching away the mess. “I’b fide,” he huffs, voice cracking. "Tell be what happeds whed you hit play.”

As he waits, he slowly rubs his nose with the crumpled tissues in his hand. His eyelids flutter, expression crumbling into a helpless grimace. He pitches forward with another gushing, explosive sneeze. “rrRR’GSSCHHhh!!hieww… *snnrk, sdf*”

He blinks dazedly and pinches his nose, rubbing it hard. “Hehh… hih! Doe, I’b… f-f- haAH’CHIEWWw!!! heih?? eiy’EEESSCHHIEWWww!!!”

Jess pouts a little and reaches over to run her hand gently over his back. Jack takes a few panting breaths, wiping his nose and sniffling thickly. His nostrils are flaring as he wipes them with a folded tissue, and it looks as if it takes restraint not to sneeze again from the delicate cleanup.

“Thagk you. Please excuse be. *sddrffh* ...By siduses are killing be.”

Jess watches as he rubs his slender, rosy red nose back and forth, the rims of his nostrils rounded and dripping with mucus.

“Thahht’s dot a- hehh-! HUUT’CHIEWW!!! CHIEWW!!! Gooddess, excuse- oh! HAATCHIEWWW!!!”

Jack groans and wipes his nose again. He leans forward and grabs three tissues. 

“Pardod be, just a bidute.”

He mutes himself on the call, then folds the tissues and gives his nose a loud, gurgling blow, flooding and soaking the tissues. Afterward, he sighs and rubs his red nose so hard it squelches.

“Hehh… excuse be… upload the dew file- hht’CHIEWW!! *hsnnrgk!* HAATCHIEWW!! *hsnnrgk! koFF!* Scuse be. hih-! hiHt’CHIEWW!!!”

“Thagk you. I’b… huhh… I’b… *snngrk!* sdeezig like a bad bad. *hsnnrk!* is it playig? Okay… try agaid…”

Jack sniffles thickly, and his chin lifts, his nostrils flaring wide. "hhehhh..." He sniffles again, hard, the sound wet and marshy. Then- “HAAAESSCHHIOOoo!!!”

“Ohh… *snngk! snnrgk!* Thagk you, I’b… so sorry, I- KSSCHH!! *snngk!* Doe, I’b fide… I’b… hihh-? HAAESSHHIEWWw!! *snnrgk*”

Jess gently takes the phone from him. “He’ll call you back in a bit.” She says, and hangs up.

“HAAAESSCHHIEWWww!!!”

“Just let them go, darling.”

“dDj’EESSCHHIEWWW!!!”

“God bless you.”

“AAD’CHIEEWW!!-Chieww!! EHd’CHIUHHh!!”

“Bless you.”

Jack pants for breath. “Huhh… have to call theb bah-aAH-! hEH?! HAAAARRSSCHHIEWW!!!”

He sneezes again, so hard he has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe.

“Bless you. Shh, just relax,” Jess murmurs.

“uhHG’SSCHIEWW!!”

“Bless you.”

[sky-snz]

Try Again (m, illness) aka the aforementioned fic 🙇🏻‍♀️

Jack is a sound designer and he falls super ill once the show opens. a thing goes wrong in the sound setup and here he is trying to give instructions to his assistant on how to fix it.

warning for mess | 525 words

content: messy snz, tissues, caretaking

-

“I dod’t deed to chadge it, I just deed you to listed to be. *snnrff, ah-Hemm!* Yes. It’s id the Saffrod folder. *sddrff!* Uhuh. *hsndrff!* I- hold od, I- yy'ESSCHIEWW!! ESSCHIEWWw!! *snNRK!* g’hhh… *snrk* Thagk you. I’b fide. *hsnnnrk~* Okay, dow add it to the queue…”

Jess is certain that Jack only has a couple of minutes before he drowns in his own snot, trying to get these instructions out. She pulls a couple of tissues from the box on the coffee table and offers them to him. Still in the heat of discussion, it takes a couple of seconds for him to notice, and with a rather thick sniffle, he accepts them.

“Check that… ngh… hihh! k’heihh-! EEIYY’AATCHHIEWWw!!! *hsnNDRFFh! snrgk! snrk*” Thick ropes of mucus burst from his flared, leaking nostrils, oozing down his chin. He has to stop and breathe, finding the rhythm again, eyes shiny and dazed. He lifts the tissues one-handed up to his nose and wipes, pinching away the mess. “I’b fide,” he huffs, voice cracking. "Tell be what happeds whed you hit play.”

As he waits, he slowly rubs his nose with the crumpled tissues in his hand. His eyelids flutter, expression crumbling into a helpless grimace. He pitches forward with another gushing, explosive sneeze. “rrRR’GSSCHHhh!!hieww… *snnrk, sdf*”

He blinks dazedly and pinches his nose, rubbing it hard. “Hehh… hih! Doe, I’b… f-f- haAH’CHIEWWw!!! heih?? eiy’EEESSCHHIEWWww!!!”

Jess pouts a little and reaches over to run her hand gently over his back. Jack takes a few panting breaths, wiping his nose and sniffling thickly. His nostrils are flaring as he wipes them with a folded tissue, and it looks as if it takes restraint not to sneeze again from the delicate cleanup.

“Thagk you. Please excuse be. *sddrffh* ...By siduses are killing be.”

Jess watches as he rubs his slender, rosy red nose back and forth, the rims of his nostrils rounded and dripping with mucus.

“Thahht’s dot a- hehh-! HUUT’CHIEWW!!! CHIEWW!!! Gooddess, excuse- oh! HAATCHIEWWW!!!”

Jack groans and wipes his nose again. He leans forward and grabs three tissues. 

“Pardod be, just a bidute.”

He mutes himself on the call, then folds the tissues and gives his nose a loud, gurgling blow, flooding and soaking the tissues. Afterward, he sighs and rubs his red nose so hard it squelches.

“Hehh… excuse be… upload the dew file- hht’CHIEWW!! *hsnnrgk!* HAATCHIEWW!! *hsnnrgk! koFF!* Scuse be. hih-! hiHt’CHIEWW!!!”

“Thagk you. I’b… huhh… I’b… *snngrk!* sdeezig like a bad bad. *hsnnrk!* is it playig? Okay… try agaid…”

Jack sniffles thickly, and his chin lifts, his nostrils flaring wide. "hhehhh..." He sniffles again, hard, the sound wet and marshy. Then- “HAAAESSCHHIOOoo!!!”

“Ohh… *snngk! snnrgk!* Thagk you, I’b… so sorry, I- KSSCHH!! *snngk!* Doe, I’b fide… I’b… hihh-? HAAESSHHIEWWw!! *snnrgk*”

Jess gently takes the phone from him. “He’ll call you back in a bit.” She says, and hangs up.

“HAAAESSCHHIEWWww!!!”

“Just let them go, darling.”

“dDj’EESSCHHIEWWW!!!”

“God bless you.”

“AAD’CHIEEWW!!-Chieww!! EHd’CHIUHHh!!”

“Bless you.”

Jack pants for breath. “Huhh… have to call theb bah-aAH-! hEH?! HAAAARRSSCHHIEWW!!!”

He sneezes again, so hard he has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe.

“Bless you. Shh, just relax,” Jess murmurs.

“uhHG’SSCHIEWW!!”

“Bless you.”

[kushamiqueen]

No Cause for Alarm - Oneshot

This fic is about Goro Majima from Yakuza 0 trying to hide a cold from Yuki during hostess training. I wrote it with the idea that Yuki has the fetish, but she and Majima remain platonic and it's never directly addressed. So I guess this is a fic about when your hot friend is sick and you can't look away, even if you aren't interested in them like that.

Content: male snz, cold snz, mess, cold denial, female character with the fetish, platonic relationship

The conversation wasn't going particularly well. It was a couple hours before opening for the night, and Majima and Yuki had set aside some time for more customer service training. Yuki was keeping up for the most part, but the more Majima thought about it, the more it seemed as if something was on her mind.

"What's the matter, Yuki-chan?" Majima asked her as she poured his drink, "Ya overthinkin' somethin' again?"

Her eyes widened slightly as she finished pouring, and a hot blush flashed on her cheeks. She didn't know how to tell him that he was the reason she was so distracted.

It was hard to maintain eye contact when her eyes kept getting drawn to the obvious signs of an emerging head cold. She could plainly see clear slime threatening to drip past his pink, twitching nostrils every several seconds. She noticed how dry his lips were as he breathed through them, only slightly parted. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down every time he cleared his throat. When she did look up to meet his eye, it looked so tired, as if he'd slept all of 2 hours in the past 2 weeks. He wasn't trying to draw attention to it, so she wasn't planning on bringing it up. Majima didn't seem the type to be open about this kind of vulnerability, and she didn't want to upset him if he was already unwell. She stalled a bit while she tried to think of a delicate way to frame it.

"I was just wondering if we could continue this training session some other time." She couldn't look up at him, occupying herself by slowly and carefully rearranging the bottle and glasses on the table.

"Is something wrong with ya? I guess we could reschedule, but we're already halfway done. What's gotcha all nervous? 's there anything I can do?" He sounded so effortlessly cool whenever he offered to take care of things for her, but the effect was weakened a bit when his breath got caught on a liquid sniffle immediately after he said it.

Yuki looked up quickly, not wanting to miss what may come next. Her assumption was proved correct as her gaze was met with a slowly closing eye, a slacking jaw, and a scrunched nose. She watched in awe as his wet nostrils flared and twitched. His eyelashes fluttered as if he was trying to will his eye back open. His lip quivered as if he wasn't sure if he should close his mouth. Both were impossible owing to the intense irritation in his long, congested nose. He had been holding back this sneeze for what must have been hours now, and it wasn't going to wait any longer.

He slowly put his hand up to his face to cover his mouth and nose, curled index finger and thumb applying light pressure along the bridge. After holding that initial breath for as long as he could, he finally granted his sinuses the relief they had been begging for.

"hhi'TSCHt! hiihhhihh--"

One suppressed sneeze clearly was not enough.

hhAEH'KSHHhuh huhh... huhhh...

He couldn't quite tell if he was in the clear or not before--

snfffff haAEH'GSHIEW

That last thick sniffle stoked the fire in the back of his nose just enough to produce one final heaving sneeze into his open palm.

Before he even looked up to face Yuki after that, he kept his hand against his face and used his other hand to fish out a tissue from a pack in his pants pocket. Yuki watched closely as his fingers fumbled with the plastic a bit before he got a fresh tissue out and brought it to his face to clean up after his sensitive nose. She caught herself holding her breath and forced herself to let it out slowly through rounded lips. She couldn't believe this was really happening. Once the absolutely soaked tissue was shoved back into his pocket, Majima looked back up at her.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said as he tried to seamlessly return to the conversation, hoping Yuki wouldn't make a big deal out of it and they could move on quickly. Yuki, however, was totally transfixed, staring at Majima as he rubbed under his nostrils with his index finger, scrunching it up one last time to reset after all the irritation.

Shaking her head slightly, she snapped back into the conversation at hand. "Well, to be honest," she could not believe the ironic timing of where this conversation was going, "if I seemed distracted, I was actually just wondering if you were okay."

He honestly wasn't expecting that answer when he asked her. Yeah, he knew he was coming down with something. He knew since he woke up this morning to a full nose and a scratchy throat. Honestly, he was surprised Yuki picked up on it. She's normally not the swiftest hamster on the wheel, and he was putting in a decent effort to not draw attention to himself. Well, at least up until the sneezes started.

He still didn't see his condition as a really big deal. He was just a manager; it didn't matter if he was a little under the weather. He would just pop into Daikoku and buy some cold meds and power through like he always did, sore throat and tickly nose be damned. Although, he could do without the headache starting to build along his brow.

When he looked over to assure Yuki there was nothing to worry about, she looked away suddenly, like she had been caught staring this whole time and wanted to seem nonchalant. He paused a second, thinking her behaviour was a tad suspicious. Come to think of it, Majima was feeling her eyes burning through his skin for most of the training so far today. Different from the usual customer-hostess eye contact. Without realizing it, he started to feel a little defensive.

"What makes ya think there's somethin' the matter with me?" He smiled, trying to put her mind at ease.

She saw right through his smile and calm words. She could clearly hear from the thick nasal quality in his voice that his striking aquiline nose was totally full. She had to clear her throat to keep her voice even.

"Well, you taught me to be more attentive when interacting with guests." Yuki wore a proud smile for a moment, remembering her training. She forced herself into an unyielding eye contact and put on a serious yet playful face. "And it's clear that you're totally worn out!"

"Yer worryin' too much, Yuki-chan, really. I just didn't get a good night's sleep."

"Oh yeah? Well... your nose is all red!" Yuki's face had shifted to a look of pure determination, fighting through the redness rising in her cheeks. She wanted to get a real confession out of him.

His eyebrows twitched down a bit. Fueled by the embarrassment of how closely she's been studying his face, he got more defensive. Still, without missing a beat, he retorted, "Well, it's winter, after all! It's cold outside."

"A-and your voice keeps cracking!"

"Must have gone too hard at karaoke last night." He shrugged, trying to maintain a casual demeanor.

"Oh yeah? Then what about those sneezes?"

He didn't have a response prepared for that one. Luckily for Yuki, he was too focused on coming up with something to really notice her moment of hesitation before saying the s-word. He ended up blurting out the lamest excuse in the book. "It's probably just allergies, nothing to worry about."

"Allergies?" Yuki didn't believe him for a second, "What are you allergic to? It's the middle of winter!"

"Well, y'know, uh... perhhh... snfff your perfume?" He winced after his breath hitched. The last thing he needed was to sneeze again right now.

"I wear the same perfume every day. You've never reacted to it before." Yuki stated matter-of-factly. "In fact, you even picked it out, remember?" She felt her lips twitch into a small smile. She had won a battle of wits against none other than Goro Majima, the all-powerful manager of Club Sunshine.

As Yuki was stuck in her own thoughts about trying to make Majima admit to the cause of his sensitive nose, said nose was twitching and starting to leak out both nostrils. When she refocused on the situation unfolding before her, he was already pulling the last couple tissues from the packet.

hAH'PSHHah-- AE'GSHhhuh

He didn't make it in time for the first couple sneezes, but the rest of the fit was barely caught in the cheap, thin tissues. The sound of mess hitting the paper clear in Yuki's ears.

hAH'mphSHa... hhuh... hAE'nnshhh! guhh... haehh'HEH'SSHIEW

Yuki watched, mesmerized, as Majima slowly lowered the saturated clump of tissues from his explosive nose. She noticed two long threads of thick mess stretching from the tips of his nostrils onto the material, before he quickly repositioned the soiled wad back onto his irritated nose and tried to pinch off the excess before putting it back in his pocket. He finished the display with a long, thick, gurgling sniffle.

Yuki tried really hard to keep a straight face, although she could not hold back the blush spreading across her cheeks. She squirmed a little in her seat, growing more and more desperate to relieve some of the tension growing in her lower abdomen. She took in a long, shaky breath to say something, but she was cut short before she even started to speak.

"Wait." Majima interrupted her. He didn't want to hear what he knew she was going to say. He knew he should rest. But he also knew he couldn't do that. If he let his guard down for even a moment, he could lose everything he's been working so hard for. He would just need to endure a little longer. Or at least, that's what he'd been telling himself for the last several months. He wondered just how long exactly he would need to keep this up, but there were more pressing matters at present.

"You don't need to get yerself all worried over me, Yuki-chan." He was hoping for a carefree tone to come through his voice, but through the congestion and the hoarseness, he sounded like he was on his deathbed. He cleared his throat and tried again, his face and tone shifting drastically back into a 'safe' persona, "Well, this club ain't gonna run itself! It's almost time to start gettin' ready to open! We can continue this lesson another time."

He slapped his hands against his thighs dramatically and stood up quickly. That was a bad idea. As he stood up, his head felt light and he stumbled a bit. He held the booth with one hand, the other holding his head, as he waited a moment for the room to stop spinning. When it didn't, Yuki put her hands on his chest and shoulder, stabilizing him. He was much bigger than her, and there was no way she could actually hold him up if he fell, but she wasn't thinking about that in the moment.

After a second, the dizziness subsided, but the damage was done. He'd never be able to convince her to drop it now. He decided his best course of action was to be honest.

"Awright, so maybe I caught just a little case of the sniffles," Majima admitted finally, embarrassment turning his cheeks the colour of his nose. "But it's no cause for alarm or nothin'. I'll pop some meds, chug a Staminan, and I'll be fine."

"Okay... if you're sure." Yuki gave him a sympathetic look. "Just don't overdo it, okay?"

"I told ya to stop worryin'," he reminded her as he relaxed his gaze into a soft smile. It was nice knowing someone was looking out for him. Before he could finish his thought, the act of untensing all his facial muscles shifted something deep in his nose and he had barely enough warning to turn to the side before a spaced-out double struck him. The first one left a fine mist in the air next to them, before he managed to smush the second into a closed fist.

hya'ksshhhit... hi... hap'SCHhiew

"If you keep sneezing like that, I'll have no choice but to worry!" She giggled and lightly slapped his arm, figuring she should try to lighten the mood back up to normal Sunshine levels. He turned back to look at her a little sheepishly, but after seeing her smile, he felt at ease again. Maybe he didn't need to hide from anyone here. He didn't need to be "the Lord of the Night", he didn't need to be Shimano's lap dog, he didn't need to be an intimidating thug. At Sunshine, he just needed to be Goro Majima.

---------------------------------------------------

I haven't written a fanfic in almost 10 years, so I kinda forced myself to write this and get back into the swing of things. This was so hard to write 🥲

Also, I'm still kinda experimenting with sneeze spellings, so they might seem all over the place 😅 Lmk which ones you like!

[lezsnz]

Character A goes in for an interview, everything is fine until they meet the person interviewing them, Character B, who is definitely sick. A smiles and doesn't bring it up but as the interview goes on it becomes clear that not only is B sick, but they're unhygienic. Coughing into a balled fist every couple seconds, sneezing into their hand and not even bothering to wipe it off or use the hand sanitizer forgotten on their desk before grabbing a pen or typing on their computer, pinching their squelching nose between their fingers. A tries not to stare or imagine the amount of germs that must be coating them as a misting of a sneeze slips through B’s fingers and lands on A’s face. A also tries not to cringe at the end of the interview when B offers a handshake.

That cold better not be the only thing they get out of that interview

[nametakensff]

Homosexual Tendencies (M/etalocalypse, M/M)

Hey, all 3 D/ethklok fans! I ended up writing 6.9k of N/athan with a cold that ends up in gay sex because 🤷‍♀️👀👅

N/athan spends the better part of two days denying a plainly obvious cold and getting aggravated by P/ickles' insistence that he's getting sick. Eventually he caves and P/ickles does what he can to make him feel better 😇

~~~~~

Content:

M/M, N/athan has huge uncontrollable sneezes, cold sneezes, loud sneezes, cold denial, spray sneezes, contagion, mentions of mess, sneezing on somebody else, sneezing into hands, blowjobs, masturbation, hand jobs, sneezing during sex, nose rubbing, announcements, talking through build-ups, some rapid sneezing, P/ickles doesn't strictly have the fetish but certain...things happen, N/athan really enjoys sneezing, mentions of allergies, size difference

CW: canon-typical homophobia whilst doing the gayest shit ever, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, P/ickles is a functional alcoholic, N/athan is not smart and very much a massive prick (they all are, let's be real), graphic descriptions of semen

NSFW - Minors DNI!

The first sneeze gave him absolutely zero warning – not even a preparatory gasp or two, to which he was usually prone. All he had was a split-second of recognition before he was propelled forward with the force of it, unable to so much as raise a hand to cover it.

“HHURHHH’RRSHHH’AHHHH!!”

God, fuck. That felt fucking awesome. It had been so relieving he even had goosebumps rising across his forearms. Nathan sat for a moment in post-sneeze ecstasy before it dawned on him that he had sneezed all over everything within a five-foot radius – including his breakfast, the breakfast table, his drummer and his drummer’s breakfast.

“Bless you.” Pickles grimaced, pushing his plate away from him. “I’m done eating.”

“Fuck, sorry.” Nathan winced, wiping his damp nostrils against the back of his hand, ignoring the shiny streaks of moisture they left. “It didn’t even warn me.”

“You getting sick?” Pickles asked, remarkably calm for someone who had taken the brunt of one of Nathan’s sneezes. The vocalist realised, quite guiltily, that he was probably just used to it at this point. Covering his sneezes wasn’t something he had ever gotten the hang of – but, in his defence, they were so fucking big and overwhelming that once they got started, he couldn’t do much else but let them happen. Regardless, he still felt a little bad as he watched Pickles wipe away some of the glittering spray he’d adorned his arms with.

Was he getting sick, though? He didn’t think so. He sniffled experimentally, just to check, and regretted it immediately. The urge to sneeze flared up again, arching his prominent nostrils and transforming his at-rest frown into a miasma of ticklish agony.

“HUHh-!!”

At least it gave him – and Pickles – a warning, this time.

“Here, Nate, for fucks’ sake.”

Pickles thrust a bandana into Nathan’s hand, but it was too late - it tickled too much. Nathan gasped hugely, broad chest expanding to capacity, and then he was sneezing again, practically roaring with the effort of it.

“- HH’WRRZSSCHH’UHHHHHhh!!!”

He was a big guy with big sneezes, but holy fuck, that one had been gargantuan. He felt like jumping out of his skin with shock even though he was the one sneezing. His chair creaked as he was flung forward, a colossal cloud of spray bursting forth and dousing everything in sight. Nathan blinked his eyes open blearily in time to watch the remnants of it hang in the air in front of him before gradually dissipating into nothingness.

“Brutal.” He muttered, wiping his nose again on his wrist before remembering Pickles’ bandana, still resting limply in his hand. He snuffled into it, rubbing his itchy nose in circles, really going to town because God fucking dammit it tickled so much and scratching felt so good.

“Jesus, Nat’an!”

He peered over at his bandmate, who had leapt back in time to avoid most of the carnage, but not all of it.

“Ya soaked me! Would it kill you to cover your mouth every once in a while?!”

Nathan wanted to feel remorseful, but he was far too focused on how exhausted he suddenly was. It wasn’t a bad kind of exhaustion, necessarily – he still felt tingly all over from the heady rush of the sneezes – but it was strange, given that he’d just woken up after a rare, decent night’s sleep. He snuffled again into the bandana, giving his nose one final swipe before holding it back out to Pickles.

“Thanks.”

The drummer grimaced.

“You keep that. You’re gonna need it for that cold.” Pickles frowned, turning to leave.

“I don’t have a cold!” Nathan called after him. He didn’t, right? He didn’t feel sick at all.

“Uh-huh. Sure you don’t, chief.” Pickles called over his shoulder, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m gonna take a fucking shower.”

“But I just gave you one.” Nathan grinned at his receding back.

“Ha ha, that’s very funny.” Pickles turned to face him as he slipped out the door. “If you get me sick, I’m kickin’ your ass.”

“Like to see you try.” Nathan quipped, and then he was alone.

He stared at his breakfast, wondering if it was still unsanitary to finish it even though the sneezes that had soiled it had been his own. He decided to leave it, wandering back to his room for a power nap. He sneezed once more on the way back to his room, the ear-splitting echo of it causing an unfortunate Klokateer walking past him to shriek in surprise and drop something heavy onto his own foot, which was funny as fuck and totally worth it.

~~~~~

His power nap had turned into a full-blown sleep, but he was still tired when he woke up hours later – potentially more-so than before. He decided he couldn’t face socialising with the rest of the band and opted to hole up in his room for the remainder of the day and work on song lyrics. He’d had major writer’s block whilst recording their previous album so he figured he should get some material primed before they hit the studio in a couple of weeks’ time.

It didn’t go especially well – partially because of all the sneezing he was doing. It felt nice, the ways sneezes tended to, but he was also sick of how many sheets of paper he was destroying with poorly aimed spatterings of spray. Some he’d outright tossed because of the damage; those that he hadn’t had dried almost wrinkled from the sheer amount of moisture they’d been exposed to. His own sneezes didn’t disgust him, but he could appreciate how gross the whole affair was from an outside perspective.

He had dinner brought to his room and fell asleep at some early hour in the morning. Ideally, he would have continued to sleep well after noon the next day had Charles not sent a Klokateer to wake him up for a scheduled practice session – one he had completely forgotten about. He peered at his phone and realised he had slept through multiple phone calls and alarms. Whatever.

As he made his way to hall, he took a moment to mentally assess his general state of wellbeing. Apart from his tickly nose and the endless sniffling, twitching and scrunching it was making him do, he felt fine. All that sleep, no matter how excessive, had clearly done him some good. He’d only sneezed about four times since waking up – another win for his health. He didn’t have a cold because he didn’t want one, and he’d already had two this year already so frankly, it wouldn’t be fair to have caught another. It was a mindset thing, and he was determined to win – a determination compounded by the look of tentative concern Pickles shot his way when he entered the room and joined his waiting bandmates.

~~~~~

Practice was going fine, mostly; they’d put together a decent set and everybody was playing well, even Murderface. It would have been perfect, had the sneezes that Nathan had been convinced were over and done with not decided to make their presence known mid-performance.

He felt the tell-tale tingle in the back of his nostrils just as Skwisgaar started into a lengthy solo. He stopped headbanging (which was admittedly making him feel a little dizzy anyway) and, as subtly as he was able, reached up to massage his nose, hoping to appease the tickle.

It didn’t work. If anything, like stoking the flames of a fire with a poker, he seemed to encourage it, bringing tears of irritation to his eyes that clung to his fluttering eyelashes. God, but that tickled. He tried pinching his nostrils shut, but they were flaring so powerfully they fought against the press of his fingers. The congestion he seemed to have loosened whilst headbanging was doing nothing to help matters either. His expression was crumpling, but Skwisgaar was nearly finished and his part was coming up.

Mind over matter, he reminded himself. Don’t want a cold? Don’t have one. Don’t want to sneeze? Just don’t. Easy.

For a split-second, he seemed to convince himself. He lifted the microphone to his face, took in a huge gasp to fuel his upcoming scream –

“HAHHHH’RZZSHHH’HAHHhhh!!”

And promptly sneezed instead.

The sneeze without amplification would have been enough to shake the rafters; with it, it was practically ear-splitting. The fallout was immediate. His bandmates all jumped out of their skin, stopped playing, and cringed into various protective positions, covering their ears or arching away from the speakers. When the echoing feedback had subsided, all four of them started angrily voicing their frustration, in at least three different languages. Too light-headed to care, Nathan let them get it out of their system, knuckling at his nose and opting to enjoy the tingles of relief that suffused him post-eruption instead.

“Ams you gettings sick?” Skwisgaar asked warily; he’d just gotten over a cold of his own, no doubt contracted from one of his ailing G-MILFs. He’d been a massive baby about it, holing up in his room and refusing to emerge until he felt better. Of course, there’d still been a never-ending stream of groupies coming to and from his room. He’d probably, quite ironically, ended up starting a miniature pandemic via all the fucking despite his self-imposed sequestering.

“Yeah, he is.” Pickles answered from behind his kit, looking as disgruntled as the rest of them.

“I’m not. Jesus, what are you, my mom?”

“Keep acting like a fuckin’ toddler, then yeah, maybe I’ll have to be, douchebag.”

Nathan rolled his eyes, feeling moody and surly. He realised that his nap hadn’t done much for him at all, now that he’d been awake for a while. He was still very much exhausted, and the death-metal vocalising and headbanging certainly hadn’t improved his situation. He just wanted to get this done and go back to his room.

“Just drop it. Let’s get back to fucking practicing, okay?”

“Just promise nots to makes us all deafs, then? My ears ams still ringings.” Toki whined, looking very much like the prospect was about to make him cry. Nathan felt a horrible mix of embarrassment, guilt and self-pity. It wasn’t his fault his nose was being such a bitch today, and it definitely wasn’t his fault he had such big sneezes. Again – big guy, big lungs, inevitably large sneezes. What was so hard for everybody to understand?!

He didn’t dignify Toki with a response.

He lasted another ten minutes before he had to sneeze again. This time, if only to spare him the aggravation of his whiny bandmates, he managed to sneeze away from the mic, twisting to one side and letting loose. It was an absolutely brutal triple that left him leaning over his knees and clutching them for support in the breathless aftermath. A lingering, teasing fourth sneeze tore through him the moment he tried to right himself, almost stumbling under the power of the release.

“- hHAAHGg’TSZZSHHH’UHHHHhh!!”

Groaning, he glanced at the section of the floor that had been unfortunate enough to take the brunt of his fit. It glittered under the lighting, a testament to the sheer enormity of each sneeze. Sucked for him that sneeze spray density wasn’t the kind of thing people generally revered, despite being, in his opinion, an undeniably impressive feat on his part.

In the echoing aftermath, he realised his band had ceased playing and were looking at him with varying degrees of wariness, concern and bemusement. He ignored the scattered blessings and righted himself, snuffling into the tissues he finally remembered he’d crammed into his jean pockets before leaving his bedroom.

“That’s a nasty head-cold, Nate.” Pickles said, watching him from behind his kit. He was looking at Nathan with legitimate concern, but in that bitchy, nagging way that made Nathan feel like a fucking idiot. He bristled in response, considered screaming obscenities at his stupid fucking drummer, then realised he felt too light-headed and decided against it.

“Not a cold.” He grumbled, clearing his throat, which was starting to hurt from the repeat assaults of his untameable sneezes. “I just have allergies or something.”

“Uh-huh. To what?”

Pickles was in full mother-hen mode now – it was driving him fucking insane.

“To fucking plants or whatever. What do you care?”

“Mm-hm. Sure.” Pickles narrowed his eyes at him.

“Will you get off my fucking back and just play the drums, please?”

“Uh-oh.” Murderface muttered, smirking. “Mommy and Daddy are fighting again.”

“Shut up, Murderface!” Pickles flung a drumstick in his direction, which he just managed to dodge with a matrix-esque back-bend. Skwisgaar said something in Swedish or fucking Norwegian, some kind of Scandinavian dig, and then he and Toki were laughing, maybe at his expense, maybe not, and that was about all Nathan could take. He dropped the microphone to the floor, ignoring the squeals of discomfort from the rest of the band at the high-pitched feedback that rang out, and stalked out of the room.

~~~~~

Nathan was awakened from a pitifully unfulfilling doze by the sound of someone pounding on his bedroom door. He groaned, shielding his prickling eyes from the lights he had forgotten to turn off. If he hadn’t felt ill before, he certainly did now. Normally, this ‘feeling like crap’ part of catching a cold came before the incessant sneezing and aggravating sore throat, but this fun little virus seemed to like to keep him on his toes.

The pounding continued, doing nothing for his blossoming headache. Why did naps either leave you in the best condition of your life or feeling like you were waking up after taking a sledgehammer to the face?

“Nathan? It’s me.”

‘Me’ was Pickles. Nathan moaned, then hissed at the sudden pain in his rapidly worsening sore throat. He didn’t need to be judged or lectured.

“Fuck off!” He said, rolling over in bed and attempting to get comfortable again, but it was too late. He was awake now, and aware that he had fallen asleep in his jeans, which was never fun. He sighed and sat up, shifting to swing his legs over the side of his obscenely huge bed.

“Just open the door, douchebag. I come with an offering.”

Nathan would, in just a moment. Sitting up had shifted the building congestion in his swelling sinuses, making his head spin – but more pressingly, it was about to make him sneeze.

“HUhh…” He gasped miserably. He could probably have put in the effort to reach for the tissue box somewhere behind him on the bed, but this cold was making him lazy; he also needed, like, ten tissues bare minimum when he sneezed to prevent blowing a hole right through them and sneezing directly onto his palm anyway. At least without a tissue he just had a wet hand, not a pulpy one.

“Hh-HH!! HAHHH-!! HUH’RUSHHHHH’UHHH!! ‘WRZSSHH’UHHH!! HAHHDD’TZSHHH’OOOOhhh!!...Oough….”

“Bless you!”

Ignoring the muffled blessing he snuffled thickly, bringing a shaky hand up to his face to prevent the hanging mess from escaping any further. He looked round, blearily, finding absolutely nothing to hand. He sat for a second, shrugged, then pulled his t-shirt off over his head. Before he changed his mind, he took a deep breath and blew his nose into the fabric as hard as he could. The loud, crackling sound of it ended on an embarrassingly loud honk. He was sounding worse by the minute – what a demonic cold.

“Hold on.” He grumbled, righting himself and heading over to open the door.

“Heyyy, buddy!” Pickles was smiling at him with that ridiculous lop-sided grin, which faded almost instantly as his eyes roved over Nathan’s face. “Oh, man. You look…You don’t look good, Nate.”

“I don’t feel good.” He said, wanting to be offended but feeling too tired to give much of a fuck about anything. “What do you want?”

“Like I said – brought an offering.” Pickles’ smile returned as he lifted a bottle of expensive whiskey for Nathan to admire.

“Ohh, uh. I think I feel too bad for that right now. Thanks, though.” He added, moving to close the door.

“I thought you might say that,” Pickles lifted up the plastic bag in his other hand, “So I brought you something a little less potent. Well, depending on how much you’re takin’, anyway.”

Nathan could make out several bottles of Nyquil and other cold medicines through the polyethylene.

“So, can I come in?”

Nathan regarded him – the blatant, unspoken sheepishness over driving him away plain on his bearded face. A part of him felt like slamming the door on him, but another, much more persuasive part of him wanted his dumb best friend’s company – even if said best friend was a worse nag than almost any girlfriend he’d had.

“Will you get off my case if I say yes?”

“Will you admit you got a cold?” Pickles raised a pierced eyebrow.

Nathan pushed the door open fully and stood to one side.

“Fine. Yes. Have it your way. Now be nice to me, I’m a sick person.”

“I’m always nice to ya.” Pickles wandered in, looking extremely pleased with himself – no doubt smug at having successfully gotten Nathan to admit he was right.

“Listen – I’m not try’nna give you a hard time.” He said, settling himself cross-legged on Nathan’s bed after tipping the contents of the bag onto the covers. “You’re just so…bad at looking after yourself. I don’t like watching you suffer. Plus, you’ve been super stressed out over the upcoming album. You ruminate, y’know.”

Nathan closed his door and walked over, hesitating for a moment before shucking off his jeans and climbing back into bed in his boxers.

“You take terrible care of yourself.” He said pointedly, though not accusatorily, to the drummer. Not one member of their band, bar Toki on occasion, took their health into consideration at all most of the time. Pickles thought alcohol and crystal meth were suitable cures for a cold.

“Maybe so. Don’t mean I can’t care about you, though.” Pickles shrugged and took a deep swig from the whiskey bottle like it was water.

“Faggy of you.”

“Bite me.”

Ten minutes of meaningless, comfortable conversation passed between the two of them, during which Nathan took an unmeasured gulp of Nyquil and settled back into his impressive pile of pillows. He normally didn’t sleep with all that many, but when he was sick he felt a compelling urge to fashion a kind of pillow-based nest. It was comforting, especially combined with the drummer’s easy-going chatter lulling him into a partial doze.

His pleasant state of relaxation was disturbed by the incredibly rude return of a cold-induced tickle, starting in the depths of his sinuses and spreading in a sudden rush throughout his entire nose. His nostrils flared wide within a split-second, arching in utter desperation.

“Ugh, fuck…” He muttered, sitting up lazily and preparing to sneeze.

“Okay, big guy?”

“Gonna sneeze.” He stated matter-of-factly, resigning himself to the draining process. Pickles was to the side of him and fortunately out of the splash zone if he sneezed directly in front of himself, which would have to do either way because the sneeze was almost done building, bringing tears to his eyes.

“HUHhh-!”

He sucked in one huge gasp, held right on the precipice of release for several painstaking seconds. If it wasn’t just Pickles getting a front-row-seat to the show, he would have felt some element of embarrassment at how nakedly desperate his face was sure to look. He was thankful he couldn’t see himself; he could feel the way his face hung slack, eyebrows knit together and mouth yawning open in total surrender to the overwhelming urge to sneeze.

At last, his body decided to grace him with release, and his expression drew tight, nostrils flaring wide as he rocked forward with each huge cold sneeze.

“HHG’TZSSHHHH’UHHHH!! WRZSSHHH’AHHHH!! HUHH’WRZSSSCHHHHh!!”

Fuck, they just weren’t stopping. One should have been enough, but this cold was relentless; he sucked in another huge breath, oxygen supply entirely depleted by the previous triple, then sneezed again, twice.

“HAHHH’GITSSHHH’UHHHHH!! HHdt-!! WRSSSCHHH’OOOOOhhh!!”

Jesus. His ears were practically ringing in the aftermath, both from the ear-splitting volume of them and the rush of blood to his face from the pure effort of letting them out. He sniffled thickly, holding back the deluge of mess threatening to overflow from his flexing nostrils. After a couple of moments, the pleasurable post-sneeze rush was shuddering through him, a small respite amidst the increasing feeling of general unwellness.

“God…” He muttered, feeling dizzy and weak.

“Bless you! You gonna make it?” Pickles was saying, reaching out to rub his back comfortingly, applying pressure that massaged Nathan’s muscles in just the right way. Unfortunately, combined with the rush of the sneezes, it was making him unexpectedly and irrepressibly horny. Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d had sex? Two weeks ago? That definitely counted as a dry spell, right? Maybe Pickles was onto something – he wasn’t looking after himself.

He let Pickles paw at him for a little longer, mulling things over in his mind. He really could stand to bust a nut right now. It had been a long time since he’d messed around with the drummer, and it was never something that was planned before nor discussed after. It just sort of…existed between them, like a nameless but not unwelcome spectre that occasionally made itself known.

What the hell. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He waited until Pickles dropped his hand and reached for his alcohol, then cleared his throat.

“Actually, there is something that might make me feel better.”

“Oh?” Pickles said, taking another generous swig of whiskey from the bottle. “And that is?”

“A blowjob.”

Pickles choked a little when a sudden burst of laughter coincided with another swig. Wiping the back of his hand against his lips, he looked over at Nathan, all bright-eyed and smirking.

“What makes you think you deserve one, huh?”

Nathan snuggled back into his pillows, attempting to take on the affectation of a sickly Victorian child.

“Look at me. I’m at death’s door, Pickles.” He sniffled, rather unnecessarily as his extra-gravelly voice made him sound plenty unwell. “Do you want your bandmate to die without getting any goodbye brain?”

Pickles coughed out another little laugh.

“You’re unbelievable. You’ve been a total brat all fucking day and now you want me to suck you?”

“Yes.” Nathan said, staring at him with the closest approximation to puppy dog eyes he was capable of. He didn’t want to know what that looked like, but from the sudden, defeated slumping of Pickles’ shoulders, he knew it had worked.

“Okay, you know what? Fine. You’re a spoiled douchebag, but I’m part of the problem.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It is. But just so you know,” Pickles placed the whiskey on the floor, crawling closer to Nathan on the bed. “I haven’t done this in a hot minute and I’m tipsy as hell, so no promises it’ll be any good.”

“I’m not a complicated guy. You know this.”

“Yeah, just, y’know - lowerin’ your expectations.”

Nathan nodded, then inhaled sharply at the sensation of Pickles’ fingers skimming the skin of his thigh, making their way up to his boxer shorts. His cock twitched, which did not escape the drummer’s attention; he smirked in satisfaction.

“Sensitive.” He muttered, and Nathan twitched again hearing the husky arousal in the drummer’s voice. He would have blushed but managed not to do so reminding himself he wasn’t some virginal nun and that it was just Pickles, for fucks’ sake. He grunted softly as his hardening cock was pulled through the slit of his underwear.

“Wanna take those off for me or you want it like this?” Pickles asked, and Nathan had to take a second to understand what he was saying, given his clever, dexterous fingers were wrapping round the length of him.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, hold on.”

He wriggled his boxers inelegantly down his thighs, grateful when Pickles pulled them the rest of the way down his legs for him. He spat in his hand before taking Nathan back in his grip, starting a gentle but firm rhythm on him, teasing his balls with the other. Nathan felt himself melting back into the mattress and tensing all at once, a paradoxical and pleasurable sensation he welcomed as it eclipsed the feeling of general ill-health.

As if summoned by the thought of his crappy well-being, his nose was tingling again. He managed to twist to the side with one huge gasp, spraying a heady “AIISSSHHHHH’AHHHH!!” across his pillowcase.

“Bless you. One other thing – do NOT sneeze on me while your cock is in my mouth or I’m biting the sucker off.”

“Deal.” Nathan sighed, letting himself relax and enjoy the pleasurable sensation of skilled fingers jerking him until he was rock hard and throbbing.

“God, I always forget how big you are.” Pickles murmured, sounding more happy than wary about the fact. He traced a finger delicately over Nathan’s urethra, which the vocalist loved. “My jaw’s gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.”

“Nn.” Nathan grunted, hips jerking a little as the mere thought of Pickles swallowing down his cock sent a jolt of pleasure down his spine. “Stop teasiihh-! Teasing me…!”

Now that was embarrassing; the urge to sneeze scrambling back mid-sentence, making his voice crack with a desperate, breathy inhale.

“Need’ta sneeze?”

Nathan made a frantic sound of affirmation, clumsily twisting his body to the side for another body-shaking triple.

“HUUTTSHHHH’OOOOhhhh!! HUHH’RUSSSSHHHHH’UUHHhh!! WRZSSSHHhhh!!”

It wasn’t just his body, but the bed, Pickles, the entire room seemed to shake as they hurtled out of him. Though tiring, they felt incredibly relieving and tingled in the best way; Nathan moaned in satisfaction, snatching his discarded t-shirt up and bringing it to his face for an indulgent nose rub.

“Fuck.” He snuffled into the fabric, blinking back tears.

“Bless you, Nathan. Holy fuck!” Pickles was laughing. Nathan frowned at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nah, it’s just – did you know that your wiener fucking jerks up and down when you sneeze?”

He did not know that. It was kind of funny to think about, Nathan had to admit. Pickles looked more than childishly amused, though – he looked downright hungry, cheeks flushed and eyes glittering. It set Nathan’s entire body on fire.

“Does that turn you on?” He asked, pleased to hear that all the congestion and soreness lent an especially gravelly huskiness to the low timbre of his voice that already had most girls creaming their panties.

Pickles smirked and shrugged, looking only a little sheepish.

“Would you hold it against me if I said yes?”

“I’ll never hold anything against you ever again if you just suck my cock, already.”

“Jeez, hold on, I’m gettin’ to it.”

The comforting warmth of a wet, hot mouth wrapping round his cock would never, ever get old. Nathan grunted, hips pulsing gently as Pickles inched down on him, taking him like a champ. He was genuinely impressed to feel the drummer nosing at his pubic hair, cock fully seated in his throat. He certainly wouldn’t want to swallow down a cock relative to the size of his forearm, but he sure was grateful his best friend seemed to enjoy slobbering all over the length of him. His eyelashes fluttered, a groan easing out of him as Pickles started up a rhythmic sucking and bobbing motion. He desperately wanted to tug on the drummer’s dreads, giving him something to ground himself and an excuse to touch Pickles, then remembered the angry punches he’d received in the past for even trying. He settled on clutching the bedsheets in his balled-up fists instead, lying back to enjoy the ride.

God, Pickles was great at this. He needn’t have tried to lower Nathan’s expectations at all. He was as good as any experienced groupie – maybe even better, no practiced moans and overdone tricks, just sheer effort, perfect suction and sloppy licking that had Nathan’s eyes rolling back into his head in pure bliss.

“Fuck, Pickles…”

The drummer moaned in response, sending pleasant vibrations throughout his cock. Hot spikes of pleasure teased their way up and down his spine. He was sweating, the build-up to orgasm so intense he was almost nervous about how good it would feel when he did cum.

It was all going so well, and he was so fucking close, that of course his nose started to tickle unbearably. Willing his nostrils to stop flaring, he wrinkled his nose and scrunched his eyes closed. It did nothing to help, and so he resigned himself to inevitability of it. He’d never sneezed during sex before; he wondered what it would feel like. Remembering Pickles’ threat and not wanting to find out whether it had been more than a bluff, Nathan lifted a wavering hand to his face.

“Pi’hihh’ckles…I – HUHh-!!”

He peered down the length of his body to see his drummer staring up at him, mouth full of cock and piercing green eyes heavy-lidded and sparkling. His cock throbbed in response, and the sneeze ebbed, warring with the mounting pleasure. He moaned, then gasped as the tickle surged forward, an absolutely maddening back and forth between the duelling sensations in his cock and nose.

For several moments, he genuinely wasn’t sure if he would ever cum or sneeze, caught in a liminal purgatory where one urge perpetually cancelled out the other. Then Pickles pulled back, dragging his tongue against the sensitive underside of Nathan’s cock before circling it round the head and digging into his urethra. The sharp stab of pleasure had him gasping  - and then his breath was hitching, eyes sliding shut and nostrils arching to capacity behind his hand, and –

“-hHEHHHGK’DZZZSSSHHH’AHHHHhhhh!!!”

It tore through him, the biggest sneeze of his cold thus far, a total fucking monster. He caught most of it in his waiting palm, instantly soaking it and sending little rivulets of moisture dribbling down his wrist. It felt absolutely amazing, the aftershock trembling through him, elevated by the feeling of Pickles (who had quite miraculously not gagged on his cock as he bucked underneath him) sucking him down. He had a second before his lungs were sucking in another gasp, so deep he felt light-headed, and then he was sneezing again, possibly even more violently than before.

“HUHHHH’WRZZSHHHHH’UHHHhh!!!”

Another soaking affair, his hand taking the brunt of it, though he felt some of the spray slash across his chest and stomach. Ecstatic, he moaned, head tipping back in sheer pleasure. Again, he had only a second of peace before the next sneeze struck, the tickle seeming to spread far beyond his sinuses and leave his entire face tingling in anticipation. The gasp that preceded it was shaky, pleading, as if his body could take no more of the sheer effort each explosion required.

“HAAHHgKK’TZZSSSCHHH’UHHHHH!!!”

Another stunner. Pure pleasure cascaded through him as the release rocked his body. Preparing to build up to another, his nostrils still flaring wide under the pressure of the tickle, he gasped in shock and ecstasy as his orgasm seized him instead. It was as though his brain, discombobulated by the practically simultaneous reflexes, forgot to warn him with any of its usual pre-orgasmic tingling. Maybe it had done, and the sneeze had simply been too powerful to allow him to focus on anything else. Either way, as the pleasure crashed over him in soothing waves, he at last found his voice, moaning loudly and unintelligibly as he shot into Pickles’ heavenly mouth, still sucking and stroking and making everything hotter than ever.

It seemed to last for a while, the most satisfying orgasm of recent memory, until it released him all at once; he practically melted onto the bedsheets, trembling helplessly.

“Ohhh fuckkkk…” He sighed. He was pretty sure he’d gone cross-eyed at one point.

He was vaguely aware of the glorious suction releasing his over-sensitised cock, and the cold sensation of his wet dick exposed to the open air. He peered over at Pickles, gulping down a terrible combination of whiskey and Nathan’s nut without so much as a grimace. Impressive. Nathan took the opportunity to wipe his sneeze-drenched hand on the sheets beside him. They were a helpless mess, anyway; it felt like he was lying in a puddle, he was sweating so hard.

“So?” Pickles’ face appeared over his own, flushed and smirking. “How was that?”

“You know how it was, motherfucker.” He said, feeling utterly refreshed, forgetting for a blissful moment the cold that was dogging him. “You’re concerningly good at that.”

“You’re welcome.” Pickles looked thoroughly pleased with himself. He’d always been a glutton for praise (and degradation, depending on the when and where, but post-orgasm wasn’t the time to consider that).

Pickles’ face edged out of his eye-line. Nathan continued to stare up into the space it had occupied, mindlessly taking in the roof of his four-poster as the mattress dipped next to him. The sound of a zipper being pulled down followed by the unmistakable sound of furious masturbation alerted him to the fact that his drummer had enjoyed sucking him almost as much as he’d enjoyed being sucked. Incredibly gay. His limp, spent cock gave a weak little twinge of excitement.

He turned his head to watch, first at Pickles’ pumping hand, the wet head of his cock shiny and drooling. Nathan vaguely thought about offering to suck Pickles in return, them imagined sneezing with cock in his mouth and decided to save them both a trip to the hospital. He turned his attention to Pickles’ face, then; even though they’d fucked, even though he had just gotten head, it still felt like peeping on an incredibly private moment. He never gave his own sex face much thought, too preoccupied with feeling good. Pickles’ looked almost tortured with pleasure, eyebrows furrowed, the corners of his slack mouth twitching. Nathan hissed as his cock throbbed again, entirely over-sensitised.

Pickles seemed to at last realise that he had been watching. He glanced at Nathan, shooting him a wink and a shameless smile.

“Sorry. Won’t take me long.”

Nathan grunted, shaking his head.

“Let me help?”

“Oh.” Pickles stopped, looking pleasantly surprised. “Y’sure?”

“Yeah. Come here.”

Nathan turned on his side as Pickles shifted closer, then reached round the drummer’s narrow waist to pull his back flat against his front. His left arm wrapped round Pickles’ chest whilst his right reached down, taking Pickles in hand. He was so much smaller than Nathan; his cock almost vanished in the tight grip of his fist.

“Ohh, yeahh…” Pickles sighed, back arching. He reached up with both hands to grip at the arm across his chest, heels skimming Nathan’s shins as he squirmed.

“Good?” Nathan muttered against the shell of Pickles’ ear.

“Yeahh…don’t stop, m’really close already.” Pickles slurred, then moaned as Nathan picked up the pace, fucking back into his fist.

Nathan kept at it. He wasn’t doing anything special – just some good ol’ up and down jerking – but Pickles was worked up enough that his lazy efforts were enthusiastically received, nonetheless.

It ought to have been expected that he would need to sneeze again so soon. The bliss of orgasm was starting to wane a little, his cold resurfacing – and with it, the ungodly tickle in his nose. He didn’t have the energy to choke out a warning, nor to twist himself out of their embrace. Figuring he was going to sneeze anyway, he pressed his nose up against Pickles’ shoulder and waited. He’d deal with whatever rage was coming his way later.

After a couple of seconds passed (during which he had faltered his jerking only slightly), the sensation became unbearable. He sucked in one huge breath, pushing the drummer forwards slightly as his chest expanded against his back, then cringed into a sloppily suppressed sneeze, nuzzling his face into the fabric of Pickles’ shirt.

“hHHHH’MPPFTSHHH’Hhhhh!!”

Like all the previous sneezes, everything shuddered as a result – him, the bed, and at such close proximity, caged in his arms, Pickles as well. He heard the drummer yelp in surprise, which was to be expected. He mashed his dripping nose against his bandmate’s shoulder to ease the residual tickly sensation, too gentle to transform into another sneeze just yet, thank fuck. He listened for the shout of indignation, prepared for an armful of fighting, royally pissed off drummer. Instead, Pickles gasped, went tense for a moment, then groaned unabashedly as he came all over Nathan’s hand.

Huh. Nathan had not been expecting that. He stroked Pickles throughout, holding him as he arched and sighed in his grip. His cock throbbed again, and he realised it was starting to harden. Too bad he had zero intention of doing anything other than passing out within the next ten minutes. The fabric of Pickles shirt was drenched where he’d sneezed, so he continued to rub his nose over any dry spots he could find, effectively using him like his personal handkerchief. Pickles still wasn’t complaining; he appeared to be recovering from his unexpectedly potent orgasm, fingers flexing over Nathan’s forearm, muttering little “Oh my gahd”s and “Nate”s over and over.

Nathan felt himself starting to doze off, even with his cum-covered hand lightly cradling Pickles’ flaccid cock. He knew Pickles loved to cuddle after sex - too gay for words - but he couldn’t deny it felt nice to lie there all tingly and sweaty and mutually satisfied.

“…Nat’an. Nate. You can let go now.”

Nathan started awake, feeling Pickles rubbing his sideburn against his cheek like an overgrown cat. He grunted, rolling himself with great effort onto his back as Pickles squirmed away. His right hand was tacky with semen; he grimaced at it, relatively impressed with the size of the load Pickles had shot.

“Brutal.” He muttered.

“Here,” Pickles said, a dopey, post-orgasm smirk on his face. He pulled his shirt off over his head and used it to wipe away most of his nut from Nathan’s fingers, then gave his cock the same treatment. Nathan’s dick twitched as he watched his bandmate indulgently massaging himself through the fabric. This cold was clearly heavily symptomatic of homosexual tendencies.

Pickles kicked off his jeans, fully nude at last, then flopped down beside Nathan, cradling his whiskey bottle and looking serene.

“God, that was a rush.” He said, taking a swig.

“You’re welcome?” Nathan said. “I sneezed on you, though.”

“Really?” Pickles drawled, teasing. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Thought you were gonna bite my cock off or something, if I did that.”

Pickles shrugged.

“Too drunk. Don’t care.”

That was an understatement. He’d moaned like a porn star when he shot his load, right after Nathan snotted all over his back. Nathan thought for a moment about the implication – his sneezing and Pickles’ orgasm. Or something. He was too tired to consider it with any serious contemplation. His brain was mush right now, he was pretty sure. Unthinkingly, though, he did mutter:

“I think my sneeze made you cum. Maybe.”

Pickles shrugged again, staring up at the canopy of Nathan’s bed.

“Who knows.”

You, Nathan thought. You know. Whatever. It wasn’t a big deal, especially not when his eyes were sliding shut in preparation for what promised to be an immensely satisfying sleep.

“Is it cool if I crash here?” Pickles asked, already helping himself to Nathan’s sheets and cocooning himself inside them.

“Sure.” Nathan said, pulling some of the blanket over himself. “I might sneeze you awake, though.”

“I doubt it.” Pickles said, tossing aside the huge whiskey bottle – now entirely empty. “Night, dude.”

~~~~~

“Hh’ngxt-! Ndt’tsiew! HnGXt’tshiew! nGxtt-! HEH’Ndtsh-! ‘Gxt’shuh!!”

Nathan blinked open his eyes, acutely aware of the bed trembling with every sneeze. Not his own, he suddenly realised – definitely not him. Which meant –

 “HahHG’Tzshh’iew! ‘DZz’shooh! HiG’TshUUu! AtSChh’ooh!!”

“God, Pickles. Bless you.”

“hHehH’EISHH’IEWWw!! Tha-hah!! HaHp’TISHHh’ieww!! Fuck, fucking fuck. Thank you. Actually – fuck you. You gave me your fucking cold, y’douchebag.”

Nathan peered over at the drummer – sat up in bed, sneezing fittishly into the corner of his blanket. He grinned to see how dishevelled and overwhelmed Pickles looked. His sneezes were hardly as big as Nathan’s, but what he lacked in power he made up for with quantity and intensity. Once he got started, especially when his allergies were going batshit insane, he couldn’t seem to stop. It was kind of cute – mostly just extremely amusing.

Pickles noticed him smirking and frowned in response, narrowing his eyes at him. He hesitated, then blew his nose aggressively into Nathan’s blanket.

“Ugh. I have tissues, somewhere. Come on, man.”

“Find ‘em for me, then.”

Nathan’s smirk grew larger at the evident congestion in Pickles’ voice, transmogrifying his heavy Wisconsin accent until it was an almost unintelligible garble of vowels and consonants. He didn’t complain when Pickles cuddled up to him, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

“I’ll definitely sneeze on you if you stay there.” He said.

Pickles didn’t say anything. Nathan wondered if he’d heard him, then jumped in surprise when the drummer let out three rapid-fire sneezes against the column of his throat. He peered up in amusement when Pickles straddled his chest, rubbing his nose fiercely with the heel of his hand – a terrible habit of the chronically allergic.

“Whatever. Now we’re even.”

“I’m not so sure.” Nathan muttered, running a hand down Pickles’ spine, grinning when the drummer shuddered all over in response. Way too fucking easy.

“Okay.” Pickles said, lowering himself onto Nathan’s chest. His erection dug into the soft flesh of Nathan’s stomach. “Wanna wrestle?”

[airborneglitter]

A Brief Respite

Long time, no post! Remember this old fic of mine, about an office worker with quite spectacular spring allergies? I decided to follow the poor bastard home, to see what would happen after the incident at the office.

And if you thought the first fic was horny... well. I can confidently say that this is, hands-down, THE most indulgent, unapologetically horny thing I've ever written. I treated it as a kind of challenge, basically I wanted to see what it would take for me to be properly turned-on by my own writing. I've done similar experiments in the past, but practise makes perfect. (◕‿◕✿)

Anyway. You know the drill. No plot, only symptoms. A couple of mentions of mess, but nothing too graphic. Ridiculously long build-up, followed by ridiculous amounts of sneezing. Nose action-heavy to a pornographic degree.

Enjoy!

˖⁺‧₊˚❀˚₊‧⁺˖

The commute home is a nightmare. Not quite rush hour, the train car is still crowded enough for him to feel deeply self-concious about his near-constant sniffling and the stifled sneezes that he only barely manages to keep in check. It's equal parts humiliating and exhausting, pinching his nose closed for the tenth time in as many minutes and turning a would-be disastrous sneeze into a pathetic, wet little squeak. Like a drowning mouse, he thinks, bitterly, as he tries his best to wipe the resulting overflow with his already damp fingers. The stifled sneezes do less than nothing to soothe the burning urge in between his eyes, that hot, clinging, allergic itch that serves as a constant reminder that spring has sprung and he has at least two more months of this to look forward to.

"Heh'dnxgh!-uh."

He can't wait to get home. Once safely indoors, there are only two things on his agenda: taking his allergy meds, and getting in the shower.

- - -

By some miracle, he manages to make it home without accidentally sneezing on a fellow commuter. Front door barely shut behind him, he shudders out of his coat and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Stepping in front of the sink, he reluctantly looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Certainly not a sight to instil confidence. It's worse than he had feared.

The culprit is there on full display, of course, front and center of his tired, bleary-eyed, slightly puffy face. For the past - god, what might it be? Eight hours now, at least? - he has known all too well what it feels like, but it's only now that he's had the chance to actually survey the damage, as it were.

He winces at the sight, but his expression quickly morphes into something less sharp, less intentional. Feeling the dreaded sensation pull at his facial muscles once more, he stubbornly fights to keep his eyes open as his mouth relaxes open and his eyelids droop.

"Huhh..."

The last thing he sees before his eyes fall involuntary shut is the star of this terrible show he has found himself in. His nose. Huge on his face. High in the air from his head tilting back, his nostrils take center stage. Scarlet ovals flared wide open, pulsing impatiently -

"Hh...! Huh...! H'DJSHNXGHiew!"

He sneezes uncovered, straight down toward the sink. Something between a bark and a wet snarl, the sound distinctly angry. He can feel the spray land on his hands that are gripping the sink.

"HEH'DJSCH! HIH'DDJSH! HEH, HEHH, -H'TJJSCHew!"

Horrible, awful, disgusting.

(Bliss.)

Leaning over the sink, shaking his head groggily, twin strings of drool and snot, thin as spider silk, slide from his nose and mouth into the drain. He sniffles, or tries to, and his nose gives a whistling squelch instead. He opens his eyes again, looks up. His gaze flickers across the mirror for a moment, as though searching in there for something other than his own reflection. His eyes soon revert back, however. Drawn by the sheer spectacle.

Fuck, but he looks a mess. His normally immaculate hair is standing every which way, his eyes are puffy pink slits, his lips chapped, his nose painful-looking, so red and inflamed it looks like he's taken a punch to it. He knows that, technically, it can't actually have swollen to twice its normal size, but it certainly feels like it. His nose isn't exactly small to begin with, and with all the rough treatment it's been put through lately... well. It definitely isn't pretty.

Hand not entirely steady, he reaches up against better judgement and touches the tip of his nose. Bright red bulb, shiny with inflammation, too warm to the touch. Itch immediately stirrs inside it, spidering up and down his nasal passages, making his eyes water.

Right. No time to waste.

Blinking hard and scrunching his nose to buy himself some time, he hurriedly reaches into the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror and pulls out his antihistamine nasal spray.

Bracing himself, he gingerly inserts the nozzle tip into his left nostril, but his nose is already on such high alert that he doesn't have time to press down and release the spray to where it might, hypothetically, do some good. For the second time today, he sneezes full force without so much as a second's warning, a clipped double sneeze that echoes off the tiles in his bathroom. He opens his eyes and meets his own gaze in the mirror again. A look says more than a thousand curse words.

Next try he actually manages to push some spray up there, but again his nose rebels on him, violently evicting the medicine with a sharp "Eh'TDSHHjsh!" before he can contain it.

For fuck's sake.

Attempt number three. This time he pinches his nostrils closed before he can take another breath, squeezing tight as the repressed reaction shakes his diaphragm with strangled little "hdT-!, htTT-!, hdtT-!"-sounding sneezes. The action leaves him dizzy and his eardrums pop, but this time around the medicine stays put. He can't wait for it to start working. Even just the slightest bit of relief would be a massive improvement compared to his current situation. Sensing a small break in the ongoing fit, he lets go of his nose just long enough to push a second dose into his right nostril, then promptly squeezes it shut again. His nostrils twitch in his grip, the sharp menthol-y sting of the medication prickling horribly.

"heh'dt-! eh'dtj-! 'ttdjNXGH!"

Finally daring to loosen his grip of his nose, he looks at his reflection once more and cringes at the sight. Why couldn't he just have... moderate hayfever? Itchy eyes, runny nose, some sneezing here and there. Annoying, sure, inconvenient, absolutely, but not... not this. Not this embarrassing, crippling, dramatic spectacle of an allergy. A nose that demands him to drop everything to deal with its constant temper tantrums at having to breathe a little spring air. Speaking of breathing, his nostrils have begun to twitch again with little fluttering hitches. It's not that his nose has started to tickle again - it never stopped tickling in the first place - but rather that the ever-present irritation spreads and grows in intensity, its crawling, bristling needles of sensation blooming all throughout his nose, hijacking all other mental and physical functions. His breath stutters, his eyes overflow, his face twitches and contorts into all sorts of ridiculous expressions while his hands fan limply at the air in front of his face. For all he knows, the only thing this accomplishes is to waft even more pollen into his nose, but the action is reflexive, barely conscious. His chest heaves and expands, head rearing back, upper lip curling, baring teeth. His nose itches. God, it itches so bad. He wishes he could reach his fingers up there and just scratch, wildly rake his nails across the inside of his nasal passages with complete abandon. It's as if someone has packed his nostrils full to the brim with a mixture of dust, pepper and chili powder, or a million tiny feathers, or the world's most potent itching powder, or...

Or pollen. That hateful, inescapable stuff that seems to coat every surface outside in a powdery film. Just now, when walking up to the house, he had seen it floating on the surface of the rain puddles in his driveway, like watercolor splotches of pale yellow. So much of it. Everywhere. Sticking to everything. His coat, his hair, his eyelashes. Grass. Birch. Oak. Hazel. Riding on the breeze, infiltrating his every breath.

"hihuh... h'hih, hih, huhh...!"

Reddened eyelids drift to half-mast, his gaze goes unfocused, then crossed-eyed. His nostrils spasm fitfully, seeming to flare wider with each consecutive breath until they're gaping open, perfectly circular, frozen in limbo. His head is thrown back, chest straining against his shirt, his lungs full to capacity, his face a cartoonish caricature of an allergy sufferer on the cusp of a truly devastating sneezing fit.

"huhh...! hhHHUH...!"

He can't think for itch. For a brief moment, his entire face seems to consist of itch, his nose its red-hot singularity. Stinging, burning, all-consuming. A crisis of itch.

"-AAHH...!!"

A beat. His body is so ready, so desperate to sneeze that it actually starts the process, producing a half-strangled "AH'DJh-...!" at the back of his throat, but then... it doesn't follow through!? His voice manages a pathetic, whispered "...tsheww"-sound, a toothless imitation of the release he was promised. His entire nose aches with disappointment. Fat, itchy tears spill down his face, adding their salt to the metallic taste in his mouth. Groaning, he grinds the lower part of his palm up against his nose, then again, and again, working the bulbous tip back and forth with aggressive fervor, attempting to ease the itch inside by rubbing his nostrils together. It barely makes a difference, and the screaming tickle high up in his sinuses threatens to drive him mad. He snatches a handful of tissues from the box on the sink and blows for all he is worth, immediately soaking the paper all the way through. Another handful, same result, but the blowing seems to be helping at least a fraction. Gasping and cursing, he buries his nose in a third wad of tissues, massaging the bridge of his nose through the paper all the while, giving a final, resounding blow... one that sets his nasal passages vibrating at just the wrong frequency. The resulting tickle goes off inside his head like a fire bomb:

"AHDTJSHCH-HIH!! -ADTJSCHIH!! -ATJCHIH!! - - - h'ddtjTTJSCHSCHHIIH!-djshIH!dschIH!tjshIH! dtjSHIH! ddtjiSSCHIEW! 'DTJSHIH! -dtsh!-djish!-ddtsch!-tsh!-ttsh!-djshdshtjsh'TTSCHH!!"

Bliss. Torture. Bliss. Torture. The faint flicker of relief each sneeze grants him feels so good, even as the unbearable itch reignites immediately after. Goosebumps break out on his arms and his whole body tingles with sensory overload as he keeps sneezing and sneezing and snh... huhh-

"HUH'D---tjshih!-ttjsh!-dtjsh!-ttgsh!tsh!ttsh!dsh!ddjsh!---"

He hates the rapid-fire sneezes the most. They make him feel so out of control, not to mention dizzy from the lack of air. Each frantic, breathless double-triple-quadrouple-quintuple bursting out of him only seems to aggrivate his nose further, triggering an endless chain reaction of allergic frenzy.

"---DDJSHih!-TDJJIH!-ATTJIH!-TJSHIH! AH'TSH!DJSH!DDJSH!DSHTJSH'TSH'GKSH!!"

He has to stop -

"---GTDJ'XSH! HZDJSH! ---DTSH!DTSH!TTJSH! Huh.... huh, huh, huhh...!"

He can't stop.

"AAH'GDJSHIEW! AH-AH-ACKDJSHHEW! ---JJSHU! NXJSHUH! TJSHIEW!"

It's never-ending. That dreadful, squirming, crawling sensation of panicked nerve-endings writhing inside the tight confines of his swollen sinuses. Like a nest of angered ants, swarming and biting.

"AH'KGDJSHHIW!"

But maybe it's...

"GH'DTSCHEWW!-TCHEW!"

...finally starting to...?

"HP'TDSCHUH-TSCHUH!-tCHEW!"

Tingling lips parted, pouring eyes blindly shut, pulsing nose pointing at the ceiling -

"HAH'TDDJSCHHIEWW!!"

Bent over the sink, nose buried deep in his... fifth? six? handful of tissues, one hand gripping the side of the sink for support. Panting. Lightheaded. Exhausted. He tries to sniffle but is so brutally congested at this point that he barely makes a sound, his nose only manages a kind of wet squeak as he wipes it. Like a fucking clown nose, he thinks mirthlessly. Big, red, and making ridiculous noises.

"Guh..."

Please, that must be it, right? He has been sneezing non-stop for at least five minutes straight. His nose is so stuffed-up at this point that it feels physically heavy on his face, pulsating dully and aching with pressure. His abdominal muscles are sore, his throat raw, his eyes stinging, but his nasal passages don't feel like they are actively on fire anymore? Ever so carefully, he wrinkles his nose, scrunching his nostrils first to the left, then to the right. Waiting, breath withheld. It still tickles, of course. That feather-light buzzing tingle won't go away for at least another two months (god help him), but at least for the moment it seems his sinuses are no longer in absolute panic mode.

The meds must finally be starting to take effect. Either that, or his body is simply too exhausted to keep firing on all cylinders like that. Whatever the reason, he'll take any respite he can get.

At least now, he's able to keep his eyes open for long enough to find his way to the shower. He can't wait to get under the hot water and finally rinse all of that p... p-pollen off...

Don't think about it.

Of course he's still covered in the stuff. It's on his shirt collar. His sleeves. His hair. His face.

"Hh..."

No. He flat-out refuses.

"Huh... hh... "

Shirt, trousers, socks, underwear. In a mad scramble, he's shed them all and dropped them on the bathroom floor. Then he's in the shower, nearly slipping on the floor tiles in his haste to get in there before his nose can take him hostage yet again. Faceing the shower head, he doesn't even care that the water is freezing at first. If anything, the cold spray feels good and soothing against his flushed, itchy face.

"Hhuh --- djsh!"

The sneeze is weak, half-hearted, spray meeting spray, barely audible over the sound of the shower.

He might as well not have sneezed at all, the way his nose doesn't even register this sisyphean attempt to scratch at the itchiness inside.

Wincing deeply, he jams an outstretched forefinger up against his sore septum and starts to rub his nose again. Lightly at first, but soon he is applying more pressure, crushing his nose upwards, shortening the sloped bridge into a mass of crinkles. Finger sawing away, back and forth beneath his nostrils, pushing their inflamed insides together and grinding them against each other. The itch is a throbbing heat all throughout his nose, but searing sharpness has been replaced with a duller, more muted sort of irritation now, one that doesn't threaten to make him sneeze every two seconds. Instead, he's stood there scrubbing away at his face, not wanting to stop despite how tender and sore his nose is becoming. It feels so good to rub, to finally be able to scratch the itch that's been plaguing him for hours and actually feel it have a soothing effect rather than make it worse. A sigh of relief, then an almost sensual whimper escapes him, as he switches the position of his hand and starts pulling his nose up and down with his fingers wrapped around either side of it.

"Nnh... fuck..."

The squelching sounds are disgusting, and he couldn't care less. Eyes blissfully shut, fingers working away, loosened congestion mixing with the shower water and running down his lips.

All day he has been so. fucking. itchy. From the second he woke up and started off his morning by sneezing violently six times in a row into his pillow. All throughout his workday which ended with a disastrous sneezing fit and an humiliating early exit. Nine hours of this. Non-stop. Of the histamine-drenched nerves in his nose, eyes, ears and palate screaming bloody murder.

And now it's letting up.

One final, sensous pull on his nose, from brow to tip. He lets go of his grip just as the last remnant of a tickle sparks back to life in the raw depths of his sinuses. A pinprick stab of sensation, one big, quick gasp, and he is thrown forward with possibly the most satisfying sneeze he has ever experienced in his twenty-odd years of suffering from hayfever.

”AHH --- ! 'AATTDJSHOOohh!-ohhhh god.”

And so, for one, long, blissful moment there in the shower, his nose feels completely clear, calm, and unaffected by the raging springtime outside.

It may be temporary, but he'll enjoy it while it lasts.