You can call me Gray! I promise I'm not misspelling the word. I'm an American and that's just how we do it over here lol
Minors (people under 18) do not interact! It’s not safe or appropriate for adults and minors to be interacting in a kink space. So, I will block you if you don’t have your age in your bio. I hope you understand 💕
I’m asexual and consider myself, for the most part, sex repulsed. This fetish is entirely a personal pleasure to me and I indulge in it mostly through fiction. I'm not interested in any kind of RP, but if you want to talk about fics, though, feel free to message me! I love talking about mine and other peoples’ OC’s 😊
My main fetish preference is men sneezing, mostly from colds. I love romance, so my fics are usually M/M sick fics. I also love mess, but try to tone it down in my fics because I know that’s not for everyone, but every now and then I will write a scene where I indulge in it a little 😅
My Fics:
Connor and Felix:
The Reluctant Reunion: Felix finds himself out in public with a cold that's significantly worsening by the minute. Before he can flee to his home to wallow alone in his misery, though, he runs into his ex-boyfriend, author Connor Hayes.
An Admirable Denial: Connor has just reunited with his ex-boyfriend, Felix. Connor wants to prove he's fully committed to their relationship, but he comes down with what's looking to be the worst cold of his entire life. His deep fear of vulnerability keeps him from allowing Felix to see this side of himself. So during this pivotal and fragile stage in their relationship, he finds himself pulling away from Felix.
A Sneezy Little Christmas: A 2,500 word one-shot that's just Felix sneezing. *Can be read as a standalone
Ben and Arlo:
A Year of Falling: A love story spanning a year of Ben's life told through a series of colds (and sometimes allergies).
A Week of Falling: A sequel to A Year of Falling. This follows a week in Arlo's life as he tries make it through a difficult week while battling a cold.
Standalones:
Inevitable: A self-indulgent, mostly plotless story full of mess and contagion.
A vampire bites a priest with a cold and has to live with the consequences. 🦇 🎃
Hey everyone. its vampire sneezing. That's it. That's the fic. you're welcome. Unbeta'd, written in a fever of h0rniness. Kind of gross.
18+ (SFW)
CW | horror movie level violence, mentions of blood, no egregious descriptions of gore. Shared psychic sneezing, general spooky vampire vibes, eternal colds, empathy sneezing, some slight SWH elements, monster snz, are you into priests? I'm not really, but I do like vampire priests I guess, happy halloween everyone
Special thanks to @shamefilledsnzblog, who shared a tumblr post that filled me with such wanton lust that I vomited this into my word processor.
Prowling cemeteries at night wasn't something the seminary prepared him for. But after serving the small community of Cat's Cradle, Reverend Nathaniel Lark knew better than to question the concerns of a worried mother knocking on his door at 11:00 pm.
He swore it was the trees—Cat's Cradle was a mountain town surrounded by an ancient forest. Tales of ghosts and monsters flourished in the dark, and it wasn't his place to disprove or deny the concerns of his parish. Their belief was real, and that was enough for him. So he peered down every haunted well, climbed up every ominous staircase, and looked under every bed. He hadn't planned on becoming an official boogeyman hunter, but he preferred it over listening to his pompous, bigoted peers back home. He took up the collar to bring comfort to others, and if bringing comfort meant going out into the dark with a crucifix and a jar of garlic in the middle of the night, he was going to do it.
"Igheh'Hhh—Hihff'Shhiew!!"
He unfolded a new bundle of tissues, already exhausting a box. The miserable cold that spent its time passing from townsfolk to townsfolk in the winter had finally caught up to him just as spring finally came around. He practically sneezed his way through the last mass. It was a proper head cold, one he hoped would dry up in a week. Thankfully, most of his colds were short-lived.
"Heeh-hh—ohdearmbe—hehh'IGHHFFF!!!"
That one bent him in half. His back twinged in pain, and for a moment, he stayed bowed, lower half of his face buried in a handkerchief. The airy sneeze rang out in the graveyard, the only sound of life amongst the dead.
Wincing, he slowly, carefully straightened out again. The grand age of forty-five had done his spine no favors. Or his knees. Or his neck, for that matter. Funny, the things one took for granted. Working backs and knees. Graveyards had a way of making him meditative on his own mortality, as graveyards should. They were places for contemplation. To honor and grieve loved ones. They were places where memories were buried forever.
They were not supposed to be dug up again, least of all by the local priest. But the kindly baker told him she'd seen a vampire take its residence in what should have been her auntie's final resting place, and he wasn't going to argue with her. If a flock of sheep bleated at a wolf in the woods, the shepherd would be foolish not to go and chase it away.
He still felt foolish placing the jar of garlic on top of the grave. He felt even more foolish when he nearly jumped out of his skin in fright when the caretaker yelled at him.
"What the hell are you doing?" The old man stood at the stoop of the funeral house, weathered face lit by the glow of his outdated lantern.
"Oh, hullo!" Rev. Nathaniel Lark smiled awkwardly, trying to make the act of digging up a grave look perfectly normal. "Just uh—snff—checking for…something."
The caretaker grumbled a string of colorful expletives and returned to the funeral home, slamming the doors behind him.
"Have a good evening!" Nathaniel lamely called after him. He always tried his best to end every interaction on a positive note. You never knew when a goodbye would be your last.
Nathanial was unsure if a jar of processed garlic with "a hint of rosemary" would have the same effect as an actual garland, but he didn't have any time to sew one together, and frankly, he didn't feel well enough to focus on crafting one. He took a small bottle of holy water and gave the top of the grave a generous sprinkle. Though he seriously doubted a vampire had exhumed the body in order to take up residence in its place, He hoped the process was convincing enough ward for the baker to feel comforted by it.
She was waiting for him in the parking lot, watching from the safety of an old truck. The baker still seemed worried as he approached, eyeing him suspiciously.
"You think that's enough to keep it away, father?" She asked.
He coughed lightly into the crook of an elbow, the cold had passed the point of scorching his throat, but the drip of it remained.
"—I don't see why it wouldn't, Mrs. Keller. From what I'm told, even jars of garlic are enough to keep evil spirits from harassing the dearly departed remains."
He wasn't told about any of this. But he wasn't lying. Lying was a sin. He was comforting someone, and there was nothing wrong with that. The look of relief on the baker's face was enough to make the harmless pantomime worth it.
"Thank you so much, Father! You'll get a whole month's worth of fresh bread, I guarantee it."
"It's the least I can do—Now, is there..any-anythihg—anythingelse-??"
A sudden tickle fluttered between his eyes, and he quickly pressed a knuckle to the underside of his nose. Guiltily, he begged for the conversation to be over, so he could get back to bed and sneeze out the rest of this cold.
Mrs. Keller took her time thinking of another investigation while Nathaniel tried to smile through the burn of an approaching sneeze.
"Mmm…I don't suppose you could check the graves tomorrow, just to make sure?"
"Hhhh!!—" He held his breath, eyebrows lifted dramatically as he clamped his nose between the tissues. "—HFFFHIEW!!"
"Oh! Bless you!" Mrs. Keller grinned, suddenly amused, "How funny, me blessing you. Feels a bit strange."
Nathaniel sighed into the tissues, still muzzy with a second sneeze brewing. He did his best to extricate himself from the ever-gregarious Mrs. Keller, finally leaving the dark graveyard parking lot for a long walk back home. It was a bit of an eerie walk, the kind where you were almost sure someone was following behind. Perhaps the superstitious nature of the town was starting to influence him.
At least he didn't live far away. For that, he was grateful. He was even more grateful when his landlord remembered to let the plumber in to fix the sink. But it was odd that the plumber showed up so late at night and didn't actually fix the sink. It still leaked when he trudged into the kitchen. He rolled his eyes at the puddles of water on the kitchen floor, snuffling thickly as he tried to mop them up.
Nathaniel knew he had many flaws, as all humans did. One of them was self-pity, something he tried to dip in only occasionally. But tonight, being sick as a dog and with a busted sink, he let himself wallow in it. Poor Reverend Nathaniel Larkin, crawling on his hands and knees mopping up puddles, nose as leaky as the broken sink.
Another puddle mopped, another one to go. Nathaniel's mouth slowly swung open as yet another sneeze tickled him. He would have had it too, if he hadn't wiped away a splatter of blood.
He bolted upright, eyes following the trail of blood to the couch. A man lounged there, leg crossed. He looked perfectly cordial despite the front of his shirt being covered in blood. He grinned crookedly up at Nathaniel. Teeth razor sharp, eyes glowing in the dark.
"Heads up. You might need a new landlord." The man said.
Nathaniel didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. Only feel pure terror.
"He was kind of a boring guy. Talked too much, no real flavor to him." The man's eyes flashed.
"Worst of all, I'm still hungry."
Before Nathaniel could even think, the creature pounced on him.
His head slammed against the floorboards as he felt the fangs sink into his neck. Nathaniel yelled for help, flailed, and shoved at the monster on top of him. Strong hands (or were they claws?) held him fast, all he could do was scream.
But there was no pain. That was the odd thing. After the agony of the bite, there was nothing. He felt the blood and the cold skin of the creature's lips against his throat, but he didn't feel pain. His mind fogged over, and his vision went blurry, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was being fed on by a damn vampire, it was almost…good.
Really good.
In the cloud of sensation, Nathaniel felt a sudden inhale against the divot of his neck, where throat met chest. Then another sip of air, and a distinct sound of a sniffly nose. He thought for a moment he was sniffling, the cold chasing him to his death. But he felt the fangs unhook from his flesh, and he looked up to see that the vampire was rubbing at his nose against the heel of his hand. Panting, his glowing eyes hooded as it sucked in another gasp of air, nostrils fluttering open—
"What—heh—the-h-hell—HH—" The vampire's voice wavered as his lips curled up in a snarl. But he no longer looked ferocious. He looked confused, almost soft…
Sneezy.
"Ah—Ahh—HAHk'SHHH!!"
It exploded out of him, spluttering messily between sharp teeth. Body cringing forward, eyes closing despite his best efforts…
It was just enough time. Nathaniel used the moment to shove the vampire off of him and reached into his back pocket for the crucifix. The world swam before his eyes as he lurched forward with it, pressing the holy object to the vampire's back. He heard the creature cry out in pain, saw the smoke, the fire, and then nothing.
Reverend Nathaniel Larkin swooned, and his world went black.
———————-
It'd been a month since he got a crucifix to the back.
He sat at the empty bar, nursing a full glass of beer. Just for looks, of course. Human drink could never satisfy as much. It might as well have been air. He wasn't there for the drinks, he was there for the music. Soft guitars strummed effortlessly from the modest stage, and a handful of true devotees sat and enjoyed the gentle ballads. Every Saturday he'd go to sit and listen, music was the last true thing that made him feel alive.
The fucking scar itched. He thumbed at his back uselessly. What did it look like? Did it leave a mark? There was no way he could know.
"You gotta leave."
The bartender gave him a final warning. Nice guy. Knew about the whole vampire thing. Knew enough to let him in and leave him be, at least. Nodding, he slid off the barstool and skulked into the dark. One of the things they didn't tell you when you became a child of darkness was that you should always honor a few spaces. You couldn't run your whole immortal life. He had quite a few spots across the globe by this point, places he could rely on for shelter, at least briefly. Some were permanent, some less so.
For now, his less-permanent shelter was a trailer, the final home of his last meal. It was ratty, but it was dark, and it had a couch. And a tv. He could hardly complain about that. Flopping on the sofa, he kicked up his boots on the coffee table, and reached for the remote. He was almost at peace.
Almost.
He hissed, and pinched at the bridge of his nose as a sneeze sparked to life. He'd felt one coming on all damn night, a tickle that flowed and ebbed seemingly at random. He never thought he'd be bothered with sneezing again. He hadn't done it for hundreds of years. Up until the encounter with that priest, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. At first, he thought it was a fluke, perhaps drinking the blood of a clergyman ignited an allergy he was unaware of. Whatever it was, he hadn't indulged in it since.
Until tonight. He woke up with his nose buzzing, and he'd almost been excited to try for one again. Almost. But every time he seemed to work up to one, it went away, leaving him stuffy and frustrated. Twice during the concert he nearly got an AH in, but the fucking Choo would die away. At one point, his ridiculous gasping made someone's head turn, drawing unwanted attention. He flushed with embarrassment, just thinking about it. He didn't know he could still blush either.
"Oh-come on.." He sniffed at the cold air, twiddling his wide nose against the palm of his hand. His breath snagged, and he felt a swell of anticipation in him as his chest rose, and rose, and rose—
"Ah—hh-hh—AHHH!!"
He tilted his head back, as if the sneeze was a thing to be caught in the air with his teeth, a thing just right out of reach.
Curiously, he could hear someone else hitching, too. Someone unseen in the dark. Someone close by, who didn't want to be seen, was struggling not to be heard.
"—AHt'CHHHHSH!!!" He launched forward with it, exaggerated. The sneeze scraped through his sinuses in a wonderfully relieving way, like a rake of nails down his itchy nose. He licked his lips, indulging in the strange little reflex he thought he had left behind ages ago.
"Hhh-INDG'T!!"
Someone else sneezed. Or rather, tried not to sneeze.
Someone else was in the dark with him. Unusual, not to see someone in the dark. Humans were easy to spot, animals too. The only thing that could hide from a vampire was another vampire.
He bolted from the couch and flicked on the light. Standing in the corner, with a finger hovering uselessly under his nose, was the priest from a month ago. Tall as ever, but this time without the silly white collar they all wore. In its place was a red scar wrapping around his neck, a permanent ring burned into his skin.
The priest grabbed him. Lifted him up by the jacket collar and shoved him into the wall. He'd been weak as a human. He wasn't weak anymore.
"Turn me back! TURN ME BACK NOW!" The priest spat. His nose ran, and his pupils glowed bright. "YOU DAMNED ME!"
"What the fuck are you blabbing about? I can't turn you back! What the hell do you think this is??" He struggled to pull the priest's hands (or were they claws?) off of him.
"You gave me this dark gift. I never wanted it. You…you ruined my life."
"I..I think you need to be a bit educated on this one." He grinned, trying to placate the newly turned spawn. "I was gonna drain you. Right? You'd be dead if I did. But you're not. You're a spawn now. Fresh as a daisy. And I'm your sire."
The priest sniffled. A dribble of mess trickled down his lip.
"You're… like my father now?"
"NO! Fuck no. Disgusting." He wrinkled his nose at the idea. "No, I'm like…your friend. You have my power now, and my thoughts. And I have yours. If I die, you die."
The priest's grip loosened, and he released him.
"Look, let's try this over. Hello there! My name's Quintus." He held out his hand for a shake. "You can call me Quint. What's yours?"
The ex-priest, now-vampire, glowered at him. He wiped his runny nose with a cluster of tissues.
"Nathaniel."
"Nice to meet you, Nate. Now, let's not tear each other's heads off tonight. Let's just talk. Can we talk?"
Nathaniel nodded. He understandably wasn't happy about it, but he was willing to hear Quintus out.
And he did hear him out. For an hour, they sat and talked. Quintus shared his own fractured knowledge of vampirism and how to live the life, and Nathaniel quietly moped and took it in. No doubt it would be years for him to really adjust, but Quintus wasn't about to let a spawn go on in the world, sad and clueless. He wasn't responsible for spawns, but he felt responsible for this one at least. There was something inherently sad and puppyish about the man that compelled him to charity. Besides, it didn't seem like he was willing to just leave Quintus alone. Whatever situation they found themselves in, they'd have to work it out together, since killing each other was not an option. For now.
"Excuse—mbe..hih-Igh—" Nathaniel reached into his pocket for another nest of tissues, eyebrows rising. "Th-this stupid cold—been'd taking forever to—hhhh"
Quintus felt the tickle crawl up and down Nathaniel's sinuses. It made his own nostrils pulse and his own breath wobble. Dread realization hit as his lips curled away from his fanged teeth in an itchy snarl.
"Ah-AHH'GHSHHOOH!!"
"HF'Fhieww!!"
They both sneezed in tandem. Quintus first. Nathaniel second. They both sniffled and looked at each other, surprised.
It was the first time in a long time Quintus felt real dread.
"You were sick when I bit you?"
"I was, yes. Horrible little cold-snff-snff-" Nathaniel dabbed at his runny nose. "I just don't understand. I thought I'd be over it by now. Sickness doesn't linger with me."
"As a human no." Quintus's glared. "But whatever you are when you are turned, you remain."
"…Are you suggesting I will have this cold…forever?"
"I don't..know. Maybe, maybe it'll last for a year, or a hundred years. Or it'll go away tomorrow..I don't know. What I do know is— I think we're sharing more than power. If you sneeze, I'll sneeze."
Nathaniel sniffed, looking sulky. He pinched his nose between a clean fold of tissues and gave it a loud blow. Quintus wrinkled his own nose at the sound, he could feel his sinuses shift from Nathaniel's exertion.
"Well. Snff—looks like someone will have the sniffles for a while then. Should have thought about that before you feasted on my neck." Nathaniel lowered the tissues, his septum a red, raw streak. Twitching his nose back and forth, his chest began to huff up and down, and a small, sarcastic smile spread over his parting lips as his nostrils ticked open. "Speakig-of..get ready..I think'g—this is gunna be a big—one…"
Quintus couldn't help it. Despite hundred's of years' worth of power, of sheer focus on survival, he couldn't stop the tickle crawling up and down his nose as Nathaniel's face crumbled. He pinched at his widening nostrils, trying to stop them from flaring.
In a last, pathetic effort, Quintos slapped a hand over his mouth. He could feel his sharp teeth parting open, desperate, helpless.
Oh fuck. Helplessness. That was something he hadn't felt in a long time…
"AH—AH—"
It terrified him.
"AH-AHKTCHH!!"
There was a time, long ago, when he knew how to stifle a sneeze. To properly bottle it up. Some murky part of his past where he was hiding, the last time he felt fear. He couldn't remember how to do it now. The sneeze sprayed wetly against his hand, his ears popping with the painful explosion.
"Hieh'FFHshh!!" Nathaniel smiled wryly as he blew at his nose and folded the tissue neatly on his lap. "Snff-Snfff. Gesundheit, Quint."
Quintus groaned and slowly lowered his hand and wiped the drool on his pants. That stuck-up, whiny, no-good, asshole Nathaniel was doing this on purpose. To think he almost pitied the guy! He wanted to punish him!
If they couldn't kill each other, they'd have to resort to annoying each other. For all eternity. And beyond. It was a fate worse than death.
i’ve been out of commission for the past few days because of chronic illness things (fuck summer in the southern USA!!!) so i don’t really have the energy to leave a long winded ask like i usually do. but your fics have been keeping me sane over the past few days!!! arlo has been and probably will always be one of my favorite ocs/characters, i feel so deeply maternal towards him (which he’d probably hate)
No need to be long-winded! Any and all comments are always appreciated. Sorry to hear you're having a hard time! I also am suffering in the southern USA, but that's because my AC is broken haha. Anyway, glad my fics have been a bright spot for you. Your love for Arlo makes me so happy and I always feel so encouraged by your asks. I am very much still motivated to continue his story and plan to write some today and over the weekend 😊
hearing loud, cold-stricken sneezes ripping through the room next door, one after the other, then taking a cheeky peek inside after they left a few minutes later — and just seeing an absolute carnage of ripped, wet tissues littering the top of their bed 👀 as well as a half-open bottle of Nyquil from how bad those sneezes definitely sounded on their throat…
bonus points if you just stand in the doorway lookin like “🥺” when your partner comes back and they come to realization just how visible their cold is, even when you’re not witnessing first-hand. Like their spacial awareness returns and they’re left maybe a little embarrassed~
person B has a cold. they complain in front of person A that their throat is so, so sore.
A is less than sympathetic. they would never suggest that B brings it on themself—but like. maybe their throat wouldn't feel so raw if they didn't feel the need to embellish their sneezes with an entire ROAR?? just a thought.
they're not saying B must sneeze silently. but surely Surely that level of scream sneezing can be dialed down. the sound of one's sneeze, after all, is a choice. it is for A, at least.
...that is, until A catches what B had.
and guess who can't help and can't stop scream sneezing?
looks like it wasn't a failure of willpower, so much as a particularly nasty viral strain!
I've seen some opinions before but am curious about some actual numbers and being able to see a more concrete sort of gathering of opinion. Feel free to drop your opinions in comments/tags/reblogs, and reblog for reach!
Will you read a snzfic with no spellings?
yes, and in fact I prefer it without them
yes, but I don't mind whether it does or doesn't have them
I just stumbled upon the audio book this week and have listened about 3 times 🤣. It's one long sickfic filled with mutual caretaking, guilt, self-sacrifice, healing past trauma, and other delightful h/c tropes. Martin is a self-hating Lord with consumption intent on neglecting himself to death, and the book starts with his childhood best friend, Will, kidnapping him to a country cottage where they spend about half the book healing each other's physical and emotional wounds and getting cozy and horny together. In other words, it's right up our alley :) 10/10 would recommend!!
Has anyone seen fic for this? There's just a handful on AO3, but has anyone seen any around these parts? If not, there will be soon...
okay so i just couldn’t in good conscience not put you guys onto this book because !!!!!! chapters 16 and 17 are an experience. two whole chapters dedicated to one half of the main character’s (overwhelmingly snz adjacent) cold, exploring it in a way that enriches his character and fleshes out his and his partner’s relationship and where they’re at at that point in the plot.
main gist:
m/m period romance set from like 1958-60
friends to lovers; newspaper reporters in NYC
looooots of nice caretake-y vibes woven into the plot and the main characters’ dynamic (one being very clumsy/scatterbrained/disaster prone and the other finding it endearing and looking after him like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do).
like…
it’s called “w/e c^ould be so g/ood” by c/at s/ebastian. apart from all that nice stuff it’s also just so sweet and earnest and an incredibly interesting and well-written story. would’ve recommended to anyone even without the 👀 aspects.
yeah title's not creative. trust me and read it. u trust me, right? :3
ive just had this working for so long i decided to full send it. this is before tuna melt happens. just the unfettered romantic tension between two men who have sex a lot.
CW: a lil sexually explicit, mess, contagion, gay people
The second Hollander thrusts open the grating metal of the door, Ilya rushes up the stairs. He's shoving him back as they race up the stairwell in tandem.
Fuck. He’s missed him so much. He never misses any hookup like this. That’s a very big problem for another day. Because tonight he’s going to fuck Hollander. He’s always so eager for him. Ilya would never say he was the best at sex, if that can be quantified. He’s not the most experienced. Still, somehow, Hollander has made his way to the top of Ilya’s chart of conquests.
His favourite, unquestionably.
He lets Hollander lead them into his place, fighting off a lingering shiver as he finally gets warm.
“Fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander has him pressed against the door immediately, hands searching. He can feel his breath over cheek and his calloused fingertips searching under his sweatshirt.
“You took so long to get me,” Ilya complains, not reciprocating quite yet. He swipes his nose on his hoodie sleeve, pressing it there another second and rubbing to get the itch out. It’s running almost as bad as it was on the ice earlier, cold air always turns his congestion to a faucet.
“Sorry. I was taking a shower...” Hollander trails off in lieu of further explanation. The shame in his voice paired with his hungry eyes means that Hollander has fully-prepped. He’s worked himself clean and open because he knew Ilya was coming.
Ilya leers at him, wolfish, mouth inches from Hollander. His perfect fucking lips and straight nose and constellation of freckles fill up his vision and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You are always so excited for my cock,” he praises, compliment punctuated with a soupy sniffle.
Hollander’s sweet eyes glisten with want and he chases after Ilya’s mouth.
Too bad that Ilya has a moral compass, so he has to stop him.
“Ah–” Ilya shakes his head and holds his fingertips over Hollander’s mouth before he can reach his lips. “I am sick.”
This breaks every rule in Hollander’s book, surely. Hooking up with a sick person. Ilya has still come over, but he’s waiting to be pushed off and glared at. Maybe he will offer Ilya tea before he kicks him out. Polite Canadian Shane Hollander. He probably schedules his illnesses for the off-season. He definitely doesn’t invite them in from secret hook-ups.
Instead, Hollander surprises him. He frowns and doesn’t push him away. His eyes flick over Ilya’s face. He’s surely staring at the pinkened tip of his nose, the way it scrunches as Ilya has to sniffle again. Playing over their game in his mind, dissecting every time Ilya wiped his nose while on the bench.
“Do you have a fever?”
“Nyet.” Ilya confirms this with a shake of his head. “Is just in my nose. Headcold, they say,” he accentuates this for Hollander with a liquid sniffle and pouts at him.
“Worse now, maybe, because you made me stand outside so long. Waiting for you.”
Hollander gives him a long, nervous look. The racing thoughts are so visible on his face. Ilya thinks he might be able to reach out and read his mind if he only presses his fingers to his temples.
He tests this with a double-tap of his fingers to the side of Shane’s brow..
“Do not worry, Hollander. My dick still works perfectly.”
He watches for another moment as his expression changes from apprehensive to decidedly needy and smirks. Ah. Maybe it did work.
And Hollander is throwing himself against him so hard their teeth clack together.
__
Ilya is thrusting hard into Hollander, one hand bracing over his back and the other on the swell of his ass he fucks him into the mattress.
“Fuck,” he pants, mind swimming in pleasure. Not only English, but all language leaves him when they’re like this. Hollander is so perfect. He thinks he could fuck only him for the rest of his life. He’s so eager for it, so responsive under him. He groans again as he drags his cock back and then forces back in.
Hollander makes a pretty sound, so he tries to go for the same angle.
“Fuuck. Snff. Hollander.”
His nose is running. He knows. It’s running down over his cupid's bow and into his panting mouth. One brave drip comes off his chin and mixes with the sweat at the dimples of Hollander’s back. He sniffles fruitlessly in between gasps. Hollander feels so good. Perfect. Ilya’s felt his cock work inside countless holes, but Hollander’s always makes him need it more. He has never finished fucking him and not wanted to do it again.
He’s getting into the rhythm. Sniffle, gasp, babble out something coherent. He wishes he could kiss him.
Hollander’s affirmative moans of pleasure are driving him further into a heady pleasure when a sneeze overtakes him.
"Hheh-- a'dczh'UUoo!"
He ducks his head as it mists over Hollander’s back, not wanting to stop if he doesn’t have to.
He sniffles, launched into another three more sneezes. They spill out of him, each competing to be first. He ends on a truly pathetic gasp for breath and a dz'iew of a final sneeze.
Well. He sucks back his mucus. There are more important things to focus on.
“You’re gross,” Hollander mutters below him.
Ilya halts their movement and pulls his hand from its place at Shane’s hip so he can pinch and rub at his septum. It feels fucking euphoric and he allows an indulgent sniffle as he rubs the whole of his palm up at his nose.
“Oh, I am gross? Shane Hollander likes to lick my cum from his own fingers, but I am not allowed to sneeze?”
That said – he grabs a hand wildly over for the first article of clothing he can find and presses it to his face, releasing two – oh, no, three. Three more sneezes.
Wait.
His abdomen tenses with a fourth sneeze into the fabric. This broken nose is never satisfied. He groans to himself as he pinches his septum against the fabric.
He gasps, fighting off dizzying congestion. His head is so stuffy he almost feels bad, if he’s passing this to Hollander. But he said yes. And Ilya was able to play with this cold, so it should be nothing to the unstoppable force of Shane Hollander.
He blows his nose into the cloth and tosses it aside with cough to clear his throat, then presses his hands back into place.
“Bless you,” Hollander mumbles.
Ilya grips for the side of Hollander’s chin, squeezes it once. He still really wants to kiss him.
“Shut up.”
__
He’s noticeably more hoarse than when he arrived as he wipes Hollander down with a damp washcloth and murmurs praises. He’d been honest with him earlier – it’s really just a cold, barely an issue beyond a nuisance.
Still, he feels thoroughly wrung out as he flops back on the bed beside Hollander. Into sheets that he knows smell like him. Any other time, where his nose was working, he’d press his face into the pillowcase and drink him in. Hollander smells so good after sex. Sweaty. Musky. The distinct scent of man that Ilya wants to lap up. He wants to press his flat tongue over his armpits and the fold of his groin and the small expanse of skin where his pecs jut out over his chest.
Instead, he itches his wrist under his nose and presses up as he sniffles a few times. This cold has left him with much more of a drippy nose than he would like to admit.
“D’you need to go?” Hollander murmurs as he actively winds himself more around Ilya.
He should go. “Yes,” he laments, praying that the want doesn’t show in his voice.
“Goodnight, Hollander.” He detangles himself, stands up and collects his clothes.
As he’s slipping in his hoodie, Hollander sits up in bed, risen from the newly-fucked dead, and shoves a packet of tissues at him.
“For your cold,” Hollander says in one big breath. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His eyes are sincere.
Ilya laughs and waves him goodnight. He clutches his hand around the plastic of the tissues as he shoves it further into his pocket. He has a feeling he will carry it with him.
__
Shane heads to the team doctor. He does not want to, but he has to. He can count on less than one hand the amount of times he’s gotten sick during a season.
“Uh,” he sniffles and resents as the sound drags in his sinuses, “I have a cold? I think? Or, uh, rhinovirus?” His heart pounds his chest with a steady thrum of betrayal. You caught a cold from Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Bears.
Rozanov.
It makes him miss him, which is all kinds of weird and fucked up as he blows his nose and thinks Ilya did this when I saw him last.
The doctor is perfectly reasonable. Checks his temperature, listens to his chest. Confirms he’s good to go. Advises fluids, a decongestant before bed, doesn’t mince words and tells him he’s got a runny nose that’s only going to get worse on the ice and should have towels on hand.
It’s all the more embarrassing when Shane has to come back into the locker room. He’s been cleared for the game, but he’s late in.
“You good?” Hayden asks, thumping him on the back as they change into gear.
“Yeah,” Shane says, and has to sniffle or it will dribble onto his upper lip.
“Glad to hear it, man.”
“I’m good, yeah.”
“You sneezed so much earlier, man,” Hayden shakes his head, sifting through his bag. “Thought you were down for the count. Like, fuck. Flu or something.”
“All good,” Shane assures him.
He’s blushing everywhere. He doesn’t sneeze a lot. Like, ever. If he does, he knows the right way to press his knuckle to his nose or his tongue in his mouth and make it quiet. But Ilya never sneezes that way. And this is the cold he got from Ilya. It feels like he’s still around, even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Impulsively, he shoots out a text.
Jane: I got your cold, asshole.
Immediately, a reply.
Lily: Sorry (((
Lily: but i did enjoy that asshole ))
Jane: fuck off
Lily: feel better Jane <3
During the game, his phone gets more texts, buzzing as it’s tucked into his bag.
Lily: maybe i did do biological warfare
Lily: you cannot stop sneezing. Funny they must have cleared you just for you to spend every pause like little scrunched up kitten
Lily: i almost feel bad.
Lily: but no. you wanted me to fuck you so bad you have to be sick now.
((here's an OC x OC (m/m) fic for two new OCs i made during my time in EMT school bc i was bored n horny))
((CW medical accuracies but no gore or violence or anything crazy...just like...mention of the flu. and MESS))
Another day at the station 21, Nigel slinked down the steps with sleep still in his eyes and brown hair tousled in every direction. His head felt heavy, and his whole body ached, but he was more willing to say it was just ‘training soreness’ even if his nose felt completely blocked. Making it to the steps, he’s immediately greeted by his fellow firemen, who are also sleepy but still a little more awake as they brew their coffee, chew on meat sticks, and play on their phones or watch the news.
“Ey look a live kid,” one of them said. Immediately, Nigel's half-lidded eyes opened, and he did his best to look more alert as he muttered a soft “yes sir?”
“See, we didn’t brutalize you too bad this week, told ya we wouldn’t kill ya” Said one as he took a swig of his coffee. Another- Abel- came up behind Nigel and wrapped his bicep around his upper body to trap him and mess up his hair.
“Maybe we ain’t going hard enough, West, he can take some more, I’m sure.” Nigel flinched and grimaced but didn’t fight Abel off much and just dragged himself over to the ‘kids table’ in the back corner of the kitchen when he was let go. He plopped down and put his head in his arms, shuddering hard when the cold wood of the table touched his cheek. With his head down, he felt the congestion move, which caused an awful prickling sensation in his sinuses. He snorted thickly and scrunched up his nose, which temporarily ridded it.
During breakfast, he managed to grab a small bite to eat and downed a bit of coffee. Another person walked into the kitchen. He had black hair that peaked out of his beanie that donned the station’s logo, a short beard and stache, a station company quarter zip, blue tactical pants, a blue backpack, and black duty boots.
“Morning ya’ll” He greeted. The firemen waved at him as they shoveled food into their mouths as if they’d been starving all day and night.
“Ey its the passenger princess!” West pointed at an empty seat, and the man sat down. Morgan Freight, one of their paramedics. Nigel didn’t work with Morgan much directly unless it was dragging victims over to him; he had run 2 calls with him on the ambulance, but not much since. Morgan usually had another older fire medic on board. However, when Nigel started to doze off, Morgan knocked on the table gently to wake him up and told him.
“Ey you’re on the medic with me, when I’m done, we gotta check the back, alright.” Nigel absent-mindedly nodded and laid his head back down
“Oh shit, Morgan’s got the probie today?” West snickered, Abel laughed.
“Damn, dude’s gonna make the kid soft.”
“Meh means when he’s not busy, he’s gonna be training with us, two words, ladder mase.” Nigel bit back a groan.
Nigel didn’t get to rest his head much, as soon as the guys could, they put him on dishwashing duty, which wasn’t anything new. The steam from the hot sink water was sure loosening up the wall of congestion, which meant a lot of sniffling and rubbing his nose into his sweatshirt.
Finally, Morgan called him over.
“Truck check”
Nigel stuffed a few napkins into his pockets after using one to hastily wipe at his nose before heading down the hall to the garage bay. In the bay, he’s greeted by the chilly fall turning winter air and bright sun through the open garage. Morgan opened the doors and handed Nigel a sheet of paper.
“Check everything off that’s stocked. If you find something we’re low on or don’t have, go and get it from the stashroom and sign it out. Do you know how to do that?” His voice was still a bit gravely from sleep. Nigel nodded and took the paper as he climbed in.
“Yes, sir,” Morgan nods approvingly and sits on the center seat to set down his book bag and empty it out.
“Good, I like my rig set up a certain way, bags, iv set up stuff, and anything that’ll prick ya should be on the side you’re on. When you’re done checking that, check our oxygen tanks, will ya?”
Once again, Nigel nodded as he opened the little cabinets and boxes and used the pen attached to the clipboard and paper to record everything. They were silent for a little while; the sounds of wet sniffles, coughs, feet shuffling around, and cabinets opening and closing filled it. The up and down motion was making that congestion shift around more than Nigel’s body liked. That prickle turned into a tickle he tried to rub away, but of course, it had to ruin the number one probie rule. Not a sound besides ‘yes, sir’ unless it’ll kill someone.’
He tried to quiet it as much as he possibly could, hurriedly dropping a saline bag onto the work bench to grab at his nose by the second sneeze as the first escaped him.
“HhNGgsshhuhw HhNGgsshhuhw! Huhhh HHhNGgknnk!” The ambulance rocked a little from the motion, but Nigel prayed silently that Morgan wouldn’t comment as he fished out a napkin from his pocket.
“Bless you, you alright?” It took a second for Nigel to get his words out but he managed
“Ye-yes sir, sorry.” Morgan just chuckled and shook his head.
“No worries, ain’t nothing to be sorry for.”
They finished their check, cleaned the inside, and Nigel ran to grab his book bag and plopped it inside the front cab. Right as Morgan and him started to walk away, the tone went off. The speaker's lights flashed a single red bar, and a robotic voice bellowed.
“Ambulance 21 respond. Ill person; trouble breathing.” Morgan took out his phone and checked their app for more information, huffing as he headed towards the driver’s seat.
“Welp, let's do it!” He called out. Nigel jumped into the passenger seat, and they drove off with lights and sirens blaring down the road.
It was barely 8 am, and they were on their way. Nigel got out his phone to see what the app said.
‘Adult patient with flu symptoms, chief complaint of trouble breathing and fever.” Well this would be his first.
“You ever ran a med call after your schooling?” Morgan asked
“Twice but its been’d abit” Nigel admitted sheepishly, snuffling and rubbing his nose onto his wrist.
“Well, lucky you, this’ll be your call, it's a BLS, so unless shit hits the fan, they’re all yours.” Morgan grinned as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and weaved through traffic. Nigel shrank a little in his seat and started going over the notes he had. Morgan seemed to sense the nervousness.
“Ey, i’ll step in first okay. You remember your XABCs? And assessment?” It took a second for it to process but Nigel nodded.
“Yes, sir, primary, history, and second.”
“Good, good, if they’re altered, what's the first thing you wanna check after XABC?”
“Blood sugar?” Nigel guessed, and Morgan grinned as he leaned up in his seat to look over the dashboard.
“Yeah, you’ll be fine, you got this. Also, you ain’t gotta call me ‘sir’ like that, I ain’t that strict or that old.” Nigel nodded and sighed hard, his shoulders lowered a bit.
When they arrived at the home, the men hopped out of the truck. Nigel shoved his notebook in his pockets and shivered hard. The cold air stung his throat and nose and reminded him of yesterday’s training. Hose work, and let's just say it got wet, by that I mean the guys decided Nigel needed to ‘cool off’. Now he was sniffling, sneezy, and sore, and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed.
He grabbed the stretcher, loaded their gear on it, and towed it to the front door. Morgan got the door open quickly, and they walked in to see the Patient on the floor, sitting on the steps. A young woman in her fluffy bathrobe, hair in a messy bun. She was hunched over, shivering, her face flushed, her hands clutching the bathrobe.
Morgan introduced them to the woman.
“Ello ma’am, I’m Morgan, this is Nigel, a medic and EMT with the fire department. What seems to be the problem?” Nigel gave a shy wave from behind as Morgan crouched down to the woman.
She weakly tells them she’s had the flu for a few days, her fever hasn’t broken and her chest feels tight. Morgan nodded understandingly as he fished a set of gloves from his pockets and pulled them on. Nigel dug some out from his bag and put them on his.
“Mind if we set you up with some oxygen?” Morgan asks. She nods. He steps back, pats Nigel on the shoulder, and whispers.
“I grab the stuff you talk with her,” Nigel agreed, crouching toward her. However, just as he did, the congestion shifted, and he stifled, barely in time. But that also made him tumble onto his ass and hit his head against the wall. He winced at the sharp pain ringing through his head.
“You good?” Morgan asked. Nigel scrambled to his feet with a nod as he rubbed the back of his head with a few sniffles.
“Yeah, yeah, mb’good.” He turned his attention back to the patient. It didn’t take a doctor to know she wasn’t doing so hot. After getting some history, hooking her up to the monitor, and taking her temperature, they got her on the cot, and away they went. Nigel’s heart did sink to his ass a little bit when he saw ‘103’ on the thermometer screen.
Nigel drove this time, since the poor women needed an IV and that wasn’t something he was allowed to give, along with some other things. Being in the driver’s seat always made him nervous; everything always felt wrong, and he was still learning how to drive it. And today was not the day for a driving lesson. He could feel his nose trying to run down to his upper lip, the sirens drowned out his sniffling. All the sniffling was dragging the snot inside against the sensitive insides of his nose, though, and it was causing small tickles he knew would not be a fun clean up if one managed to grow bigger than that. It also made him want to rub his nose off his face.
When they arrived at the hospital in the ambulance entrance, he hopped out to help bring their patient inside. The hospital wasn’t much warmer than the weather outside, well, at least it wasn’t raining today. A small collection of nurses came out from their station as Morgan called out.
“Got a 27-year-old woman, with the flu, difficulty breathing, chest tightness, temperature of 103 both on scene, and en route, I gave IV saline and tried passive cool down, temp’s not budging, and she’s getting altered. Sats got a little better with oxygen, but it's still not great!” Nigel barely registered anything after that; it was a blur of people coming in and out, commands and equipment being shuffled around. The next thing he knew he was out in the hall with Morgan.
“Alright, let's go, gotta decom the back,” Morgan said with a head tilt towards the automatic doors as he pulled the stretcher from behind. Nigel nodded, finally zoning back in.
In the back, they got to disinfect their gear. The faint chemical scent of the wipes seemed to be the one thing Nigel’s nose needed to send it over the edge. He tried to lean away from any of the cabinets as his breath hitched; there was no need to whack his head on anything else. His free hand fiddled around to grab any napkins he stashed away earlier; he just barely pulled a shaky napkin-clad hand to his face in time.
“HeEH! HhPNkksshhhh! Hehhh! Heh! Heieeeh! HhPNkksshhhh! HhPNkksshhhh! hH’atzzZSChhihhww!” Each sneeze rocked the ambulance and bent the poor guy forward even as he tried to hold onto something. He grimaced when he noticed how soaked his hand felt; those napkins barely protected his hands from the spray, let alone the strands of snot that dripped down.
“Bless you! You alright over there?” Morgan asked with surprise, Nigel blushed hard and nodded while he tried to clean himself up. Only to wince at how rough those napkins felt against his nose. When he tried to speak, his sore throat interrupted his chances with a round of scratchy coughs.
“I’mb fide i’mb fide sdrrff sdrck ugh kofff koff koff! Ow!” When he finally regained some composure, he heard the sounds of cabinets opening and closing then a soft ‘thunk’. When he finally gets his eyes open, there’s a small box of tissues.
“Here, sure sounds like you’ll need’em, ain’t much but we can stop by the store and get some more.” Morgan offered. Nigel turned almost bright red, and hesitation filled him while he tried to get himself to apologize and insist it was nothing. Morgan wasn’t having it, though. He patted Nigel softly on the shoulder and rubbed his thumb against his collarbone in a comforting way as he assured him.
“Ey its fine, plenty of us get sick. We take care of so many of the sick civies who act like covering their mouth is an option that it's no surprise. Trust me, been sick plenty, no shame in it.” Finally, Nigel took the offer and snatched up a few tissues to clean up the remaining mess left behind and blow his nose. God, those tissues were shitty at containing it all. He tossed them into the trash and took a steady breath and sighed.
“Better?” Morgan asked, Nigel nodded.
When they hopped back into the cab of the ambulance, Morgan took the driver’s seat again and drove out of the lot.
“How long have you been sick?” He asked, Nigel shrugged, and muttered.
“Felt a lil bad last night.” Morgan raised a brow and asked what all that all meant and what he had been doing yesterday. Nigel thought about it.
“Just felt really tired, throat hurt a little, sdff sdrff but I thought it was just frob training and running calls, ya know. They had bme doing stair climb, forcible entry and hose work…hose work did idvolve gettig power washed though.” Morgan chuckled
“Sounds like they had you working hard as hell. How long’s your shift?”
“Uh 72hrs, its by last day of bmy shift.” Morgan nodded.
“Good, you’re gonna really need the rest. How long ya off?”
“48hr”
“Ouch, if you’re not better by the start of 2nd day, call off, better to call off as early as ya can, better shot at them being able to bring in a replacement for the day.” Nigel nodded at the advice.
“Sounds like a pretty bad cold. You take anything for it?”
“Dnot since last dnight, took some Aleve for the soreness.”
“You got a temperature?”
“…..” Silence. Morgan sighed and shook his head.
“You really are new, rookie mistake, not doing a supply run, hell ya could’ve doordashed some DayQuil, man!” Morgan didn’t actually seem angry; there was a slight smile and lightness to his voice as he drummed his thumbs on the wheel at the right light.
“We’re doing a supply run, ain’t having my favorite EMT die on me.” Nigel quickly tried to refuse, dismissing the ‘favorite emt’ comment.
“Dno dno its fide, I cad manage, there’s probably stuff in the bathrooms right?” Morgan laughed loudly this time and started driving again.
“Oh, you really don’t get it, do ya? I know these guys, that cabinet has more cobwebs than toothpaste, let alone an Advil! Sure in the emergency ‘West made dinner’ bag, there’s some Pepto and Advil, but that’s about it. I’ve been needing to stock up on our stuff anyway.”
“There are things to getting through a sick day or week at the station.” Morgan started. Nigel curled up in his seat as a chill ran down his spine.
“ 1: as soon as you start feeling like you got ran over by the ambulance, you DoorDash or go supply shopping, hell send someone out if ya got the rank, and well you don’t. 2: Don’t try a hot shower, you’ll never get the chance. You use a loophole and either heat up a pot on the stove or turn the shower on, but don’t get in it, let it heat fill the bathroom instead. 3:chicken noodle soup. Or ramen as much as you can make and eat, busy call day cup-o-noodles. 4: travel pack of tissues. Pack of tissues in one pocket, the other pocket is your ‘trash pocket’ till you can empty it, and 5: you tell one person, who won't tell the whole damn station. Gossip is more contagious than that cold you’ve got.”
Nigel nodded along as he listened. It was a lot to keep up with, but he’d sure try.
They pulled into a small store and went inside. It wasn’t anything special, just a little store that had the basics. First stop was the cold and flu aisle. Morgan grabbed a couple of boxes of tissues, more than Nigel at first thought was necessary, till morgan explained.
“That cold's gonna go around like wildfire, might as well get as many as I can now so I don’t gotta worry about it later.” Nigel went over and picked up a few travel pack boxes of tissues and dropped them into the cart. Morgan wandered over a few feet away and came back with multiple different pack and bottles of medicine.
“Woah thats alot” Nigel commented. Morgan chuckled and set the items into the cart.
“Yeah, well, the guys tend to be lil babies around medicine. West hates liquid medicine so I get the gel pill form, Clayten would rather die than swallow pills, and Castle gets the worst fevers. The rest of them sort themselves out for the most part.” He then grabbed an Advil half and joked.
“This is the only thing getting me through it.”
Eventually, they left that aisle and started to head towards the soup aisle; however, Morgan suddenly stopped and turned the cart towards the main aisle.
“We’re gonna get a call soon, better pay for these now, we can come back for food later.” Nigel looked at him skeptically. Could someone really guess when they were about to get a call?
“How do you know that?” He asked as Morgan started to speed walk towards checkout.
“It happens every time.” The paramedic answered matter-of-factly.
Right as they started to load the front of the cab, as Morgan predicted, their phones went off. Nigel looked at it, and Morgan cursed.
“Shit, trouble breathing, possible unresponsive.” They hopped into their seats, turned on their lights and sirens, and sped out of the parking lot.
From then on, they barely had the time to go back to the station until 6 PM. By then, Nigel was absolutely exhausted and wanted nothing more than to flop into bed. He dragged his feet into the station alongside Morgan, who carried in most of the groceries. They were met by the smell of taco night and the sound of the guys jeering at the TV that played jeopardy.
“We’re back!” Morgan called out.
“Ey there you guys are, its been nothing but med calls today” Abel pointed out, Morgan nodded and handed a bag to Nigel and gently told him.
“Take those and go lay down for a bit, I’ll heat up some soup.” Nigel looked in the bag and nodded, but West wasn’t gonna let him get very far without some teasing. A heavy hand ruffled roughly through his sweaty brown hair.
“Aw shit, Morgan must’ve worked you hard, you look like shit kid. Didn’t know ol morgan had it in’im” Nigel tried to walk off without a word, but Wes wasn’t done.
“Nuh-uh, rookie, you’re on dish duty, you know that.” Morgan pushed West’s hand off Nigel.
“No, he doesn’t, he’s going to go sit down. It won't kill you to stop dodging your chores yourself, Wes, you’ve ‘made trade’ with almost all of us and haven’t lived up to your end of the deal.” While the two went back and forth, Nigel tried to fight off the buzzing, burning, prickling sensation in his nose from the congestion shifting around when his nose got runny. He was way too tired; he rubbed and pressed lazily at his damp nostrils. When he knew it wouldn’t be any use, he pulled a few tissues from the box in the bag he had managed to open on the way to one of their patients.
He brought up a shaky handful of tissues to his face as he hitched and dove into them with an incredibly wet fit.
“ Hehh! Heh! Haah! hH’atzzZSChhihhww! HHUh!! HhEdssSCHHhheeoo! HhEdssSCHHhhemmmph! EHh!EdssSCHHhhuummmph!” Nigel grimaced as he felt the mess soak into his hand, but his poor sinuses finally felt just the hint of relief from getting it out. He didn’t even care anymore; he just grabbed more tissues to mop up what was in his hand and pressed more to his face as he announced.
“I’mb goig to by roomb” and trudged out of the kitchen.
In his room, he kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. He didn’t care that he’d be leaving in 2 hours; he just wanted to lie down. His whole body was killing him. His head pounded, his throat was raw, his bones and muscles ached horribly, and the relief of being off his feet was just a small bliss that he decided to accept as the only good thing he had right now. His sinuses throbbed from being so full, the underside of his nose burned from the constant rubbing, it was HELL!
Just the thought of getting up to pack his stuff to leave made him want to be knocked unconscious. Sure, he’d love to be in his own little apartment, in his own bed away from others, but he was worn out! He rolled onto his side and curled up on top of the covers, knowing he’d be cold no matter what, and he’d have to pack them up anyway.
When he rolled over the soft but still audible-for him- squeltch and squish of the congestion shifting and seeping down his sinuses and nose brought that tickle from earlier back, and his body was determined to get this cold out of him. He lazily pulled a few tissues to his twitching, tender red nostrils as he hitched towards sneezes that made a mess overflow the tissues and drip onto the bedding.
Nigel didn’t know how long it had really been til there was a knock on his door. He managed a rough, congested. “Cobe id”
Then Morgan’s gentle voice alerted him.
“Hey I made some soup, I put it in some tupperware in case you weren’t in the mood to eat yet. You could take it home.” Nigel sat up slowly, his face scrunched at the movement and he sneezed almost immediately into his hands.
“Ugh, sorry, and thagks” He grabbed tissues to clean himself up again, after a harsh nose blow, he took the bowl of soup. Finally, he could get something on his stomach. The warmth of the soup spread throughout his core and ceased his chills as he ate.
“You did good today,” Morgan commented. Nigel looked up for a moment. Morgan laughed a little at the ‘huh’ look on his face.
“You did real well, sure you’re a lil clunky when ya first start with the patient, but you pulled through.” Nigel couldn’t tell if it was the soup or the compliments that made his cheeks feel hot
Morgan outstretched his hand and pressed the back of it to Nigel’s forehead and tsk’d
“I’ll handle most of the reports for today. You focus on getting some rest, I’ll text you the other ones you can do when you’re up for it.”
Nigel wanted to say he could do more than ‘afew’ but after today, he knew it was better to take the offer for a break.
“Make sure you take that medicine too, don’t make me do a house call.” Morgan chidded as he gestured to the bag of supplies.
“I will I will, thagks”
“I feel so much better,” Arlo says before taking a bite of sautéed onion. For breakfast, Ben cooked a tofu scramble, and it’s the best he’s ever had. Tofu is a tricky art, but Ben had no trouble with it on his first ever attempt back when they’d first began dating. Now, he’s completely mastered it.
“You have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” Ben says, adding a sprinkle of salt to his own tofu scramble.
“I’m glad too. I’ve been worried all week about making it to the wedding,” Arlo says, digging back into his tofu. There was no question about whether or not today would be a “giant spoon” day. His fingers are better than they were when he first woke up, but if he’s going to spend all day at this wedding, he needs to take it as easy as possible.
“I know. I’m still worried that you may be pushing yourself, though. I’m sure Becca will understand if you have to leave early.”
She would. She definitely would. Arlo knows this. But it’s her wedding, and he already disappointed her by refusing to be a bridesman due to not wanting all the attention. Although, “disappointed” may not be the best choice of word, considering a person needs to have some kind of expectations before they can be disappointed. And it’s a fact that no one’s really ever expected much from Arlo. His sisters love him fiercely and they always have, but they’ve always been stronger than him.
He’d practically spent all of his adolescent years shying away from any and all confrontation. He was undoubtedly the “black sheep” of the family and this caused problem after problem to crop up. His social anxiety, which was more severe when he was a teen, caused him to stand out — an unfortunate matter considering that was always the very last thing he wanted. His dad had tossed around phrases like “don’t be a little sissy,” every time he got visibly anxious. This phrase came out a lot when they were out at restaurants, along with remarks such as, “Your sisters have been ordering their own food since they were five years old. And here you are, nearly a grown man, and you can’t do something as simple as talk to a waiter.” His sisters always defended him. Becca, specifically, would be the one to order for him.
Then there was his sexuality. Coming out as gay at thirteen had been immensely unpleasant, to say the least. Although, it wasn't like he’d had much of a choice. There’s some queer people who can choose to hide in the closet. Then there’s some queer people who can not. Arlo was the latter. There’s no way his parents hadn’t suspected. Gay slurs had been used against him from school bullies even when he was in kindergarten. Everyone suspected. But the disappointment of his dad when Arlo finally admitted to it was unmistakable.
It was Becca who talked to their dad with a calm, rational demeanor, giving convincing arguments for why God wouldn’t consider something as harmless as homosexuality a sin. It was Matilda who said someone as sweet as Arlo who would never hurt a fly (literally; to this day, Arlo has never intentionally killed any insect) could not possibly be sent to Hell just because of who he found attractive. It was Brooke who argued that Arlo was perfect in every other way, so all that made up for the “gay thing.” This was flawed logic and still pretty homophobic, but at the time, it was reassuring. Then there was Addy, who, at the age of fourteen, told their dad to “fuck off” and that Arlo was “perfect the way he was.”
A similar bout of nonsense transpired when Arlo made the decision to be vegetarian a year later. A lot of statements like “God put animals on Earth for us to eat them” and “God granted humans dominion over every living creature” were thrown around by both his mom and his dad. None of his sisters cared even a little about it, and that had meant everything to a gay teenager living in a small southern town.
So, he’d spent the majority of his life letting his sisters defend his actions.
Your existence, chimed the voice sounding like the therapist he used to see.
While he’d always appreciate and love them for it, it was impossible not to feel like the weak one. This feeling of inferiority was, of course, exacerbated when he was diagnosed with his chronic illness. As if he needed yet another way of standing out. Another way of being a liability. Another flaw.
Needing help isn’t a flaw. It’s human.
And there was his therapist’s voice, again. Followed by:
Everyone’s fucked up, Arlo. Everyone. Sometimes it’s mental. Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it’s both. Fucked-up-edness is, like, an ingrained human trait. It makes us need to lean on people. And that’s okay, silly. Now stop complaining and let me help you tie your shoes.
And that was Ben. This memory brings a smile to his lips, as it always does.
But regardless, Arlo’s always needed an exceptional amount of help. An exceptional amount of defending. And an exceptional amount of accommodations. On his sister’s wedding day, it would be nice to be normal for once. For Becca to not have her thoughts straying to her fragile little brother when her mood should be nothing short of celebratory.
“I really want to stay as long as possible,” Arlo says, breaking away from his thoughts. “And I really, really hope ‘as long as possible’ is the entire time.”
“Okay, well, you definitely look and sound better. Sleeping the day away yesterday helped, for sure. So, yeah, I think there’s a chance. I’m super glad you aren’t part of the wedding party.”
“Yeah…. I still said I’d go a little early, though. Maybe help with stuff for the reception.”
“I know,” Ben mumbles around a mouthful of tofu. “ And we’ll definitely do that. But, honestly, all the more reason to leave early.”
Rolling his eyes and sighing, Arlo takes a bite of an orange slice. “Like I said — the goal is to stay the entire time.”
“Fine. But there’s also your party tomorrow. I mean, babe, it’s your birthday. You're not supposed to feel like shit on your birthday. I have things planned, you know.”
The grimace is impossible to suppress.
“Hey, you said you were open to having an actual celebration this year.”
Quickly replacing the grimace with a quick smile, Arlo says, “I am. I am. I mean, it’s still small, though right? Like, it’s just Felix, Connor, and Addy? Ben, if you have some huge party planned as a surprise, I will be —”
“Relax. I wouldn’t do that to you. You know I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” Feeling his heartbeat resume a normal pace, he scoops up a bit of bell pepper. “I know. Just for a second —”
“For a second you thought I’d completely forgotten who you were?” Ben asks, a smile tugging at his lips.
Now laughing at the absurdity of it, Arlo says,“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Well, stop underestimating me. I know you so well. That’s why tomorrow we’re celebrating with a giant cake made with eggs and milk and we’re having a roasted chicken.”
And in that moment, Arlo realizes he’s going to need scientists to design a pill to prevent eyerolling because at this rate, he really will roll them out of his head.
* * *
“We can stop and get some nasal spray?” Ben suggests on the drive to the church.
“Ndo; wod’t help.” Arlo has resorted to speaking in the shortest, most clipped sentences he can manage, hating the blatant “sick” way he sounds. While he was feeling fine at breakfast, something shifted in his sinuses, and now it’s like he’s breathing through cement.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Ndever helps.” In an exercise of futility, Arlo attempts a sniff. There’s nothing; he’s as stuffed up as he can possibly be.
“Okay. Well, I’m sorry you can’t breathe through your nose. Definitely makes the day harder, huh?”
“I guess it’s good ndobody expects mbe to talk mbuch.”
Ben casts a quick glance at Arlo, raising an eyebrow. “You know, I was worried because of the, you know, whole breathing thing. But you seem focused on your voice.”
“Because I soud ridiculous. I’mb already behavidg irrespondsibly by attedig a public event while likely codtagious. Ad it’s so… so udmistakable, Bed. Ad, I mead, I was already dreadidg it. There’s — there’s goidg to be so mady people.” He leans his head back against the headrest. “So mady people. Ad pictures. Ad food. Food I probably wod’t eat. Oh by god, I cad’t go.”
A hand lands on his thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. For a moment, the only sound is Arlo’s erratic mouth-breathing. When Ben turns into the parking lot of a Dollar General, he feels his eyes widen.
“Bed, this isd’t the church.”
After putting the car in park, Ben gives the store a thorough scan before facing Arlo. The bright yellow sign displaying “Dollar General” draws Arlo’s own attention. “Oh my god, you’re right,” Ben announces. “Totally my bad. But it’s such an easy mistake don’t you think?”
“Bed, I cad’t — I cad’t —”
“Okay, whoa. Easy, baby. It’s okay,” Ben says, voice low and calm. “I was kinda wondering when you’d start freaking out. You made it pretty far, actually. Congrats on that.” He gives Arlo’s thigh another gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be just fine. I’ll be right next to you the entire time.”
Arlo’s mouth-breathing takes on a more aggressive pace.
“All right, look at me,” Ben instructs.
Complying, Arlo shifts his gaze from his bouncing knees to his boyfriend.
“What is your number one, main concern?”
Wracking his anxiety riddled brain, he searches until he finds it. “All the people lookidg at mbe. I’ll do sobethig stupid, like fall or… or sdeeze. Fuck, Bed, I’b probably goidg to sdeeze ad — .”
“Okay, wow, a concern so big an f-bomb was needed.” Ben says before Arlo’s pitch can go even higher. “Easy solution — if anyone even glances at you, I will punch them in the face. So — next concern.”
Groaning, Arlo says, “That’s ndot a solutiond.”
“C’mon, next concern. I’m ready. Give it to me.”
“That whed I talk, everyode will hear how sick I amb and accuse mbe of being ibboral.”
Blinking several times, Ben shakes his head before it seems to finally click. “Immoral. Gotcha. Okay, another easy solution. It is literally cold and flu season. And it’s a wedding. People RSVP’d for it. People took off work for it. So, babe, there will be other sick people there. So if anyone accuses you of being immoral, then just point out how ‘little Timmy’ has snot pouring down his face and yet he’s still at the wedding.”
“Oh bmy god,” Arlo says, but the slightest of laughs slips out of him.
“It’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be so fine. You’re going to see your sister get married. I know you're happy for her.”
“I amb,” Arlo admits. “I’m thrilled. But… —”
“But your sympathetic nervous system is an asshole, I know,” Ben says, his expression a mixture of pained and understanding.
“What if I sdeeze and ruid the wedding?”
“What if I sneeze and ruin the wedding?”
“That’s dnot fair. You probably wod’t,” Arlo retorts.
“It’s me, Arlo.” Arlo winces because, yes, he has a point. “So, what if I do? What if I sneeze, like, twelve times. What’s going to happen?”
“It’ll be… awkward.”
“Yeah, then what?” Ben encourages.
“Then it’ll be awkward,” Arlo huffs.
“And then we’ll all move on because who gives a shit? Same applies to you. Even if you fucking fall and eat shit, babe, it will be fine. It’s a wedding. So many stupid and dramatic things are bound to happen. No one’s gonna care about you.”
“Geez, thanks,” Arlo says, but oddly, his heart is beating at a more steady rhythm now, and his shoulders are relaxing.
“And the food thing — you know Becca made sure there’s options available for you to eat.”
“I kndow,” Arlo concedes.
“Okay, so we’ve established that your fears are unfounded and that there’s nothing to worry about. So everything’s fine. It’s gonna be a good day.”
“That’s dnot how adxiety works, Bed. It doesd't mbatter if the lide of thidkidg is udreasodable, or dnot. Adxiety isd’t based on logic.”
Letting out a long sigh, Ben says,“Yeah, but I just wanted to pretend for a moment. That can help sometimes, right? ‘Fake it til you make it?’ and all that?” At Arlo’s expression, he adds, “It will be a tolerable day, and sometimes that’s all you can hope for.
Arlo gives a vague approximation of a nod.
“Listen,” Ben says, voice taking on a more serious tone. “You don’t have to go. You have a solid excuse, even. I can call one of your sisters and tell them that you can’t make it — that you’re simply too sick. You probably are too sick.”
Flashbacks surface of all the times Arlo’s had to cancel plans with his sister because of his chronic illness. “Ndo,” he says, meeting Ben’s gaze. “I’mb goidg.”
“Okay, then. Your decision.” Ben flashes a smile. “I, for one, am excited. I love a good wedding,” he says, putting the car in reverse and checking his backup camera.
There’s nothing to say to that because how can that be possible? So, Arlo shifts his attention back to his nasal passages, hoping that with enough willpower he can make them no longer swollen. It’s a lost cause, of course, and by the time they arrive at the church, Arlo’s given up on getting any to make it through his nose.
The parking lot is the first sign that this was, indeed, a mistake.
“A lot of cars,” Arlo mutters.
“ A little bit, yeah.”
“A little bit of a lot?”
“Yes, a little bit of a lot.” Ben agrees, giving a tight smile. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
Breathing out a laugh, Arlo says, “You’re supposed to be positive about this.”
“Shit, yeah, you’re right. I meant — Let’s go!” Ben exclaims, pumping his fist in the air with feigned excitement.
After Ben opens the car door for him, Arlo takes several deep, long breaths through his mouth. “Okay.” He takes another breath, releasing the tension in his shoulder. “Okay. Okay. O—”
“Okay,” Ben stretches out the word. “No more of that. C’mon,” he says pushing open the door to the church.
“Whoa!” Ben’s hand wraps around Arlo’s waist, guiding him out of the way from being run into by Brooke’s son and daughter. The two children run off into the hallway screaming and laughing.
“Arlo!”
A smile instantly forms when he sees Addy. She practically sprints to him before wrapping her arms around him. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Hi, Arlo,” her boyfriend, Tom, says.
Arlo smiles politely and nods at him before turning his attention back to his sister, who’s still clinging onto him. “You look pretty,” he says, as she finally steps back. “Kida weird seeidng you id a dress.”
Looking down at the navy blue bridesmaid’s dress, she scrunches up her nose. “Wouldn’t be wearing it if Becca hadn’t insisted.”
“At least it’s just onde day.”
He chews the inside of his cheek as Addy gives him a scrutinizing look. “You look good, too,” she finally says. “But, you’re still pretty sick, huh?”
“Ndothidg too bad,” he says. “Just, uh, cadn’t breathe very efficiedtly.”
“I can hear that. How’s everything else? Your wrists? Fingers? Elbows? Mom and Dad expect you to help set things up a little, but if your RA’s flaring up, then you shouldn’t push it.”
“No worries. That’s why he brought me,” Ben interjects, flexing his arm. “He is only with me for my muscles, after all.”
“Oh bmy god, I amb dnot.” Arlo says, heat creeping into his cheeks.
“I’m kidding, babe. I will, however, not be letting you lift a finger. You’re not gonna make yourself miserable over something I can easily do.”
“Great!” Addy exclaims before Arlo can argue. “Arlo, what you can do is talk to Becca. She’s getting ready. I’m sure she’d love to see you before the chaos of the wedding and reception. I’ll take you to her. Ben and Tom can go do all the, you know, unpleasant stuff.” With that, she shoots a grin at their boyfriends, before taking Arlo’s hand and guiding him away.
“You should’t get too close,” Arlo says, staring down at her hand touching his. “I dod’t wadnt you to get sick.” A tickle suddenly flares in his nose and, instinctively, he pulls his hand away, turning away from his sister. “Hgkk’t! Hehhkg’kKT!”
“I was already exposed the other day. I don’t care,” Addy says, shrugging.
Once the two make it to the room Becca’s using to get ready, Arlo’s realizing his sinuses are not going to let him have an easy day. Those last two congested sneezes somehow worsened the situation. His head now feels full of pressure. But his attention is drawn away from his discomfort when he sees Becca in her wedding gown.
It looks like most wedding gowns Arlo’s ever seen. It’s white and it’s long. But something still catches in his throat when he sees her.
“Hey! I’m glad you made it,” Becca says, her smile bright. “Addy said you weren’t feeling well. If you want to just stay for the ceremony, then ditch, that’s seriously okay.”
He directs the smallest glare at Addy before shaking his head. “Imb gettidg over a cold, is all. I wadt to be here.”
“Aw, you sound so hoarse and stuffy. I’m sorry you’re sick.”
“Uhmb, that really isd’t sombthindg you should worry about. Imb really excited for you! Ad happy to be here!” That last part is a lie, but if you can’t lie to make your sister feel good on her wedding day, then when can you lie?
“Liar,” Addy says, disguising it as a cough.
Becca laughs and rolls her eyes. “He is a liar.” Turning back to Arlo, she says, “you have never once been happy at a social event in your entire life.”
Cheeks now slightly burning, he says, “I wasd’t lyidg about beindg excited for you. I amb, and really do wadt to cele - hh - celebrate it -hh - excuse me — ” The words rush out of him right before he ducks his head into his shoulder to stifle a sneeze. Which, of course, turns into two. Then three.
By the sixth sneeze, his eyes are prickling with tears.
“Oh, Arlo. Bless you. You really don’t sound great.” Becca’s voice is laced with sympathy.
“Told you he was dying,” chimes in Addy.
“Imb okay. Just, uh, dod’t get close. Dod’t want you to catch this before your hondeymood.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I really do not want to be sick in Mexico. But, oh my god, you look so pitiful that it’s hard to care,” Becca says, her expression soft.
“Okay, well, you ndeed to care, so Imb godda go ad, uh, try to isolate, I guess? As much as I cad. But, adyway, you look beautiful. Ad Imb happy for you. Ad I love you.”
“Aww, Arlo. My baby brother,” she says, tears welling in her eyes. “I am so emotional today, you have no idea. I love you so much.” Becca starts moving closer, her intent to hug him practically written all over her face. But then she takes a step back. “Oh, better not, right?”
“Better ndot,” Arlo agrees, stifling another sneeze into his shoulder.
“Oh, Arlo, you’re here!”
Arlo turns around at the sound of his mother’s voice. “Hey momb.” Arlo sniffs thickly, desperately trying to not sound stuffed up. But there’s simply nothing he can do; his nasal passages are completely swollen. There’s no amount of sniffing that will open them.
She scrutinizes his face for a single moment before stating, “You’re sick.” The next thing Arlo knows, there’s a hand on his forehead. “I think you’re a little warm. You should leave after the ceremony and rest.”
“I wadt to stay.”
His mom lowers her hand from his forehead. “We know that’s not true. You hate parties.”
“Yeah but, I mbean… Ndot always. And ndot if they’re important. I’b dnot idcapapable of celebratig thidgs.”
“Of course not,” his mom says, hesitantly. “But, we know how often you’re not really feeling up for a lot of things. And how you need more rest than we do. Especially when you have a cold on top. It’s fine, sweetheart. You can’t help it. Nobody blames you.”
“I dod’t always deed to rest. I mead, I have a job. I amb able to take care of mbyself.”
“Of course you are. And I think it's working full time while having a chronic illness that wears you down, honey. So, like I said, nobody blames you if you need to leave early. Anyway,” she says, shifting her attention to Becca. “Sweetie, I was talking to the —”
“Beidg chrodically ill doesd’t mbean I dever do fund thidgs. I do thidgs.” The tips of his ears burn.
His mom stares. Actually everybody stares. He shifts his weight uncomfortably.
“Arlo, we know,” Addy says, letting out a nervous laugh. “Nobody thinks that. We just worry about you.”
“You dnod’t dneed to,” Arlo mutters, the words coming out more harshly than intended.
The sound of the door opening has everyone turning their heads. Matilda and
Brooke both stand there looking beautiful in their bridesmaid’s dress. He smiles because surely this is an opportunity for a subject change.
“Oh, yay, Arlo’s here!” Matilda announces as she meets his gaze, striding over to him.
“He is ideed,” he answers, still smiling. “But, dod’t get close. I’b a little under the weather.”
Not heeding his warning even a little, she wraps her arms around him in an embrace, then pulls back, scrutinizing him in a way he’s becoming all too familiar with today. And once again, there’s a hand being pressed to his forehead.
“I think maybe you’re warm. And you look exhausted. Do you think you’ll be able to stay for the reception?”
“Yes, I’b stayidg for the receptiod. I’b dnot a … a ndewborn baby or a toddler or ad eighty year old mad. I’b capable of mbakidg it through the day without a ndap.”
Eyes widening, Matilda says, “Okay, I don’t know where that came from.”
“Why’s everyone look so tense?” Brooke asks. “What’s going on?”
“You kind of walked in at a bad time,” Becca says, rubbing the back of her neck, her cheeks tinged pink in a way that has nothing to do with makeup.
“It’s fine.” His mom’s voice is stern in that kind of way he remembers it being when he and his sisters were all still kids and fighting over a toy. “Arlo’s not feeling well, but he’s decided he’s going to tough it out and stay for the reception. So, no need to discuss it any further.”
“It’d dnot a mbatter of ‘toughing it out,’ Mbom. I have a cold. I cad handle a cold.”
“Yeah, but colds are different for you than they are for us,” Brooke adds, her voice and expression utterly sincere.
Arlo knows she’s only just walked in and missed all the discussion beforehand. And he knows she loves him and is completely well-meaning. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from saying, “I kdnow that. How could I dnot kdow that when every sidgle persodn is codstadtly tellidg mbe?”
He internally winces at how much he’s sounding like a petulant child. He doesn’t even know what he wants. Most of the time, he craves for people to acknowledge the limitations his health causes. But here his family is — acknowledging it — and he’s throwing a tantrum.
And just like that, because of him, there’s an awkward silence.
“Sorry,” he finally mumbles. “I — I dod’t kdow what’s wrodg with mbe.”
“You’re not feeling w —” his mom begins.
“Nothing is wrong.” Addy interrupts, her tone emphatic. “Listen, I’m sure everyone will be thrilled if you’re able to last all day. But also, we want you to know it’s okay if you can’t. ”
“I cad.”
At this point, he needs to stop talking because he’s only sounding whinier. And stuffier. And the worst part is, he really does want a nap. The pressure in his head is making it hard to think straight and standing is taking more energy than he remembers it taking.
“Okay, great!” Becca says, smiling brightly. “I’m happy you’re staying. It means a lot that you’re here. Now, Mom, what were you wanting to tell me?”
The words immediately pull his mother’s attention to Becca. As they should. Since it’s Becca’s wedding day. It’s her day. Not “Everyone fuss over Arlo Day.” As they talk, he decides to go see if Ben and Tom need any help.
The place they’re having the reception is right across the street, but the walk over feels like it takes several miles. The last wedding Arlo attended was Brooke’s, which was many years ago, so he’d forgotten about all the organization and moving parts it took to make a wedding happen. When he enters the building, there’s people carrying flower arrangements, a photographer setting up, and people arguing about table placements. Ben is somehow carrying five folding chairs at once. Arlo’s first thought is that he should offer some help, but his second thought is that he literally can’t. As much as he’s trying not to alert anyone to his health, his joints are decidedly not having a good day. They’ve been worse, but they’re definitely not equipped for carrying chairs.
Looking around, he searches for any task he is capable of doing and ultimately concludes that he is utterly useless.
Ben, though, spots him before he can slip out to head back to the church. He grins hugely and begins striding over before he looks at the chairs under his armpits and frowns. Arlo smiles in acknowledgement and waits for Ben to return from setting up the chairs.
“Hey! How’s Becca? No cold feet or anything?” Ben asks.
“Okay.” Ben elongates the word, frowning. “Then why do you look like someone kicked our cat?”
“I thidk mby endtire fambily hates mbe.”
Ben’s eyes narrow as one eyebrow goes up. “I just don’t think that can be true.”
“It is. I was mbead to theb.”
“You were mean?”
Nodding, Arlo says, “Yes, because they dod’t thidk I cad do adythindg.”
“Mhmm, and they said this?” Ben asks, brow still raised.
“They basically did.”
The particularly bright lights and the sounds of chairs and tables scraping against the floor have him squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.
“And what words exactly did they use?” Ben’s voice is so gentle that Arlo wishes it could be the only sound in the room — only sound he hears for the next several days until this horrific illness is over with.
“Mobm told me to leave after the ceremony. Because I’b sick.”
Ben continues staring at Arlo if waiting for more. “Oh? That’s all?” he asks, finally.
“I mbead, ndo. She… she said thidgs about how I ndever mbake it to family stuff because of the RA and how Ibm always tired all the timbe. And ndobody even cares if I leave, Bed, because they dod’t expect mbe to stay. They all kept tellidg mbe to leave.”
Ben’s nodding along now, but in that way people tend to do when they’re listening to toddlers explain something even they don’t quite understand. “Right, I hear you,” Ben begins. “So, you went to see your sister in her wedding gown, and your mom came in and said ‘All right, Arlo, now you better go home because we hate you and don’t want you here because you have a chronic illness that makes you tired’?”
“Obviously not like that,” Arlo says through a heavy and congested sigh.
“But she wants you to go home early? Why exactly? What words did she use?”
“She told me to rest.”
“Uh-huh. And why does she want you to rest?”
“Because of this stupid cold,” Arlo grumbles. “But it’s ndot just that. She medtiodned how I dnever go to thigs.”
“She said you never go to things? Weren’t we at their Sunday dinner just a couple weeks ago? And your dad also had his birthday last month and you were sure to be there for that,” Ben reasons.
“Yeah, I mbead I guess she didn’t exactly say ‘ndever’ but she… ibplied it.” He sniffs, but it’s pointless. Still no air. “Ad, okay, mbaybe I acted just a little ibbature. Well, okay, I know I did. But everybody just keeps tellidg mbe to leave like they could’dt care whether or dnot I was here. Like I’b dnothidg more than … thad wallpaper, or somedthidg. Sombethidg idcodsequedtial.”
He’s definitely still whining. Maybe he should go home. He’s not exactly spreading positivity.
“This has been a hard week for you,” Ben states, his gaze assessing. Assessing for what, Arlo can’t begin to guess.
“It’d beed…” Arlo grimaces as unwanted memories play through his mind. “A particularly challedgidg week, yes.”
“Yes, and sometimes, when we’re having ‘particularly challenging’ weeks, it can be easy to interpret well-intentioned words and gestures as, um, more —” Ben stares at the ceiling, searching for a word. “Malicious than you’d maybe interpret them, otherwise, you know?”
“You’re psycoadalydzidg mbe.” Bringing up his aching wrist, Arlo dabs at his nose, which is now somehow running while simultaneously being stuffed up.
“And how do you feel about the analysis?” Ben asks, digging into his pants pocket. “Any merit to it, or total shit?” He asks, handing over a tissue.
“Hodestly, I dod’t kdow.” The tissue is rough against Arlo’s sore nose even though he’s dabbing as lightly as possible. “You thidk they were well-idtedtioned?”
There’s that same assessing look again. “I think I’ve been to enough of your family dinners to know your family genuinely loves you and cares a lot about your well-being. And that if you’re feeling this way, you should maybe talk to them about it.” Quickly, he adds, “When your head doesn’t feel stuffed with cotton, I mean. I think you need to probably be thinking clearly for that conversation.”
“I’b begiddidg to thidk that day will ndever come,” Arlo complains, scrunching up his nose and trying — and failing — yet again to inhale through it. The noise that results makes him cringe.
“Hey, no, don’t think like that. You’re going to feel better soon.”
“Hgnt’t! Hngtshhxx!” Arlo can’t help the little groan that accompanies the two painful sneezes.
Wincing sympathetically and pulling out another tissue, Ben adds, “Like, eventually, I mean.”
* * *
Yawning for the fifth time in ten minutes, Arlo rejects the impulse to rest his head on Ben’s shoulder as they sit in one of the church pews. Not a good sign. There’s so many hours to go.
“Perk up. It’s about to start,” Ben whispers, nudging Arlo lightly.
Ben’s right. The music begins playing, so Arlo averts his attention to the aisle in anticipation.
When Becca begins her walk with their dad, Arlo’s eyes begin watering for non-cold related reasons. They both look so ridiculously happy. At this moment, his stuffy nose, aching joints, and fatigue are trivial compared to having the honor of witnessing his oldest sister on the happiest day of her life.
Except, well, his nose isn’t exactly stuffy anymore. It’s actually starting to run quite incessantly. Or pouring may be a more accurate way to describe it. Wordlessly, Ben slides a few tissues over to Arlo. He must have been audibly sniffling. He wonders how many tissues Ben managed to cram into his pockets. If Arlo’s mind hadn’t been so anxiety riddled, he’d have thought to bring his own.
Blowing his nose at his sister’s wedding isn’t exactly the most appealing prospect, but neither is letting snot run down his face. So, he gently folds the tissue over his nose and gives a light blow. Or, it should be light. He really thought it was light. Instead, though, fluid rushes out and he’s quickly realizing he needs another tissue immediately.
As he soaks through his two tissues, his sister continues walking down the aisle, and it’s all very beautiful.
His nose seems to quiet down when the music stops. So, he can watch Becca and Robert stare lovingly at each other. It’s incredibly sweet. Almost painfully so. His other sisters are there, too, radiating happiness in their own ways. A part of him, though, can’t stop wondering why anyone would voluntarily stand in front of so many people. That may be slightly hypocritical of him, considering his profession, but for his brain, there’s a difference between standing in front of teenagers he was trained to teach and standing in front of a hundred people watching you simply exist.
A frightening thought strikes him.
How will I do this when I marry Ben?
This isn’t the first time he’s contemplated marriage to Ben, though it’s the first time it’s come to him in such a clear, inescapable way. It’s not a blurred, vague abstract thought. It’s a fully formed question that he fully feels and this is not the place nor time to be having it.
That doesn’t stop him from having it, of course.
The topic has come up before between them. In little ways. In joking ways. In ways that Arlo sometimes struggled to interpret as Ben being authentic or just as ways of testing the water.
Like when they’d been watching that one home renovation show that one time and Ben had said “Babe, when we’re an old married couple, that’s what I want our home to look like. We’re gonna be two old men on our giant front porch with our rocking chairs and it’s gonna be awesome.”
Or even last month when Ben had said, “Do you think it’d be weird for a couple to make up a completely new last name? Like, when you and I get married, instead of using Williams or Thompson, we could just, like, use Burke? You know what I mean?”
At the time, Arlo’s brainpower had been spent trying to figure out what Ben did, indeed, mean — because why out of all names, he’d think of Burke? So, his choice of “when” in that sentence had been slightly lost on him. But, not entirely. His brain had opened a drawer and surreptitiously filed it away for future contemplation.
A future that has now, apparently, arrived. During his sister’s wedding vows.
He redirects his attention to his sister and very-soon-to-be brother-in-law. They’re both teary-eyed and speaking with cracking voices.
Will Ben cry on our wedding day?
He shakes his head ever so slightly, imperceptibly, as if to physically dump the thought onto the church floor.
He will, though. He definitely will.
And he’d be so effortlessly charming. The same he’d been when they’d first met at the coffee shop. And the way he’d been on their first date when he was even sicker than Arlo is now. He’d flash that bright smile, probably say something off-script, then do that thing he did. That thing where he’d somehow made Arlo feel safe, warm, and overcome with the realization that he was getting everything that for eight years he’d thought he’d never have.
Ben’s hand finds his. “You all right?” he whispers into Arlo’s ear.
Becca and Robert are kissing, but all Arlo can think is how he really hopes nothing goes wrong with the footage of this wedding because his current attention is most decidedly elsewhere.
here is this!!! here it is. it's here. it's... it's something.
just a lighthearted little thing, some silly n sweet stuff because I needed to practice it. HUGE thank you, once again, to @silklined for making me sound like I have a working brain. you are incredible! I appreciate the beta/editing so much!
here we are! shane is in a mood, and shane is definitely, absolutely, positively suffering from allergies. it's just allergies. ilya loves shane and lets him pretend.
Married life had taught Ilya many things.
It had taught him the humbling reality that an adult relationship under a shared roof mostly consisted of planning meals, laundry cycles, and standing in the kitchen discussing whether they were out of olive oil. Marriage also transformed everything that was supposed to be communal into territory ripe for possession eventually—drawers became claimed, blankets accrued ownership, and taking his husband’s favorite seat at the dining table was akin to a criminal offense. Even a banal discussion about landscaping options somehow became a debate over financial priorities, a question of morality, and an exercise in international diplomacy until they both remembered they could compromise.
It had not, however, taught Ilya that Shane could turn literally any bad experience into a personal failure. Ilya had learned that lesson long before vows and rings and shared home insurance.
The Centaurs had played Montreal last night.
The Centaurs had lost.
Which meant Ilya woke alone. The space beside him had long since cooled, blanket straightened and smoothed. Pale, early morning sunlight stretched around the curtains. It was the sort of morning that invited laziness and going back to bed.
Ilya remained sprawled beneath the blankets for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with disappointment. Truthfully, he had known better than to expect Shane to waste the morning in bed with him. After particularly ugly games, Shane was a creature possessed. But some indulgent part of Ilya had still imagined another hour or two tangled together under the covers, sunlight crawling slowly across freckles while they kissed each other awake.
Ilya sighed and dragged himself out of bed. There would be no practice today, no meetings, no obligations other than surviving Shane’s mood.
He could picture it perfectly. Clipped replies, distant eyes, compulsive productivity. Shane would spend the day treating himself like a problem to solve. He would bleed guilt over everything he touched, and he would quietly punish himself through absurd little acts of self-denial—like rejecting sleeping in on a day off.
Today, Ilya decided, he would be patient. Today, Ilya would be understanding. Ilya would be whatever calm, stabilizing force Shane needed while he dissected every mistake he thought he’d made, the majority of which weren’t his fault. And then Ilya would drag him back to bed and kiss him until he forgot about hockey entirely.
Then a smell hit him.
Ilya stopped halfway out the bedroom. The odor creeping through their home was bitter and earthy, as though someone had taken the entirety of a forest and boiled it down into concentrate. He followed the smell to the kitchen where Shane stood at the stove, hunched over a steaming pot.
Ilya demanded, “What the fuck is that smell?”
The words escaped him automatically, a reflexive blow. It was like getting hit in the knee during a checkup in exactly the right place, kicking out before your brain could catch up.
So much for being patient.
“Fuck off,” Shane muttered without turning around. He looked wrong, somehow. Curled inward at the shoulders, tense up through his neck. His hair was a mess, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for the better part of the early morning.
Ilya took a breath and rolled his shoulders. “Seriously. What is that?” The smell truly was awful, medicinal in a way that suggested Shane was attempting to make soup using ingredients gathered from the yard.
“Go away.”
The words would have had more impact if Shane hadn’t punctuated them with a wet little sniffle.
Ilya approached slowly, gaze sharpening as he came to stand beside Shane. Shane sniffled again, nose slightly wrinkled, and his eyes held a wet shine. Ilya stepped behind Shane and slid both arms around his waist, pressing an absent kiss beneath his ear.
“Ilya, stop,” Shane groused. “Get off me.”
Instead, Ilya tightened his hold. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, gentler now. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.” Shane knuckled irritably at the side of his nose. “It’s just alleehh-! hh’ISHHh’uh!” He jerked his head sharply to the side, burying the sneeze into the crook of his arm. “snnf! Allergies.”
Ilya closed his eyes briefly, remembering his vow to prioritize Shane and all his idiosyncrasies. Especially after a grueling, embarrassing loss. “Mmh,” he hummed agreeably. “Allergies, of course.”
Shane went still, surely suspicious at how quickly Ilya accepted his excuse.
Ilya swallowed his amusement and peered over Shane’s shoulder, inspecting the steaming pot. Floating within the dark water were citrus peels, ginger, and what genuinely appeared to be pieces of the shrubs in their yard. “What is this?” he asked. “You make gross soup for allergies?”
Shane made an exhausted noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “It’s tea.” His voice cracked faintly on the word, and he cleared his throat afterward. “It’s supposed to help with allergies. I found the recipe online.”
“Online where?” Ilya scoffed. “Medieval doctor blog?”
“Ugh, shut up.” Shane sniffled again, thicker this time, and pulled a tissue from his pocket to wipe at his nose.
“What if this… tea kills you?”
“Then I won’t have allergies anymore,” he snapped.
Ilya barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Shane, though huffing, relaxed a little into Ilya’s hold.
So Shane wasn’t sick. He just had allergies bad enough to wake early on what was supposed to be a slow Sunday and brew forest tea while looking seconds away from a mental breakdown.
“You sound bad,” Ilya probed gently.
“It’s allergies,” Shane insisted, clearly aware that he did, indeed, sound bad.
Ilya smiled against Shane’s shoulder, then kissed it. This was all too familiar, Shane trying to outmaneuver his own body through denial and stubborn insistence. Shane preferred suffering privately whenever possible, which in practice meant acting annoyed at Ilya when he noticed Shane was clearly having a terrible time.
It was fine, really, because Ilya could wait. There was no need to corner Shane about it now when his nose was pink and his eyes were wet and his voice was nasally. Nature was building Ilya’s case against Shane quite well.
“Right, right.” Ilya settled his chin on Shane’s shoulder and peered once more into the pot with a brow raised. “Does allergy tea taste better than it smells?”
Shane stared down into the murky brew for a long moment, clearly weighing whether honesty was worth the humiliation. He finally admitted, “…Probably not.”
Ilya bit the inside of his cheek and kept quiet, deciding Shane deserved some reprieve.
Ten minutes later, Shane drank his questionable tea while Ilya busied himself with making breakfast. Ilya had cracked eggs one-handed against the edge of the counter and watched Shane take the first sip from the corner of his eye.
Shane had raised the mug with cautious resolve, taken exactly one swallow, then gone utterly motionless in the way prey did upon realizing danger was near. His expression had tightened, and a tiny, tortured flare of his nostrils followed.
Shane was stubborn, however, and he continued drinking with small sips. He swallowed with visible effort, and Ilya kindly continued stirring the scrambled eggs on the stove, pretending not to notice.
Ilya set the bar counter at the kitchen island, complete with eggs and yogurt and fruit cut into neat little pieces because he wanted Shane to actually eat. Shane continued his brave battle against his allergies, taking meager bites of breakfast interspersed with wet sniffles. Ilya noticed every single one and kept his mouth shut.
“Huh’ISHh’oo! -ISHH’uh!”
The sneezes burst out suddenly and hard enough to pitch Shane into an awkwardly angled curl away from the counter. He caught them into the crook of his arm just in time. For a moment, Shane remained frozen there. Then came a slow, defeated reach for another tissue (from a box that had somehow ended up on the counter when Ilya hadn’t been looking).
Ilya lifted his coffee to his mouth to hide his smug smile.
Shane blew his nose gently and looked up just to find Ilya watching. Ilya widened his eyes innocently, while Shane narrowed his, and Ilya took a loud, slurping sip.
After breakfast, they stood at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, while Shane rinsed his mug and Ilya helpfully organized their dirty dishes for maximum soakage. Ilya joked about his excellent dish engineering, and Shane couldn’t help but laugh. A rough cough followed the laugh, and Shane turned it into his shoulder.
Ilya nudged him lightly with an elbow. “Come shower with me.”
Shane looked at him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
Ilya feigned offense, arranging his face into wounded innocence, because he had only partly meant for it to be taken as a proposition for sex. If Shane wanted, maybe. Which he would, probably.
“For allergies!” he clarified. “Hot water, steam, touching you. All very good for allergies.”
“Oh, yes.” Ilya turned and leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed, all smiles and warmth. “I can heal you.”
Shane sniffed and averted his gaze. “I already showered.” He turned the faucet off and stepped away from the sink. “Maybe after we work out.”
Ilya stared at him in genuine disbelief, just for a brief moment. He had already suffered six straight days of practices, games, and Shane’s morning yoga routines. Some days had stacked all three.
“No.” Ilya pushed off of the counter and left the kitchen with complete peace, abandoning Shane to his compulsive exercise regimen while Ilya claimed his rightful place on the couch. “Today is for rest.”
By the time Shane wandered into the living room, Ilya had already spread himself on the couch beneath a blanket with Anya tucked against his legs.
Shane stopped short at the sight. “Seriously?”
“You should try resting. Will fix your allergies problem, maybe.”
Shane looked scandalized. “You always feel better with active recovery.” His voice was slipping into his captain cadence, an old habit Ilya wished Shane would have left back in Montreal (which wasn’t true, but he much preferred when Shane used that voice in the bedroom). “Ilya, it’s basic condition-… ihh-ing… hh’ISHH’uh!“
Ilya smiled, positively coy. “We can actively recover in the shower,” he offered sweetly. “But nooo, you need to do some scary bosu ankle shit.”
“It’s for stabilization,” Shane gritted through his teeth, rubbing irritably beneath his nose with a tissue procured from his pocket. “You had that high ankle sprain just last season—“
Ilya waved a hand dismissively. ”Aahh, whatever. Healed in a week.”
“It absolutely did not heal in a week.”
“Well I played after a week. Was fine.”
Shane stared at him incredulously, seeming to weigh whether this argument was worth expending energy over. Somewhere beneath the internal battle and oncoming definitely-not-a-cold, affection flickered helplessly through the exasperation on his face.
Ilya, of course, found this adorable.
“I love you, and I love your strong ankles,” Ilya conceded. “But I am going to rest and watch Youtube.”
Shane prepared for the home gym alone by filling his water bottle and arming himself with pockets full of tissues. Ilya watched this preparation from beneath his blanket on the couch and released a long-suffering, dramatic sigh.
Shane lifted one hand behind himself in a gesture that made Ilya laugh loudly and long enough to follow Shane all the way down the hallway.
Ilya remained sprawled over the couch with Anya curled against him in a warm little crescent while a nostalgic Vine compilation played on the television—an old comfort. The video had started as actual entertainment, the strange humor of a bygone but familiar era, and gradually devolved into background noise while his mind wandered elsewhere.
Mostly, it wandered toward Shane. Specifically, he was imagining Shane sneezing through calisthenics and growing increasingly more frustrated.
He didn’t have to wonder about Shane and his failing workout for long. Footsteps sounded down the hallway far too soon. Ilya glanced at the time on his phone. Shane couldn’t have been gone for even an hour, likely closer to half that.
Usually Shane returned from workouts flushed with heat and self-satisfaction, loosened with the restless static worked out of his system. Exercise settled Shane in a way Ilya envied sometimes. Ilya always emerged from hard training with energy crawling under his skin, but Shane always seemed sated and relieved.
Now, however, Shane just looked pale.
He would probably still pass a cursory public outing. No stranger on the street would stop to ask after his wellbeing. He didn’t look awfully ill, but Ilya knew Shane’s face too intimately. Shane’s eyes were always easy for Ilya to read, and they were presently glazed with fatigue. The skin beneath them had begun to shadow faintly violet. Even his posture looked wrong, sagging under the weight of feeling unwell.
“How was your workout?” Ilya asked casually, fixing his attention back on the television.
“Fine,” Shane insisted, but he ruined the illusion by ducking into the crook of his arm. “Huh’ISHH’ooh!”
Ilya muted the television.
Shane narrowed his eyes as Ilya unfolded himself from the couch. “Don’t start.”
“I say nothing,” Ilya replied with saintly calm. He crossed the room slowly, enjoying the suspicion gathering across Shane’s face.
Ilya slid both hands over Shane’s hips. Shane looked downright silly, averting his gaze and taking a slow drink from the water bottle still in his hand, trying to appear unaffected. Ilya slipped his fingers beneath the hem of Shane’s shirt, spreading his hands over warm skin and feeling the subtle flex of muscle beneath them.
“Mmh,” he hummed approvingly. “Thank you, exercise.”
Shane rolled his eyes. Ilya took the water bottle from his hand, pushed the mouthpiece closed against his hip, and tossed it onto the couch.
Ilya kissed just beneath Shane’s ear and smiled against the skin when Shane exhaled softly. Ilya followed the line of his throat downward with slow kisses, feeling Shane’s pulse thrum hard and quick against his mouth. Bit by bit, Shane loosened under his hands. Triumph stirred warm and pleasant inside Ilya’s chest.
“Shower now?” Ilya murmured against Shane’s neck.
Shane huffed a weak laugh. “It would be faster if I just rinsed off alone.”
“Maybe true.” Ilya hooked a finger beneath the collar of Shane’s shirt and tugged it aside, just enough to mouth lazily at his collarbone. “But I think maybe you need a little more exercise first.”
“That’s not even—“ The protest dissolved as Ilya kissed his throat again. Shane tipped his head to the side automatically, allowing Ilya better access even as he muttered, “You’re so annoying.”
“Mmh, definitely true.”
The matter of the shower became less an invitation and more an inevitability as Shane’s arms looped around Ilya’s neck, pulling him even closer.
Not that Shane had been trying especially hard to resist.
In the shower, Shane melted under Ilya’s touch. He braced both hands against the tiled wall with his head tipped forward, breath catching in ragged moans. Every sound pulled from him carried a roughness now. His nose ran unchecked over his philtrum in a way he either genuinely didn’t notice or had decided to ignore in favor of more important matters.
There was something sacred in these moments. Shane spent so much of his life wound tight, holding himself in a perfectly polite package. But here, flushed and shaking and reduced to primal instincts beneath Ilya’s hands, he became raw and open. It was deeply intimate, watching Shane unravel like this with Ilya buried deep inside him.
Through it all, Shane never once kissed him on the mouth. Jaw, yes. Throat, repeatedly. Once to Ilya’s nipple with so much lust behind it that Ilya nearly forgot his own name.
It was absurdly transparent. Apparently Shane believed he was conducting infection control measures all while wrapped around Ilya in a cloud of steam and desire. The earnestness of it charmed Ilya so thoroughly he could hardly decide whether it made him want to laugh or ruin Shane completely—or both, more likely.
After their shower, Shane dressed in clean clothes (dark jeans, oddly, maybe he thought dressing up made him appear in better health?) and stood before the bathroom mirror, going through his routine of toner and some kind of sunscreen he always nagged Ilya to use. Ilya leaned shirtless against the closet doorway and watched him quietly.
Shane looked exhausted now that adrenaline had worn off. His nose remained stubbornly pink, eyes heavy lidded. Every few moments he sniffled softly, yet he stood determined, as though refusing to let an oncoming cold compromise proper skincare. The sight filled Ilya with such unbearable affection he nearly proposed another round in the shower.
By the time noon rolled around, Shane announced he was going to do a working lunch so he could relax later in the afternoon.
“A lunch date with your laptop?” Ilya teased from the kitchen. He waited impatiently beside a pot of water refusing to boil, a box of pasta in his left hand. “I’m much hotter than emails.”
Shane popped his pre-prepped meal into the microwave, not even sparing Ilya a glance. “Debatable.”
“Wow. Shower Shane would agree with me.”
Ilya made pasta drowning in butter sauce and parmesan while Shane sat at the table answering emails between bites of salmon, increasingly congested sniffles, and periodic pauses to tend to his nose with tissues.
“Nngkh!”
Ilya’s back was turned as he plated his pasta. The noise had come strangled, but Ilya was certain Shane had sneezed—and probably been dangerously close to blowing out his eardrums trying to silence it. There followed one careful sniffle, and by the time Ilya reached the table, Shane had schooled his expression into bland composure.
Shane finished eating first but lingered at the table with his laptop while Ilya worked through his pasta. Halfway through his meal, Shane went into the kitchen to rinse his meal prep container and returned carrying a clean fork.
“Can I have a bite?”
Ilya looked up, brow raised. “You want some?”
“It’s a day off,” Shane replied seriously. “I can have one bite. Two, if I want.”
Ilya had to work especially hard to keep himself from grinning while Shane twirled exactly one modest forkful. Under normal circumstances, he would have stolen a bite using Ilya’s fork without hesitation, but Ilya kept this thought to himself.
Ilya finished his lunch while Shane puttered around the house in restless little circuits, tidying areas that already looked clean and repeatedly vanishing down hallways to blow his nose in private, maybe because he hoped that being out of sight would place him truly out of mind—or at least out of range of sound (it didn’t).
Ilya kept easy conversation speckled between Shane’s self-directed tasks. Upcoming games, next week’s road trip. He reminded Shane to add some snacks to their grocery list, easy and dry things to pack for their next flight. Shane tapped on his phone while he stood at the back door, waiting while Anya sniffed around the yard.
This kind of normalcy mattered to Shane, as did his image of good health, apparently. Ilya allowed him to keep both for now.
By mid-afternoon, after the dishes were loaded and the lap blankets on the couch had been rearranged to look effortlessly draped and home decor catalogue ready, Shane announced, “I’m going to lie down for a few. I need to decompress my spine.”
Ilya nearly choked holding back a snort.
The excuse was absurd on its own, but they were married. They spent plenty of time existing separately in the same house without reporting their movements to each other like coworkers clocking breaks. But Shane had a funny habit of narrating his behavior when he knew it would appear suspicious.
Five minutes later, Ilya wandered into the bedroom and found Shane fast asleep.
He had collapsed awkwardly atop the blankets, curled on his side in a way that surely wasn’t helpful for his spine. One arm was trapped beneath the pillow, a crumpled tissue still held loosely in the hand resting under his chin.
Frankly, he looked sick.
The tension was gone from his face, leaving behind the exhausted reality underneath. His mouth was parted to compensate for congestion, and he was breathing noisily. He looked warm and worn out and painfully human in a way that tugged hard at something protective in Ilya’s chest.
Ilya quietly backed out of the room. He found Anya’s leash and took her on the long route through the neighborhood to give Shane uninterrupted peace and quiet. Crisp fall air bit pleasantly at his cheeks while Anya trotted happily beside him. Ilya carried one-sided conversation as they went.
“Your dad is pretending he’s not sick,” Ilya informed her gravely as they walked. “Very embarrassing for him. He’s a terrible liar, you know.”
Anya looked up at him.
“Exactly,” Ilya said, feeling affirmed. He rewarded her with a treat from the pouch at his waist because Anya’s trainer had stressed the importance of consistent reinforcement, and Ilya took fatherhood extremely seriously. Eye contact on walks, apparently, ranked among the top five most important behaviors to instill in dogs. Ilya had initially been a little dubious, but he had also very thoroughly checked the trainer’s credentials and trusted expertise where his daughter was concerned.
At the next crosswalk, he told Anya to sit.
“Smart girl,” he murmured warmly, crouching down to scratch behind her ear. Then, more solemnly, he said, “When we go home, you leave Dad alone, yes? No jumping, no making him throw your toy one million times. He needs rest. You only bother Papa.”
Anya tilted her head, and Ilya chose to interpret this as agreement.
Ilya returned with Anya expecting a quiet home. He knew it wouldn’t be completely silent. Anya’s nails skittered excitedly across the tile the moment he opened the front door (he needed to book an appointment with her groomer at the spa), and he heard the low, muffled hum of the washing machine in the mudroom leading to the garage. But he had expected the particular stillness of his husband asleep upstairs, napping his way through a cold he refused to acknowledge as anything more than allergies.
Instead, he heard cabinets closing in the kitchen.
Ilya stopped in the wide passage to the kitchen and crossed his arms.
Shane stood at the island, hair rumpled and sweatshirt sleeves pushed up his forearms, while he aligned the corners of a kitchen towel. Ilya cleared his throat, and Shane looked up slowly at the sound.
“You are folding towels,” Ilya observed calmly.
Shane glanced down at the towel, frowning, then looked at Ilya again. “Uh… Yeah?”
“Why?”
Shane rolled his eyes weakly. “They were clean.” Halfway through smoothing the folded towel, he stopped and wrenched to the side. “Hh-! Hh’ISHH’uh!” He had caught it in the crook of his arm, but he still washed his hands after. Then he grabbed another clean towel from the small basket on the island and resumed folding.
Ilya watched it all with a soft smile. Earlier Shane had been sharp and defensive, but sometime during his afternoon nap his cold had sunk deeper into him, blunting all that nervous energy and leaving him fogged over.
“I took Anya on a walk,” Ilya said casually while shrugging off his jacket. He laid it over the back of a barstool at the island counter. “Your back feels better?”
“Yeah. Laying down helped.”
“You nap?” Ilya eyed the red sleep wrinkle still pressed across Shane’s cheek.
“No.” Shane sniffed thickly, then cleared his throat. “Just... laid down for like ten minutes? Maybe fifteen.”
Ilya crossed the kitchen under the excuse of heading toward the refrigerator for a drink, and he let his hand slide briefly along the back of Shane’s neck as he passed, thumbing at the hair at the nape with gentle affection. Shane was warm, probably from his nap, but not fever-hot. Relieved, Ilya grabbed a can of coke from the fridge and retreated to the living room.
The rest of the afternoon passed in domestic bliss, unremarkable in the best way. It was the kind of ordinary Ilya had once assumed life could never possibly become for him. A decade ago he’d imagined spending his thirties much the same as his early twenties, drinking his way around cities and keeping warm in unfamiliar beds. Instead, it was this, tossing Anya’s toy lazily across the room whenever she dropped it into his lap while his husband disinfected already clean countertops and snuffled into tissues.
This was, truthfully, much better.
By evening, it was impossible to miss that Shane was getting worse. His entire nose had gone pink now, a flush spreading delicately over the bridge and sides of it. Congestion won steady ground, leaving his lips faintly parted with quiet breaths through his mouth. His voice roughened, too. Even his sneezes had changed, sounding tired.
“Hh’ISHhh-‘ISH’uh!”
Shane no longer seemed embarrassed about them, either. Earlier he had politely buried them into his elbow, and now he halfheartedly caught them in tissues.
What truly convinced Ilya that Shane felt awful, however, was that he didn’t hover over Ilya when he had said he would handle dinner.
Normally Shane supervised Ilya’s cooking. At his best, he tried to be helpful. At his worst, he moaned and groaned about nutritional value. He had eased up on his strict diet over time, but he still liked their meals to be reasonably balanced.
Tonight, Shane simply leaned against a wall nearby, staring off and looking miserable.
“I was thinking baked chicken,” Ilya announced. Anya’s head perked up from her food bowl, chicken apparentlyfar more enticing than her specially tailored meals Ilya paid too much for. “Roast vegetables on the side?”
Shane blinked at him. “Huh?”
“Chicken. Vegetables. Healthy things.” Ilya motioned to the ingredients he’d been steadily gathering on the counter. “For dinner.”
“Oh. Yeah?” Shane nodded, rubbing at his nose. “That sounds… really good, actually.”
What Ilya truly wanted wasn’t anything Shane would want to eat. Chicken parmesan, Chinese takeout, last night he had even thought about ordering from the new chicken wing place in town. He wanted something glutinous, a meal the team’s dietitian certainly wouldn’t have planned for them while on the road these next two weeks. But Shane looked terrible and certainly didn’t need to fret over poor dinner choices, so Ilya took pity on him.
“Go sit on the couch.” Ilya nudged lightly at Shane’s hip as he passed him, heading for the cabinet where they kept the baking sheets. “Don’t bother the chef.”
Shane narrowed his eyes faintly but definitely seemed too tired to argue. “Fine,” he surrendered.
Ilya prepared dinner while Shane suffered in the living room.
From the kitchen, Ilya periodically passed the wide passage leading to the living room. Every time Ilya chanced a look, Shane was further sunk into the couch. At first, Shane had been sitting upright, some forgettable home renovation show playing in the background. Soon after, he had curled into the corner piece. By the time Ilya had the chicken and vegetables in the oven, Shane was nearly horizontal, only his dark hair peeking over one of the cushions.
“Hh… H’ISHHh!”
A muffled groan followed several seconds later.
Ilya sat in a stool at the island and scrolled through his phone. Twice while dinner cooked, Shane disappeared upstairs.
The first time, Ilya caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up just in time to see Shane trudging slowly toward the staircase. A minute later, muffled sneezing echoed faintly down the hallway overhead. Shane returned soon after with a fresh box of tissues and the small wastebasket from their bedroom.
The second trip upstairs happened barely fifteen minutes later. Ilya hadn’t seen Shane leave, but he heard Shane climbing the stairs and stopping halfway up while he coughed.
Ilya frowned down at the vegetables he was turning over on the baking sheet. He wondered how much more miserable Shane needed to be before he would admit to his cold outright.
It was a double-edged sword, really. Shane’s stubbornness over this cold irritated Ilya, but it also reassured him. If Shane felt truly awful, he would eventually stop pretending otherwise. Shane still trying to salvage dignity meant he probably felt well enough to push through.
When dinner finished, Ilya worked on piling two plates and called Shane’s name.
He didn’t answer.
Ilya expected to find Shane asleep on the couch but instead found him curled under a blanket with the tissue box on his lap, awake but thoroughly wilted.
He looked awfully exhausted, staring off with his gaze unfocused. His eyes were dull with fatigue and were watering. And congestion had settled heavily across his face now, the space around his sinuses appearing almost puffy.
His nose, especially, looked worked into the ground. His nostrils were rubbed raw and swollen, the kind of angry red one might expect to see played up with makeup in a commercial for cold medicine. His nose looked sore enough that sympathetic pain prickled over Ilya’s skin just looking at it.
Ilya had the overwhelming urge to gather Shane up in his arms and carry him straight upstairs. Change him into warm pajamas and put him to bed properly, press kisses into his hair until he fell asleep.
Instead, Ilya crouched in front of Shane and put a hand on his shoulder. “Shane.”
Shane blinked at him, sleepy and embarrassed.
“You look so sick.”
A miserable groan escaped Shane instantly. He dragged both hands over his face and left his palms pressed against his cheeks. “I know, I know,” he rasped. “I thought it was nothing.”
“No, you thought it was allergies,” Ilya taunted, and Shane closed his eyes briefly in shame. Ilya pressed the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead and found it warm, maybe, but still not feverish. He asked softly, “How bad do you feel?”
“Not that bad.” Shane sighed softly and leaned into Ilya’s touch. “No fever.”
Ilya raised a brow, encouraging him to continue.
“I, uh… checked already.” Shane hesitated just long enough to sniffle. “While you were making dinner.”
“Ah, sneaky.” Ilya brushed a thumb softly under Shane’s eye. “I thought you didn’t want me to hear you sneeze your brains out.”
Shane huffed a weak laugh and ducked his head shyly. “No, I’m sure you… heard that anyway.”
Rather than confirm, Ilya pressed a chaste kiss to Shane’s forehead and stood. “You should eat. I will bring it here.”
Shane nodded once and murmured a tired, “Okay.”
Shane wasn’t normally one to eat full meals on the couch, nothing beyond a light snack, and the simple compliance stirred concern inside Ilya’s chest. He supposed he was glad, however, that Shane was up to eating at all.
Shane leaned fully into his cold now that he acknowledged it. He ate in small and distracted bites between sniffles and coughs, rough little things he muffled dutifully into crumpled tissues. Once, with the fork halfway to his mouth, his breath hitched warningly. He dropped the fork and fumbled for a tissue.
“Heh’ISHHh’iew! Fu-uuh’ISHH’uh!”
“Wow.” Ilya rubbed a firm hand over Shane’s back. “Your allergies are really terrible.”
Shane shot him a bleary glare over the tissue held to his nose. “Shut up.” His voice came out wrecked, cracking at the end.
“You want some more allergy tea? I think we have so many ingredients outside.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but the irritation behind them had dissolved completely now that he no longer had to defend himself. He was embarrassed, maybe, but definitely relieved. He looked tired and soft and willing (open, vulnerable, loved).
Ilya took the blanket from his own lap and wrapped it around Shane’s shoulders, cocooning him further in warmth. Shane accepted this without protest, even offering Ilya a shy little smile. When Ilya scooted closer, so that their thighs pressed together, Shane didn’t move away.
Shane might have asked Ilya to keep his distance, when he was younger and struggled to give into simple pleasures in the face of more responsible choices. Tonight, Shane merely sniffled and leaned subtly closer. A year of safety, held in Ilya’s arms with the world watching and coming out better for it, had made it easier for him to give in and claim what he wanted.
By the time Ilya finished his plate, Shane had managed a little over half of his own. It wasn’t ideal, with their busy week ahead, but it was enough, especially given that Shane was fully leaned into Ilya’s side now and flagging hard.
“You are done?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane nodded, drifting somewhere closer to sleep.
Ilya carefully helped Shane back against the couch, tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He gathered their dishes and carried them to the kitchen, listening to muffled television punctuated by the occasional cough while he rinsed the plates. He started the dishwasher before he returned to the living room and dimmed the lights low, then sat on the couch, opening one arm invitingly toward Shane.
Shane looked at Ilya for approximately two seconds before practically crawling into his lap.
He wasn’t particularly graceful about it, either. It was a desperate grapple, frantic in his reach as his fingers curled at the front of Ilya’s shirt. Shane buried his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck and shuddered out a sigh that signaled a homecoming.
Ilya had been waiting for this, watching Shane white-knuckle his way through the day. Gathering Shane closer, Ilya shifted to bear the brunt of Shane’s surrender.
“Good,” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair. “Much better.”
Shane only coughed softly in reply.
For a long while, they stayed like this. Ilya scratched his fingertips gently over the hair at Shane’s nape. Shane tucked his head lower, giving Ilya more access.
“Huhh-! Heh’INGSH’ieh!”
The sneeze burst suddenly, directed at a bunch of blanket clutched in Shane’s fist that rested on Ilya’s chest. He groaned into the blanket after, muffled and miserable.
“Bless you,” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair. “You are allergic to me, I think.”
Shane’s fingers halfheartedly pressed into his ribs.
Ilya smiled and kissed the crown of Shane’s head. “Practice tomorrow is optional. You should stay home.”
Shane stiffened, and Ilya soothed him with a pass of his fingers through Shane’s hair.
“I’m probably okay,” Shane murmured after a beat, though even he sounded unconvinced.
“Mmh.” Ilya continued stroking gently through his hair. “We have a road trip soon. Better you rest now.”
Shane’s shoulders rounded just slightly, a subtle tensing Ilya had learned meant Shane was preparing to shoot back yet was bracing for a retaliation to follow. He was two steps ahead in everything he did, on and off the ice.
“Hih’ISHHh’uh! -ISHH’uh!”
Except when his cold sent him five steps back.
Ilya waited, and Shane eventually sighed against his chest. Embarrassment hung heavy in his voice when he croaked, “Yeah, maybe…”
Ilya brushed his lips, perched in a soft smirk, over Shane’s hair in slow passes back and forth, a sort of drawn out kiss disguised nuzzle. He breathed Shane’s scent as he took stock of the home around him. Anya slept curled nearby on the rug, paws twitching faintly in dreams. The dishwasher hummed distantly in the kitchen. Shane’s breathing warmed steadily through the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, growing slower and softer yet a tad noisier the closer Shane drifted toward sleep.
Married life, Ilya thought, had so many lessons.
Today, it had reminded him how love settled into ordinary places—into grocery lists and lap blankets, and eating dinner on the couch. Into open arms, and letting your husband crawl into them without needing words.
Maybe years from now marriage would teach him other things, too. It would teach him how Shane’s hair would silver at the temples first, how his laugh lines would be earned, which insecurities would soften over time and which would stubbornly survive.
Maybe it would teach him that head colds wouldn’t always be eased into with the excuse of allergies. One day Shane might wake up with a catch in his throat and climb into Ilya’s arms unabashed before even getting out of bed.
It would teach him every version of Shane through time. In turn, it would offer Shane the same.
That thought frightened him a little. He would reach an age he never imagined for himself, with a person he loved there to witness it. It was a terrifying thought, loving someone long enough to have decades of him remembered. The proud moments, and the lowest.
That, he realized, was marriage’s greatest lesson.
It was learning, over and over again, how Shane would show Ilya that he wanted to see it all, and that he trusted Ilya to watch him grow and change, too. It was spending thousands of ordinary days learning each other by heart, only to find there was always something new to love. It was coming to understand he would never really reach the end of knowing Shane, and being grateful that there would always be more to learn.
And if that was what Ilya would remember his life as, decades of learning Shane, then he could think of no greater life spent.
“Wh — what is happening?” Ben’s voice is laden with grogginess.
How can Arlo explain that he’d woken up thirty minutes ago with the driest throat he’s ever had, so he’d gotten up and brought a cup of water to drink in bed. Then proceeded to have a violent sneezing fit that resulted in him dropping said cup of water onto Ben’s head?
The answer is that he can’t. Because he simply can not stop sneezing.
“Itshhh’uuh! Hh uh HUHTshoo!”
“‘M fucking… I’m fucking wet. What the hell happened?”
Ben’s voice is gradually beginning to sound more coherent, which is great, because maybe he can figure things out himself soon; there’s already another buzzing sensation traveling through Arlo’s sinuses.
Tilting his head back, he’s stuck in what seems to be a perpetual inhalation. His chest heaves and heaves until finally he jerks forward.
“EHH’Idtzshoooo!”
There’s shuffling and the sounds of sheets being moved. But Arlo can’t focus on what’s happening around him because he’s too busy drawing in another deep breath.
“HhhhhhhHHHHHH!”
Tears trickle down his cheeks as his chest expands and his shoulders tense.
“HHH ick’shooo! Ickshooo! IHHghhshoo!”
Those last three shifted something inside his head. Congestion loosened, he suddenly has a new, messier problem to deal with.
He reaches for the tissue box on the bedside table, but it falls off the edge of table right as —
“HHTgshhhhuh! Ehtshhhhoo!”
A light comes on, which Arlo would have been thankful for moments ago, but now he wishes he weren’t seeing the damp spray on his pajama pants.
Suddenly there’s a horrible yelp from across the room.
“Well, if you don’t want to get stepped on, then don’t walk underneath my feet, Jesus Christ! Fuck!” Ben yells.
“Ben, don’t yell at her. She — HUHH! Huh’ngt! Huhhngt’shoo! Het’tshh! Hehtsssh! Tshhh! Tshooo! HHH — Hand them to me, please,” Arlo says, his voice quavering with the urge to keep sneezing. Ben’s standing in front of him, holding a box of tissues.
“Here,” Ben says, tossing the box of tissues.
He blows slowly, at first. Experimentally. Everything seems fine. He just needs to be careful so that he doesn’t trigger another —
“I know. Sorry for waking you up,” Arlo mumbles before taking in another huge breath. “AHHihhtshooo!”
“Didn’t say that to get you to apologize. Just making an observation. What time is it?” Ben asks.
“Hhhhhhhh! Oh my god, still?” Arlo asks, staring at the ceiling, more tears trailing down his cheeks. “Hddtshoooo!”
There’s more moving around before Ben says, “2 am? Holy shit.”
“Sorry,” Arlo says again, grabbing more tissues.
“No sorrys. I’m just… disoriented.” Ben reaches out his hands for Arlo to take. After noticing Arlo’s expression, though, he rolls his eyes and smiles. “Get off the bed, silly. It’s wet for some reason.”
“I dumped water on it,” Arlo says, taking Ben’s hands, wincing as he tries to not think how many germs he’s passing on. He knows Ben can’t catch this cold, but the thought is repulsive, nevertheless.
“... Why would you do that?”
“Why would I do what?” Arlo jerks away from Ben to aim a sharp, “hHTSHHoo!” at the ground.
“Why would you dump water on me? Oh my god, come here. Let’s go sit in the living room for a minute.” An arm wraps around Arlo’s waist, and part of him wants to lean into Ben, but there’s another prickle sparking inside his nose, so he snaps forward into his elbow, not even having time to regret the pain it causes.
“Whoa, okay, let’s get you sitting or you’re going to get dizzy.”
Arlo does get dizzy, but thankfully he’s already at the couch when it starts. He practically collapses onto it.
“HhhhHHHH! Hhh! HHH!”
“Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.” Ben’s now next to Arlo on the couch, lightly rubbing his thigh.
“Wh — hh? What?” So much liquid is trying to escape his nostrils. He feels like a rabbit as he takes five quick sniffs in effort to keep it all from spilling out.
“Your tongue. To the roof of your mouth.”
As Arlo follows the command, Ben suddenly pinches the bridge of Arlo’s nose.
The urge to sneeze flares full force. He feels the pressure build behind his cheekbones and in the center of his forehead.
“Shit!” Ben’s exclamation is hardly noticeable. All of Arlo’s focus is fully on alleviating the burning sensation in his nose.
Although he’s not been awake for long at all, his joints have already made it clear that today is not going to be a good day. Regardless, he reaches to rub vigorously at his nose, but winces, letting his hand fall almost immediately.
“Hey, don’t mind me, just gonna help out super quick.” Before Arlo can question what this means, Ben is pressing a tissue against his nose.
And because there was never going to be another outcome to this situation, Arlo sneezes.
“NGT’sh! HEHNgx’tshh! HEHNGT! Eshhhooo! EHHshooo! Emkpt’shh! Beh-hh-en! Ben,” Arlo moans from behind the now extremely soaked tissue.
“No worries, it’s all good. Everything’s fine. Just need more tissues,” Ben says, removing the current one.
Arlo reaches his hand out to stop his boyfriend from pressing more tissues against his pouring nose. The problem, though, is how stiff his fingers are.
“Hey, hey, hey. Let me help you.” Ben’s voice is soft. Soothing. “I know how fucked up your hands are in the mornings, okay? And your nose, uh, seems to be a pretty pressing issue. And, I absolutely hate to say this — I really do. But, you’ve kind of already sneezed all over me. So the damage is done.”
Before Arlo can say anything, Ben’s already grabbing the tissues and reaching them up to Arlo’s face. There’s a short moment where Ben hesitates, but after Arlo says nothing, he swiftly runs the tissues over Arlo’s nostrils. He also wipes away the liquid that had come close to dripping onto Arlo’s lips.
“See? No biggie. Now — oh, okay, you’re gonna sneeze again.”
“Mkptkshh! Eshhhooo! GNt’shhhh!”
This time, when the tissue comes, instinct takes over and Arlo blows. It’s a raw need that overrides any embarrassment. After the first tissue, a second comes. Then a third. Then an entire clump.
When he’s finished, the buzzing in his nose has finally abated. He relaxes against the couch, closing his eyes. His abdomen aches as though he’s just completed a workout and his head is splitting.
“Come here,” Bens says, softly.
“Why did you tell me to put my tongue against the roof of my mouth?” Arlo asks, his eyes half-shut as he nestles into Ben’s hold, resting his head on his shoulder.
Ben’s chuckle is warm and soft. “I was Googling ways to stop a sneezing fit. That’s what it said to do. To press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, then pinch the bridge of your nose.”
“It didn’t work,” Arlo mumbles.
Laughing again, Ben says, “No. It absolutely did not. I should’ve known. I think I’ve tried that a time or two, myself. Seems like when the body really wants to sneeze, it’s just gonna sneeze.”
“That was all, um, really, really gross. I’m so sorry.”
“Mm, yes, it was so gross and repulsive, which is why I’m holding you right now and kissing your curls.” He plants an especially hard kiss to Arlo’s head as if to demonstrate.
“Sorry about the water.”
“Did you spill it on purpose?” Ben asks.
“No. I was just tired… and couldn’t stop sneezing. But still. It’s not fair that you’re losing sleep, too.”
“It’s not fair that either of us have to lose sleep. But you’re sick and these things happen. It’s a normal part of life.”
“Dropping a glass of water onto one’s sleeping boyfriend is a normal part of life?”
Ben breathes out a laugh. “It appears it’s a normal part of your life. And your life is basically my life, which means it’s a normal part of our lives. Which is honestly all I’m concerned with.”
“But then you're disregarding the definition of ‘normal,” Arlo mumbles, frowning against Ben’s shoulder.
“Yeah, you know what? I am. Fuck that word, honestly. We can make our own normal.”
“So you want me to wake you up every morning by spilling water or —”
“Okay, well, no. Let’s refrain from doing that again. For a little while at least.”
“Okay, I’ll try.” The words come out as a sleepy mumble.
“Strech out. I’ll go get some pillows and we can just crash here for the next few hours,” Ben says.
So that’s what they do.
* * *
It’s Ben’s alarm that wakes him up first. Then his own. Then, Ben’s second alarm. Then Ben’s third alarm. By the time Ben’s fourth alarm sounds, Arlo must resign himself to the fact that dozing time is over and he needs to actually get up, and probably wake up Ben while he’s at it.
After several minutes of hoarsely whispering for Ben to untangle himself from Arlo’s body, the two are both finally awake. Ben, though, is hunched forward rubbing his palms against his eyes.
“I want to die,” Ben proclaims before letting out a dry cough, which is hopefully the last remnant of his cold.
“I’m sorry I kept you up,” Arlo mutters, rubbing a hand over his throat in an attempt to soothe the soreness there.
“If you’re sorry, stay home with me today.”
Frowning, Arlo shakes his head. “We… we can’t. We both have to work.”
“Fuck work.” Ben wraps an arm around Arlo, pulling him into an embrace.
“We can’t, Ben.”
“We can. We’re sick.”
A small smile curves at the corner of Arlo’s mouth. “You’re being purposefully obtuse.”
“Nope, can’t be true,” Ben says, now resting his head against Arlo’s shoulder. How effortless it would be right now to let his own eyes close and sink into this comfort.
“Why can’t it be true?” Arlo asks, sniffling slightly.
“I’m not a triangle.”
When the meaning hits, Arlo’s eyes roll in that profoundly dramatic way they often do when speaking to his boyfriend.
“I know you know ‘obtuse’ has multiple meanings. You’re just being….” Arlo lets the sentence hang in the air as his eyes narrow.
“Being purposefully obtuse?” Ben offers, flashing a smile.
“HHt’sshhhoo!”
The sneeze is small, but so unexpected and completely wet. That’s… unusual. No warning at all is not normal and definitely not ideal.
“Sorry for, um, not covering. I — I didn’t know it was coming.”
“And this is why we need to stay home,” Ben says, giving Arlo’s back a gentle rub. Arlo partly feels bad for ruining the morning cuddle by jerking away with the sneeze, but also, they both really do need to get ready for work.
“Hmpt’sshh!”
This one sprays against the back of the hand that barely made it up in time. He imagines standing in front of his students all day sneezing like mad, unable to stifle or even cover. The wince he feels taking over his features can’t be stopped.
“Are you okay? How’s your throat?” Ben asks, his voice unmistakably concerned. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“No… I was just thinking about…” He pauses to sigh, letting his head fall back against the couch. “I don’t think I can work.”
“That’s what I was saying,” Ben says, the concern replaced by something that sounds like excitement. “You’re sick. I’m still a little sick.” He stops to punctuate his sentence with another dry cough. “Let’s stay home and sleep.”
His brows knitting together, Arlo asks, “You never miss work. You hate missing work.”
“Normally I have more than three hours of sleep.”
“I’ve seen you go to work in far worse shape.”
“Maybe I want to take care of you,” Ben says, his voice soft, a hint of vulnerability there. “I don’t like when you’re not feeling well. I know you’re a grown man and I know you can take care of yourself. Even when you’re having a bad RA day. And, I know you’re going to say that all you’ll be doing is spending the day in bed anyway and that there’s nothing I can do to help. But… there was yesterday and…” His voice trails off, gaze fixed on this floor.
Arlo focuses his own gaze on his bare feet. “I don’t see what yesterday has to do with anything.”
“Yesterday,” Ben begins, then hesitating in that kind of way people do around delicate subjects. And Arlo hates that something so stupid and meaningless has become a delicate subject.
“It just reminded me that I worry about you. That’s all,” Ben finally finishes.
“I know you do.” Arlo rubs Ben’s thigh in a way he hopes is soothing. “But what happened yesterday… um, won’t happen again. Obviously. So, there’s not really anything to — hHtshh! HHtshhoo!” After two quick liquidy sniffs, Arlo continues. “There’s nothing to worry about, I mean.”
Ben stares at Arlo for a long moment before he lets out a breath. “Yeah, sure, I’ll agree that the, um… confrontation that happened yesterday isn’t likely to happen again, but still, you’re sick and, yeah okay, it’s a cold. But sometimes colds get worse. I mean, it can turn into bronchitis or pneumonia, or even something as simple as an ear infection. But, if you don’t treat an ear infection, Arlo, you can end up with hearing loss. Permanent hearing loss. And life’s already hard enough without having that challenge added to it, you know?”
For a moment, all Arlo can do is blink before he chews on his lip, trying to keep the creeping smile at bay. “Let me clarify. You want to stay home with me so you can protect me from permanent hearing loss? From an ear infection I don’t have, I want to add. And what exactly, may I ask, is your plan?”
Ben huffs out a breath in such a way that images of dragon smoke pop into Arlo’s head, which only makes the smile harder to hide.
“Force you to stay in bed so you don’t work on that paper I know you’re planning to work on.”
Stomach sinking, Arlo groans. “I forgot about the paper.”
“Ask for an extension.”
Squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden, unprompted memory of Jeremy’s smiling face, Arlo shakes his head. “No… No, I need to work on it. Keeping busy is good.” He stops at Ben’s expression. “I mean, it’s better to do something productive than just lying in bed all day.”
“Lying in bed all day is productive, silly. At least, when you’re recovering from an illness, it is.”
Since articulating the actual reason for why he wants to keep busy isn’t an option, he instead smiles a tight smile, before reaching for his phone. “I’m going to call in.”
Ben nods, then begins extricating himself from the tangle of blankets he’d wound up in.
Dialing his boss's number and then having to continue holding up the phone is not a fun activity when he’s in the middle of an RA flareup, but he manages.
“Hi, Mr. Simpson,” Arlo croaks when the school’s principal finally answers. “I’m, uh, calling because I’m still not feeling well. I know it’s not a good time, but I really don’t think I can make it in today.”
There’s a long pause then a long sigh. Then another long pause. Arlo can practically see his boss running a frantic hand through his hair.
“How sick do you feel?”
“Uh… Pretty sick?” He feels himself blush. The conversation was not supposed to go like this.
“Do you have a fever?”
“A… a slight one, maybe? I honestly haven’t taken my temperature. But I — HHt’shhoo! HEHNgt’shh! HEH’SHoo!”
“Bless you. I’m sorry to have to ask. You’re obviously not well, but… We have somewhat of a situation going on.”
“What kind?”
“You know about the PD conference half the staff is at today, right?”
Arlo dabs at his nose with a tissue as he thinks, remembering Felix mentioning something about it. “I do,” he says. “I went to it last year.” This is a detail that is completely unnecessary to share, but phone calls discombobulate Arlo at the best of times, and these are certainly not the best of times.
“Yes, that’s good. You never have a problem getting in your PD hours. But, my point is that half the upper grades staff is out because of this PD. That wouldn’t be an issue, except — Well, several of the subs – all but one, actually – have called out. Two are sick. Another had a family emergency. So, that leaves one substitute teacher and, you know, with this kind of staff shortage, we usually combine classes and have the students work on homework or watch a movie, or something. But for one substitute to handle that….”
Arlo sneezes wetly against his wrist as his murky brain connects the dots. “That does sound like it has potential for calamity, yes.”
There’s a light, nervous laugh on the other end of the phone line. “Yes. Calamity is a good word for it. So you understand. I wouldn’t ask, normally. I mean, if you’re sick, you’re sick. But, we really are in a kind of ‘survive the day situation,’ if you know what I mean. I can try to get some emergency subs, but… well, you know how that goes. And even then, I don’t want to subject a substitute to the behavior issues that will certainly arise from this kind of arrangement. I would like someone experienced there, is what I’m saying.”
“HH’tshhh! Hhh hhhngnt’shhff! Sorry, uhmb, cad you give mbe a second?” Muting the phone, Arlo blows his nose, trying to ignore the aching in his wrists as well as the embarrassment and dread settling within him. “Excuse me, sorry about that. I understand what you’re saying. And, yes, I see the issue. I…um, I guess, I can come in.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Simpson says, his relief palpable even over the phone. “Again, I want to reiterate. Today is about survival. I shouldn’t say this, probably, but I think it’s obvious that there’s no expectation for any actual meaningful learning today.” There’s another nervous laugh. “I mean, it’d be great, of course, if the kids learn something. But, if all you can do is hand out worksheets, or play a movie, I, well, I won’t object to that, is what I’m saying.”
“I understand,” Arlo manages to say, as all his hopes for spending the day taking it easy are vanished.
* * *
Arlo began the day craving distraction, and distraction is what he got, so he supposes he has no right to complain. However, when Felix calls him from his conference, curious about how the school day went, he can’t exactly not complain.
“I’m not feeling my best, and this may have been the worst day at work I’ve ever had,” he says, his voice weak and cracking after he spent the day projecting it almost constantly.
“Not feeling your best? Is that an understatement? Because your voice is, like, frighteningly bad,” Felix says.
“I guess I’m feeling pretty rough.”
“You sound like Palpatine.”
“I hate Star Wars,” Arlo mutters before turning to cough into his shoulder.
“That’s something we will discuss later when you sound a little bit less like you’re dying. It's after four, so you can go home right? You should do that.”
“Yeah, just waiting until I can drive,” Arlo mumbles, closing his eyes against the bright, fluorescent classroom lights.
“You can’t drive?”
“I don’t think it’d be safe. Can’t really see well.” Arlo winces, instinctively rubbing at the center of his forehead, then wincing again at the pain it causes his knuckles.
“Elaborate maybe?” Felix says, a dubious note to his voice.
“Headache. Or, I don’t know, I’d guess it’d technically classify as a migraine, since there’s an aura.” He sighs. “The lights… all the loud noises from the students. On top of being sick. I guess all of it together triggered one.”
“Oh that is not a fun time. Have you taken anything?”
“Yes. Waiting for it to kick in. But, it’s been a while. And, no progress. May just lay my head down on this desk and fall asleep.” He laughs to show he’s joking, but the prospect is not as unappealing as it should be. Maybe he can rest for twenty minutes? Then he may be in a suitable condition to drive.
“Can you call someone to pick you up? You should really get home.”
“I thought about it, but there really isn’t anyone who I wouldn’t be posing a major imposition upon.” Addy was a possibility, but when he’d texted her earlier, she’d been starting her evening shift at the hair salon. “I’ll be fine.”
“Arlo you are literally incapable of getting yourself home. You are not fine. I assume Ben’s working?”
“He is.” Staring at the bookshelf at the back of the room, Arlo’s forced to come to the realization that not only is the migraine not getting better — it’s getting worse. Half of the bookshelf has been taken over by a cloud of gray. He closes his eyes and when they open, more of the bookshelf is obscured.
“You sound miserable. Oh my god, Arlo, you can’t die. You are one of the only coworkers I get along with.”
“Dorothy’s all right,” Arlo mumbles, finally giving into the urge to put Felix on speaker so he can rest his head on the desk.
“Dorothy’s over seventy years old and batshit crazy,” Felix says, sounding incredulous.
The smallest of smiles manages to form on Arlo’s lips. “Sure, but you like her.”
“I do,” Felix says, fondly. “Never a dull day when Dorothy’s around.” There’s a pause as though Felix is finally remembering the point of this call had nothing to do with their school’s
Calculus teacher. “This still does not mean you can die. I will call Ben and make him — oh. Oh, wait. I have an idea!”
* * *
“Do you want me to stop anywhere and get you something? Tea, maybe? For your throat? Or soup? You should probably eat.”
The voice should probably be soothing to Arlo. It’s deep and warm and all the other good adjectives people usually use to describe nice voices. But between the pounding in his skull and the part of him that associates masculine voices with something akin to fear… it’s anything but soothing.
“I don’t think I can eat.” It’s now to the point that Arlo’s own voice is exacerbating his migraine. Nausea swirls through him and he squeezes his eyes shut as he takes careful, controlled breaths.
“My bad, sorry,” Connor says, lowering his voice. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a migraine. Eating is probably the last thing you’re thinking of.”
Arlo acknowledges the comment with a small grunt.
“You do need to stay hydrated, though. You’ll only be in worse pain, otherwise. Once we get you home, I’ll make sure you have plenty of water. Unless you want me to stop and get tea? Like I said, it’ll feel nice on your throat. May as well try to alleviate one aspect of your misery, right?”
When Felix had suggested Connor pick him up, Arlo had been adamant that it was completely unnecessary and that he’d rather sleep in his classroom than be subjected to that level of embarrassment. Then he’d thrown up into the classroom trash can — still on speakerphone — and wanted nothing more than to be home in bed. So when Felix insisted again, after expressing understandable disgust at the noises Arlo emitted, he couldn’t decline. He couldn’t do much except groan and wallow in self-pity, actually.
Not only was there the ever increasing severity of his migraine, but his cold was putting up an absurdly valiant fight. His throat was beyond sore and, after spending an entire day sneezing with no warning, his nose had decided to switch things up. There was a constant, insistent buzzing that would never culminate in any actual release. So Arlo was forced to sometimes spend a single minute, breath hitching endlessly, until finally he was left with tears running down his face without a sneeze ever surfacing. And of course, there was his RA, which had taken root in his wrists, elbows, and knuckles. So even if he hadn’t been suffering from the migraine, it’d still be challenging to drive.
But even with these reasons, he’s extremely close to regretting the decision. He couldn’t possibly be more of a nuisance if he tried.
“If you’re —” Arlo has to stop to clear his throat and can’t hold back a wince as he does so. “If you’re going to stop somewhere anyway, then, a tea would be good, yes. But, um, only if you’re getting yourself something.”
“I could go for some coffee, honestly,” Connor says, his voice still low. It’s only hurting Arlo’s head a little now. “I’ve spent the day writing, and my brain’s a bit on the foggy side, so caffeine sounds perfect. We’ll stop at the Starbucks up ahead.”
“Plain tea, please. Nothing with, um — it needs to be —” Arlo trails off, completely unable to articulate his thoughts. “Nothing from an animal, I mean,” he finally manages, then mentally reprimands himself for being unable to think of the word ‘vegan.’
“No dairy, got it,” Connor says.
“Or honey.”
“All right. Dairy free and honey free. No problem.”
The two fall into a comfortable silence for the rest of the car ride, except when Connor places the order and hands the tea over. If there’s one positive to being in a state of complete, abject misery, it’s that there’s no expectation for Arlo to feign the ability to hold a conversation like a regular human.
He finds himself falling into a bit of a doze, so it's slightly jarring when Connor states, “We’re here.”
Blinking open his eyes, Arlo has the stomach sinking realization that his vision is still completely obscured by giant gray splotches. So, he closes them again.
“Have you taken anything?” Connor asks, his voice practically a whisper.
Arlo manages a humming sound that he hopes conveys his affirmation.
“You’re not going to be sick are you? You’re white as a sheet.”
Another hum. This time, Arlo doesn’t even know what he means by it.
“Okay…. So, here’s the plan. We’ll get you inside. Maybe you can try to sip some of the tea? Or a little water. I’ll make sure all the lights are off, all the blinds are down, etcetera. Sound good?”
Arlo’s silent for a while as he tries to make sense of Connor’s words. When it clicks, he knows he must grow even paler than before. “Nope. No. No. You don’t — you don’t need to come in.”
There’s a beat of silence. “I understand that you don’t want me to come in, and I can understand why expressing vulnerability in front of someone you don’t know all too well is… less than desirable. But, we should be reasonable about this. You can’t even open your eyes. How are you going to get to bed?”
Another wave of nausea takes hold of Arlo. He manages to jerk open the car door before proceeding to be violently sick.
This quite possibly may be the worst day of Arlo’s life. It’s certainly the most humiliating.
The worst part isn’t the now searing pain in his throat, or that his nose is streaming uncontrollably, or that he can’t stop coughing. Or even that Connor witnessed the entire thing and is now trying patting him on the back and guiding him to a standing position. No, it’s that Arlo is in such a pitiful state, that he has no choice but to accept the assistance. With the sun shining brightly, causing glares to bounce off each car in sight, keeping his eyes open is simply not an option. So he lets Connor guide him around the puddle of vomit and onto the front porch.
He continues to cough while his nose still buzzes with stuck sneezes. He digs out his housekey from his pocket with a shaking, aching hand. Connor wordlessly takes it and opens the door far more quickly than Arlo could.
Cracking his eyes open, he spots the couch, and makes to hurry over to it, but stumbles and knocks his knee against the coffee table instead.
“Easy,” Connor says, voice gentle. “Go slowly, you’re almost there.”
After this experience, there better never be another instance of Arlo breaking out in hives during a social situation because he has surely reached the pinnacle of embarrassment. This has to count as exposure therapy.
With Connor’s hand on his back as a guide, he does manage to make it to the couch. He’s immediately horizontal, burying his head into one of the bed pillows left there from last night.
His nose is running so much, though, that he is rendered incapable of becoming comfortable.
A particularly sharp tickle flares in Arlo’s sinuses, and his breath hitches and —
Nothing.
“Here’s some tissues,” Connor says, handing over a box that Arlo has no choice but to accept.
Aching fingers grip the tissues over his nose as he releases an obscene amount of mucus.
“Okay, so,” Connor begins, sounding hesitant. “I texted Ben and he has to work late.”
That statement should not cause his eyes to prickle with tears, yet here he is, blinking them back.
“I don’t feel great about leaving you alone, is the thing. I know you’ll probably be fine, but it’s hard not to feel like a dick, you know? If I just left you here, I mean. You’re obviously not in a good state, and all my work obligations are finished, and with Felix away — well, there’s no reason for me not to stay. So, I’ll just hang around for a few hours until Ben gets here.”
An objection begins to bubble to the surface, but unfortunately, so does another bout of nausea so he grits his teeth and stays silent as Connor shuffles around the room.
Arlo’s not sure how much time goes by — maybe ten minutes? Twenty? — when he finally opens his eyes. It seems the pain medication may be finally kicking in. Or it may simply be that he’s finally somewhere quiet and dark. Connor, true to his word, made sure all the blinds were down and curtains pulled. The only sound he hears is the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. As he has the thought, he hears another noise, something he can’t quite identify. Then he hears it again.
“Ht’chh!”
A sneeze?
“Ht’chiew! Hh hh’chh! Ht’chiew! HHtchiew!”
Definitely sneezes. He can hear Connor moving around the kitchen, but it’s obvious he’s trying to be as quiet, his steps soft and controlled. The sneezes, though….
“HHTCHIEW! HEH! HETCHIEW!”
They’re only getting louder.
Thankfully Connor doesn’t sneeze in that obtrusive way a lot of men do. They’re far from scream-sneezes. The last couple did sound forceful, though. Hopefully whatever is bothering Connor’s nose gives him a break soon because the only way Arlo can survive this evening without combusting from embarrassment is to pretend Connor’s not here in his house — a hard feat to manage when the man’s letting out sneeze after sneeze.
“HEH’CHIEW!”
And it goes on like that for a while. Arlo’s own nose teases him again as though encouraged by the sound of someone else letting loose their sneezes. But his sinuses remain stubborn, refusing to grant him relief.
“You’re awake. That’s good,” Connor says, making his way into the living room. “Do you - hh - have any….” He stops, closing his eyes, holding a finger in the air in the universal sign for “wait a minute.” Then he reaches into his pockets, pulling out a tissue that he wraps carefully around his nose. “Hmp’shh! Hmp’shh! Hehchiew! HEhchiew! Etchiew!”
“You look worse than I feel,” Arlo says before being able to stop himself. Connor’s grip remains tight around the tissues, ensuring no spray escapes, but his eyes are swollen and leaking uncontrollably.
“I forgot you had a cat,” Connor admits from behind the tissues. “That’s what I came to ask about. Do you keep - hh - do you keep any antihistamines?”
Oh.
There’s been a time or two where Ben or Arlo’s fur-covered clothes have been enough to set off Connor’s cat allergy. Since realizing, the two always make sure to lint roll the fur off as much as possible when they know they’ll be meeting Connor. Aside from that, it’s not something Arlo’s ever needed to think much about, so he’d forgotten.
It’s, however, now at the forefront of his mind.
“HEH’chiew! It’s not - ht’chh! - it’s not gonna stop until I take s-hh-somethihh -hitchhiew!”
Somehow even in the middle of a brutal sneezing fit, Connor manages to maintain a certain composure; every single sneeze makes it into the tissues.
“You don’t have to stay here and poison yourself. Just go home,” Arlo says. But the last words catch in his throat and he’s left coughing desperately into his elbow. When he’s able to breathe again, the stars in his vision force him to close his eyes again.
“I’m not leaving a sick friend to suffer alone when he can barely move. I’m not an asshole.”
Arlo’s cheeks flush for a different reason. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, fixing his gaze on the hardwood floor.
“What?” Connor asks.
“Say… that. That I’m, you know.” The blush intensifies and Arlo’s one step away from burying his face beneath the blanket. “A friend. I’m barely even Felix’s friend. It’s just — you don’t have to do that.”
Connor looks like he wants to say something, but he’s occupied with another set of sneezes that he deftly catches into the tissues. “HT’shh! T’chiew! HHtchiew! Holy shit, I forgot how bad this can be,” he says, as if to himself. “Anyway, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You don’t feel like Felix is your friend?”
This conversation is making him feel like he’s five years old. “He’s a work friend.”
With the aura clouding his vision finally fading, he can see Connor’s brows raise. “I think he’d be disappointed to hear that.”
“What? He wouldn’t.” The words replay through Arlo’s mind and his eyes widen. “I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just that’s — that’s how it is, I think. I don’t really make friends.”
“Arlo, please look me in the eyes as I say this,” Connor says, sternly.
Not realizing he’d even been looking away, he forces himself to meet Connor’s gaze.
“Felix one hundred percent views you as his friend. He has never referred to you as an ‘acquaintance’ or even a colleague. You’re just Arlo. Or, on occasion, ‘the best thing that’s ever happened to Ben.’ So, I promise, there is no reason to be dubious about calling Felix a friend. Or, myself, for that matter,” he adds, rubbing a knuckle against his nose. “I’ve told you before that I want to get to know you better. You’re very, uh, what’s a good word for it? Calm. You’re very calm compared to everyone else Felix spends time with, which is something I appreciate.”
“Oh,” Arlo says after a moment. “Uh, thank you.”
As inadequate of a response it is, it’s surprising when Connor actually laughs. “Succinct. I also appreciate that about you.” He pauses, breath hitching again. “I’d appreciate you even more if you could tell me whether or not there’s any antihistamines in this house.” That last part comes out rushed and it only takes a second to realize the reason.
Connor’s tissues are back and he continues letting out sneeze after sneeze into them. After about the ninth one, it occurs to Arlo that he should probably mention that there are antihistamines in the house.
He sits up with every intention to stand, but the world starts spinning before he makes it up. So he squeezes his eyes shut for the thousandth time today.
“You okay?” Connor asks in what is probably only a brief respite of sneezing.
“Dizzy,” Arlo mutters, then leans forward, with his head between his knees.
“Do you need a garbage can?”
Shaking his head, Arlo mumbles a “no,” then immediately regrets moving his head at all. “Uh, maybe?” he adds. “Oh, and there’s something in the bathroom cabinet. The medicine cabinet. For your allergies, I mean.”
Connor hums, then disappears out of the room. Deciding there’s no imminent threat of puking or passing out, he relaxes back into the couch, curling up on his side.
“Found the Benadryl,” Connor states when he returns a few minutes later. He has a wastebasket in hand that he worldlessly sets down in front of Arlo. “Also found the reason for why I’ve been sneezing my head off. She was sitting next to the bathtub. Does she get scared of new people?”
“Yeah, terrified. Surprised you managed to see her at all.”
“Well, after I said hello, she rubbed herself all over my leg, so I think I won her over.” He takes what Arlo hopes is a fresh tissue and folds it over his nose in that same careful way. “HHT’shiew! Hhh’tshiew! Shh! ETshiew! Ht’shhiew! ‘Shiew!”
“Sorry she’s having such an effect on you. I knew you were allergic, but, uh, I didn’t realize it was like this.”
“Yes, I’ve been cursed. That's why instead of having a nice fluffy cat in our house, Felix and I have a snake.”
“He does love snakes,” Arlo says, laughing.
His phone’s ringtone interrupts the conversation. It’s an unknown number, but the area code checks out, and since he’s been waiting on a call from his doctor’s office about rescheduling an appointment, he reluctantly accepts the call. There’s a split moment where he realizes the phone is still on speaker mode before he hears the voice on the other end.
“Arlo?”
If he hadn’t been lying down on his side, it may have been easier to maintain his grip on his phone, but he’s spent the entire day straining his joints. So, it’s not surprising when the phone slips out of his fingers and onto the hardwood.
“Arlo? Hi, listen, don’t hang up.”
This can’t be happening again.
“Arlo. Hey, I know you blocked me. I know. But, I’m using a buddy’s phone because, well, I wanted to check on you. I know we didn’t leave on the best of terms yesterday.”
Once again, instead of doing something productive like grabbing the phone or telling Jeremy to leave him alone, he simply freezes. He stares at the device as Jeremy’s voice continues to come through the speaker.
“And I didn’t want to part ways when we still had such a misunderstanding.”
“Arlo, who is that?” This voice is different.
Connor.
Connor, of all people, is still in the room witnessing this. Arlo needs to grab the phone.
“Arlo, who is that?” Connor asks again. “You’re shaking.”
Before Arlo can answer the question, Connor’s already picking the phone up off the floor.
“Hi, there,” Connor says into the phone. “Arlo’s busy. May I ask why you are calling?”
He sounds as though it’s a run of the mill work call, as though nothing is amiss. As though he answers Arlo’s phone every day.
There’s a long silence, and then, “I don’t know who you are, but this is between me and Arlo. So just hand the phone over to him.”
“I would do that, but the fact that you’re using a ‘buddy’s phone’ after he blocked your number is enough for me to infer that you’re a piece of shit, so, I’ll pass on that.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Let Arlo speak.”
The speakerphone conversation unfolds like a play, like Arlo is nothing more than an audience member with no agency, no ability to change anything.
“There’s some pretty clear evidence showing me that he doesn’t want to speak with you. So, I think I’ll do everyone a favor and disconnect this c —”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Jeremy’s voice is venomous. “Listen, you can’t, you can’t —” He stops, taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “You can’t judge the situation by what he tells you. Exes say things. They’re not always true. I want to apologize. You’re keeping me from doing something that would make him feel better. Just give me one minute.”
Brow furrowed, Connor gives Arlo a meaningful look. Without making the conscious decision to, Arlo gives a barely perceptible shake of his head.
Turning his full attention to the phone, he says, “Not happening. Listen, I work in law enforcement. If we need to take legal action to arrange a restraining order, I can assure you it won’t be a problem. And if you violate that restraining order, well… Let’s just say I advise you not to do that.” Connor’s voice is even and calm, but the underlying threat is impossible to miss.
There’s some frustrated huffing noises on the other end of the phone before the line finally goes dead.
Connor sets the phone down onto the coffee table before taking a place next to Arlo on the couch. When Connor’s gaze meets his, he looks away, lightly pulling at a loose thread on a throw blanket. The wall clock audibly ticks away for several minutes while the two sit in silence.
“Do you think he believed me?” Connor’s question finally causes Arlo’s gaze to shift away from the blanket. “About the law enforcement thing? I don’t know shit about filing for a restraining order. Is that even what you say — filing? Fuck, I really know nothing.” He laughs, running a hand through his hair.
A startled laugh breaks free from Arlo. “You sounded confident enough. I think he bought it.”
“Good. The guy’s obviously a dick.” Arlo gives a tight smile and nods before Connor continues. “So, clearly, there’s a story there. One I’m not interested in. Unless you want to tell me, of course; I’d gladly listen. But seeing how just a few minutes ago, you couldn’t even call me a ‘friend,’ I’m leaning toward you not being comfortable with that.”
“Um….” Arlo begins, but no other words follow. “Uh, I —” He tries again before shaking his head.
The corners of Connor’s eyes crinkle when he smiles this time; he’s not offended. Arlo’s shoulders relax. “Like I said, you don’t have to. It’s extremely personal; I get it. But, I don’t need details to know that I loathe that guy. If I see his face, I think I’d happily punch it.”
Eyebrows shooting up, Arlo asks, “I didn’t take you for the kind of guy to get into fights.”
“I wouldn’t provoke one, but, I’m also not going to let an abusive asshole take advantage of someone just because he can.”
Once again, Arlo’s gaze finds the throw blanket. Connor knows nothing about Jeremy aside from the minute long phone call. How is everyone so quick to call him abusive when Arlo dated the man for eight years and still isn’t sure the word applies?
“How’s your migraine?” Connor asks, and for once Arlo is glad to have attention drawn to his health.
“Fading,” he says. “As long as I stay still.”
“Good. Your voice still sounds wrecked, though, and you’re incredibly pale. But that could be from the —” Connor stops, chews his lip, then continues. “Could be from a few things, I guess. Anyway, I think I’ll still stay for a while. And the antihistamines seem to be working pretty well, so I won’t be sneezing my head off anymore, which is a plus. Is it okay if I cook something? I saw a few things in the kitchen I could use. I’d replace the ingredients, of course. It’s just that I’m feeling pretty hungry myself and you should probably eat, too.”
“Help yourself to whatever you like,” Arlo says, before curling back up on his side, resting his head on the bed pillow. “Good luck, though. There’s not much to work with.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
“You let him sleep in his shoes! His fucking shoes. Not to mention he’s still wearing jeans and a polo.”
“I’m sorry, but are you implying you wanted me to undress your boyfriend? Because that’s what I’m hearing.”
“What. The. Fuck. Of course not. But if he was so sick that he’d been puking, you could have fucking encouraged him to do it himself.”
“Right, because I don’t know about you, but when I’m so sick that I’m throwing up, my first concern is definitely clothing.”
“That’s why you should have encouraged him! That was my entire point, but god forbid you ever listen.”
“Jesus, Ben, he’s not a toddler. He doesn’t need encouragement, and he’s fine. You just want to always make things as dramatic as possible and —”
“Hmppsshh! P’shh! Hep’shhhhoo!”
The sneezes spray wetly against the pillow, but Arlo’s still groggy brain is finding it difficult to muster any concern.
“Bless you.” Ben manages to convey so much concern in those two words.
“Thanks,” Arlo whispers. He swallows, then winces.
“Fuck, you keep sounding worse and worse every time I see you.”
Finally cracking open his eyes, he sees Ben heading toward him. He promptly takes a seat on the couch and lays a hand against Arlo’s forehead, then his cheeks. “You’re warm.”
“Hmmpshoo!” The sneeze is buried into the pillow, but he’s awake enough now to grimace at the grossness of being ill in front of people.
“I’m so sorry you had to work today. And that you got a migraine. And then threw up. And — worse of all — had to spend your evening with Connor.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Connor says, groaning. He’s, oddly, rearranging items on the coffee table.
Arlo wants to say that the evening was surprisingly nice. The two spent an hour watching Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory before Arlo’s body had given into the need for sleep. It turns out that Connor is the perfect person to watch a movie with. He didn’t talk through the entire thing, but he also didn’t stay completely quiet. He laughed at all the appropriate places and rarely needed to pause the film. It was relaxing. All that to say — he was a far better movie partner than Ben, not that Arlo would admit that to him.
Most importantly, Connor never brought up the conversation with Jeremy. They just watched the movie while they ate vegetable soup. When Arlo had finished his soup, Connor wordlessly took the bowl, then brought back some water and more tissues. While it was slightly embarrassing, of course, to be fussed over by someone who wasn’t Ben, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Connor’s demeanor is so confident and assured that it was as though he wasn’t giving any thought at all to what he was doing; there was no judgement or even pity. He saw a problem — such as Arlo running out of tissues —and he solved it. Simple.
So, yes, Arlo wants to tell Ben the evening wasn’t bad at all, and he shouldn’t give Connor a hard time about it. But when he opens his mouth, that’s not what comes out.
“Hht’shooo! Hh’shh!”
“Here take some tissues,” Ben says, handing a few over. But when Arlo tries to take them, he finds his fingers have completely stiffened. He can’t keep the grimace off his face.
“We’ll use the hand warmer thingy in a minute. That always helps,” Ben says in a gentle voice, carding his hand through Arlo’s curls.
“Htt’SHHH!” Arlo says in response, because this is apparently all he can do now.
‘Okay, everything’s cleaned up,” Connor states. “So I’m going to head out. Arlo, I put my number in your phone, so please feel free to reach out. About anything.”
“Oh,” he says, feeling the urge to rub the back of his neck. “Um. Th- hhtshh!”
Connor chuckles softly. “Feel better soon. And, Ben, uh… bye, I guess,” he says, before turning toward the door.
“Bye, I guess,” Ben mumbles.
Once Connor’s gone, Ben curls onto the couch, facing Arlo.
“You’re very brave, getting that close. I have no control over my nose today,” Arlo says, voice still a whisper.
“I give no shits. Just wanna lay with you. I’m so fucking tired, oh my god.”
“Sorry you had to work late.”
“And I’m sorry you threw up,” Ben says.
“You already said that. And, anyway, I’m sorry I kept you up all night.”
Smiling, Ben says, “And, again, I’m sorry that you got stuck with Connor. Your turn.”
Arlo feels his own smile forming. “I’m sorry that basically all the tissues are gone. And some of your Benadryl. It turns out Connor is very allergic to Classy.”
Ben grins smugly. “That’s my girl! Classy!” he calls out, turning his head away from Arlo. “There’s my baby!”
Classy saunters in as though she hadn’t spent the last few hours hiding in the bathroom.
She stares at the two for one moment before hopping onto Ben’s side.
“Ow. You have claws, sweetheart. Be careful.”
In response, Classy purrs and rubs her face against Ben’s.
“What was that shit about Connor giving you his number?” Ben asks, though Arlo notices his eyes are shut.
“Uh.”
Ben snorts. “You have to give more than that. You can’t just coast through life saying ‘uh’ to everything, you know,” he teases.
“Um…”
“Or ‘um,’ for that matter. Oh my god. You are an impossible person.”
“I think he wants us to be friends,” Arlo confesses.
“Connor?” Ben’s eyes are now opened and there’s an alertness there that wasn’t there before. “Well, of course he does. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you? But, why would you want to be friends with him?”
“He’s very….” He searches for the word. “Calming. And he’s fun to watch movies with. And he may have threatened Jeremy over the phone to have a restraining order put on him if he ever contacts me again.” He’d buried his head into Ben’s chest as he said this, hoping they’d be muffled.
They aren’t.
“He… how does he — When? How? Why did they even talk? What events led up to that? What the fuck, Arlo?”
“Ben?”
“What?”
“I don’t feel well.” He makes sure to say it in his most pitiful sounding voice, which isn't hard to do, given it’s been reduced to a rasp.
“I know, baby.”
“So, is it okay if I just sleep? For a bit? And talk about everything later?”
There’s a long sigh from Ben before he says, “Fine, but we do have to talk about it.”
Aside from Arlo’s frequent sniffles and Classy’s rhythmic purrs, they fall into a silence.
“You’re not working tomorrow, right?” Ben asks. “I mean, surely not.”
“I really wanted to. If I miss tomorrow, that’ll be three days I missed in just this week ....”
“Mm hmm, I hear you, but here’s something to consider: you are literally dying.”
Arlo laughs, then winces at how phlemy it sounds. “Not literally dying. Just….” He chews his lips, considering. “Slightly incapacitated.”
“Is that something you can be slightly?” Ben asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Sure,” Arlo mutters. “Hp’ngt!”
“Holding it in like that is bad,” Ben mumbles half-heartedly. He’s clearly close to sleeping, himself.
“So is sneezing on your cheek,” Arlo retorts.
“Rather you do that than get a sinus infection.”
And how that statement has Arlo’s heart twisting with an almost unbearable fondness. “I know you would,” he says softly, and even though his fingers feel unusable, he uses them anyway to lightly stroke Ben’s cheek. “You know, you got mad at Connor for ‘letting me’ fall asleep in my clothes. You realize we’re both about to do that, right? You still have your shoes on.”
“Shoes shmoes.”
“I… don’t have a rebuttal to that.”
“‘Course not. It’s a classic defense for a reason.”
“Let’s make a deal, maybe? If you get up and go to bed, I’ll stay home from work tomorrow.”
Just as Arlo expected, Ben’s eyes snap open. “Okay, you’re playing dirty.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m playing extremely fairly. My intent is for you to get some good rest.”
“And I hate you for that.” Ben’s yawn is huge as he stretches. Classy doesn’t seem to mind the movement, adjusting to the new position rather quickly. “But fine. I’ll go to bed, and you’ll stay home tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal.”
It’s probably a good idea, anyway. With the wedding on Friday and the birthday plans on Saturday, he can use a day off work. Surely with the extra rest, he’ll be healthy — well, healthy enough — for the weekend.
