Don’t know if you’re still interested in getting asks, but here’s a contagion scenario courtesy of my overtired yet still relentlessly horny brain:
Colds become infectious shortly before symptoms start displaying and are most contagious in those first few days—keep that in mind as we continue. Imagine our person A, who is flying halfway across the world on a long-planned, bucket-list trip. A is, of course, extremely excited to see all the major sights in their destination, and they’ve planned a full, jam-packed itinerary, with multiple group tours a day.
A arrives at the airport, and, despite being exhausted from the overtime they’ve been putting in at work and stressed from last-minute packing, their anticipation completely outweighs how run-down their body is, leaving A in such a ebullient mood that they don’t even register the check-in attendant’s constant sniffling and nose-rubbing as A hands over their passport, receives their boarding pass, and checks their suitcases. Nor is A at all fazed by the security guard’s hoarseness and occasional cough as they have to get patted down after triggering the scanner. A goes straight to their gate, but the waiting area is crowded despite how early they arrived, and the only unoccupied seat they spot is in the back corner, next to an exhausted-looking man who seems more like a walking cold medicine commercial than a fellow traveler. As A approaches, the man buries his Rudolph-esque nose into a visibly soggy brown napkin, shredding the thin paper with a monstrous sneeze, then adds the remnants to the veritable mountain of used napkins he has accumulated on A’s intended seat. A, though, still preoccupied with daydreaming about finally beginning their long-awaited trip, doesn’t even flinch before asking if they can sit; the man begrudgingly sweeps his napkin pile into his lap, and A sits down and puts on their headphones to listen to a travel podcast about their destination, completely blocking out the germ factory to their right, even as he runs out of napkins and starts spraying wet sneezes openly on to the floor in front of them. Finally, boarding begins and A settles in for their long-haul flight. A hasn’t flown much before and is very taken with the view from their window seat, so much so that they completely miss the increasing number of throat clears coming from their seatmate as the hours pass, and A gives only a perfunctory blessing when the descent prompts an only half-covered sneezing fit… A’s excitement has rendered them oblivious to the fact that they, by now thoroughly infected and incubating a nasty cold, will soon be in the same position as the unfortunate passenger in the middle seat.
The next morning, A has booked an early walking tour booked to avoid the mid-day heat. As soon as they leave their air-conditioned hotel, though, A starts sneezing like they never have before. They haven’t any allergies before, and they are rather disgruntled to find that their dream destination disagrees badly with their immune system. Their walking tour starts soon, and A decides that they don’t have time to find a pharmacy and wrangle with unfamiliar medicine in a foreign language; they’ll just have to deal with the sneezing for the day. Little does A know, the cold viruses they picked up the day before have been replicating busily in their nose, ready to be spread afar with each seemingly-innocuous allergy sneeze.
And spread the cold viruses do: A is typically not a sneezy person and is entirely taken unawares by their newfound allergy, so their frequent sneezing goes mostly uncovered, the germ-ridden spray generously misting the guide and all the other tourists in the group; having not packed any tissues, A is forced to resort to wiping their nose on their sleeve and hands, spreading more germs with every touch (A, unfortunately for those behind them, has the habit of holding doors; once the tour ends, they also make sure to shake hands with the guide and the new friends they’ve made). After the walking tour, A still has no chance to pick up allergy medicine, as they rush to get to their three back-to-back museum reservations on time. They sneeze at pace, wetly and poorly covered, for the rest of the day, freely expelling cold viruses in the lines to get into the museums and the crowds around the most famous artworks, as well as at the poor docents, whom A mists frequently when interrupted by an unexpected sneeze in the midst of asking questions about the art. After the museums, A hurries onward to their dinner reservation, where they flip through the menu with their by now thoroughly germ-covered hands and share their cold more directly with both the servers and fellow diners via their constant, clockwork sneezes, which have now become even more unpredictable and messier than in the morning. A gets back to the hotel too exhausted to bother with finding medicine, stumbling straight into bed.
The next day, A wakes up feeling wretched, throat aching and nose dripping wildly, the first cold symptoms having set in; having no prior experience, though, A assumes this is normal for allergies and, beside, they have so much planned for the day and so much they still need to see, what’s a little discomfort in the grand scheme of things? A was planning to finally figure out the allergy medicine, but they’ve overslept a bit, so they head straight off to their first tour of the day instead. The day goes much as the last did; the sneezes are still coming hard and fast, and A is still caught off guard every time, spraying whatever poor souls are unlucky enough go be in their vicinity, usually the guide. As the day wears on, A’s voice begins to acquire a creaking quality and aches start to build in their head and throughout their body, but A is still convinced all their symptoms is just the consequence of their new allergy, and they don’t bother taking any extra precautions against spreading their germs to everyone they come across. A spends most of the night kept up by chills and the beginnings of a cough, and they end up the calling the front desk to ask for an extra blanket, the bellboy who brought it up getting an errant sneeze in the face for his trouble.
The next day, A is now properly unwell. However, this is the day A had managed to get tickets to the most famous landmarks/attractions in the destination, and they’re single-mindedly focused on seeing it all, so A is somehow still in denial about their current cold-ridden state. The slight cough from the night has now fully developed, but A’s sneezing, spurred on by their allergen, continues at the same blistering rate, though with increasing force and messiness. As A boards the bus to the first landmark, they are a veritable symphony of sickness, but they still make no effort to cover, since they ‘most certainly aren’t sick.’ The lacklustre hygiene of the past two days continues even when A enters the sardine-like press of bodies inside the landmark, they coughing and sneezing freely on untold numbers of other tourists. By the end of the day, four landmarks, five bus rides, and hundreds of contagious, virus-spraying sneezes later, A is completely wrung out. Determined as A is, they can no longer maintain the denial nor the energy to keep sightseeing, and they are forced to spend the rest of their vacation stuck in bed. Too bad A had already spent the most contagious part of their cold sharing it with their guides, other tourists, and anyone else they had encountered. With A’s help, the monstrous cold they had picked up at the airport had been shared with dozens of new hosts.
This is sooooooo good anon 👌
