Everyone is hotter with a fever @perfectpaperbluebirds - Tumblr Blog

Before & After (M, flu)

You guys ready for a big, contagion-filled behemoth of a fic? Well, get ready because that's what this is lmao. Everyone gets to be sick for this one! It's written in kind of the same style as Then & Now, where we're flashing back to moments in time pre-Elliot's (the 'befores' are all 'before they all worked at Elliot's' and the 'afters' are the main story, they all happen in the same week), but this time all the guys get a fun lil flashback lol. This was a really fun write, I don't love every single part of it but I do really love some moments. Found family, my beloved.

CW: Male snz, CONTAGION (like... like a lot), flu (nothing scary happens though, they're just all extra-sick. maybe less flu, more cold-plus lmao), coughing, fevers. Also maybe a little TW for family problems, neglect, etc. Nothing crazy, but everyone gets a little familial gut punch.

Okay, enough chitchat. 6K words (oops) under the cut! I hope you like it if you decide to read it! It's crazy long, so I understand if no one wants to work their way through this one lmao, but if you do I'd love to hear any feedback, good, bad, or otherwise :)

Before & After

After

This year, like all the years before it, Greyson was the one who brought the flu into the restaurant.

“Oh, Christ,” Elijah moaned the moment the chef walked into the office. “C’mon man, it’s March. I figured we’d finally broken the curse.”

Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed past his boss, and slammed himself into the second rolling chair. “I’mb fine,” he said, his voice breaking on the second syllable. “Also, Mbarch is still winter, in mby defense. Hh-! Huhh… hnnn.” The chef rubbed under his nose, an attempt to coax the sneeze out that – “Hhh! Hh – guhhh, fuck mbe” – did not work.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, a dig that prompted a watery glare from Greyson. “March is not still winter.”

Annoyed, Greyson pulled out his phone and typed ‘when does winter end’ into google. When he got the answer he was hoping for, he pushed the phone to the other side of the desk – March 20 shone bold on the screen. Elijah pushed the phone with a pen back towards Greyson. “I’m not interested in touching your infected phone, thanks.”

“Just wanted to prove I was riiii – hh… hh -? Huh – hhhh. Snf.” Once again, Greyson raised an arm to catch a sneeze that staunchly refused to come. He glanced over at Elijah with watering, irritated eyes; the other man’s face was a mix between pity and disgust. “What?” he snapped.

Both of Elijah’s hands shot up; poking the bear was obviously not the right call today. “Nothing,” he said. “That just sounds fairly miserable. Can’t wait for all of us to be in the same boat. Definitely one of my favorite traditions you’ve bestowed on us.”

Greyson sighed, which prompted a flurry of barking, painful coughs. It was only eleven in the morning, but he felt as defeated as though he’d already worked a brutal shift. “It’s too busy for mbe to leave,” he said once he’d regained control of his spasming lungs. “It’s restaurant week, for God’s sake. Any other Tuesday, I’d just go home,” Greyson glanced up at his boss and shrugged, apologetic. “Sorry, Lij.”

Elijah pulled a weary hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Since this literally happens every single fucking year. But god, Grey, you certainly could’ve picked a better week.”

“Do you thingk I want to feel like shi – hh! Huh – HRRTSHHZCH-ue! Fucking finally,” Greyson nearly moaned in relief. He grabbed the tissue box that Elijah had placed on his side of the desk and tore into it. “In mby defense,” he said once he’d thrown the used tissues away, “at least this year I haven’t brought ndearly as much shit into the restaurant. I feel like mbaybe you should congratulate mbe on that. Hh...hhITSZCHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said, rolling his chair more towards the door to try and avoid the worst of the backsplash. “Yeah, Grey, you’re absolutely right, I should absolutely thank you for not bringing a thousand illnesses a month into the restaurant. What a normal and hinged thing to think.”

This prompted a stuffy laugh from the chef. “Whatever,” he said. “Ndot mby fault that Reed picked up sombe airport flu. What do you expect mbe to do, sequester mbyself fromb him? It’s a thousand-square-foot apartment, Lij. Sequestering isn’t exactly its selling point.”

“Mmm,” Elijah murmured, clicking his computer off. “Are you okay to work, honestly?” He placed a rough hand onto Greyson’s forehead, frowned at what he felt. “You’re hot.”

“Aww, see that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear fromb you,” Greyson placed a hand on his heart as he pushed his boss’s hand off his head. “I’ll mbake it through,” he said, standing to put a chef coat on. “Try ndot to get too close. HRRSZCH-ue! Hh -! HUHESTZHH-ue!”

Try not to get too close. As if any of them stood a chance in hell.

Before – Greyson

When he moved there, everyone had told him Chicago is cold, as though that weren’t the most obvious fucking thing on the planet. He’d rolled his eyes; he knew cold. Hell, he’d grown up in Minnesota – if anyone knew cold it was him.

As the months went on, though, and the muggy summer turned to blustery autumn, which turned to the frigid, bone-chilling winds of winter, Greyson realized what everyone meant. Yeah, the weather was icy and the wind could cut through you to the bone – but he figured when people said Chicago is cold, they just meant the weather.

They did not.

“Chef, you’re twenty minutes late.” It was the first thing he heard when he trudged into work that morning; not a ‘good morning’, not a ‘how are you’, not even a ‘hey, you look like shit, is that why you’re twenty minutes late?’. With effort, Greyson pushed his hood off his head and blinked his superior into focus. The older chef was quite literally holding his watch up to Greyson’s face, as though he thought this may be the first he’d ever heard of the concept of time.

“Sorry, Chef,” Greyson managed, his voice a mangled knot of congestion. “The train was runnding behind. Hh-! HhhNGTSXCH-ue!” In an attempt to stifle the sneeze, Greyson managed to pop one of his ears open; the sudden clarity of sound made his head spin. Do not pass out, he chided himself silently, grabbing onto the wall for stability. The executive chef rolled his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking sick,” the older chef sneered. If he wasn’t already flushed from fever, Greyson’s face would have flamed in embarrassment. He shook his head.

“I’mb good, Chef,” he said, swallowing hard to keep from coughing. “Just… the wind mbakes mbe… sneeze. Sorry for being late.”

His boss sighed through his nose, annoyed. “I have three projects I need you to finish by the time service starts. Do not sneeze on my fucking food, Abbott, you hear me?” Greyson nodded. “Great. Now get to the prep kitchen, and don’t let me see or hear you until service. Don’t be late again.”

The executive chef turned on his heels and slammed the office door, leaving Greyson shivering in his heavy winter coat in the middle of the kitchen. Thoroughly chided and markedly ashamed, the sous chef slunk to the prep kitchen to begin his projects; each one took longer than the last, as his health rapidly deteriorated. By the time service had begun, Greyson’s lungs burned, his head throbbed, and he had no voice to speak of – instead of having family meal with the rest of the cooks, Greyson stepped outside into the freezing alleyway and lit a cigarette, a bad idea but this comforting ritual was all he had to keep going at this point. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. No new messages.

Instead of taking a puff of the cigarette, Greyson let out a single, choked sob; he hadn’t felt this shitty in years. What was the point of all this, of suffering for his career, of dealing with asshole, piece-of-shit chefs who didn’t give a fuck about anyone, of living in big, cold cities where everyone was just out for them-fucking-selves? He’d lived in Chicago for nearly a year and had exactly zero friends, had been on zero dates, and had exactly zero creative drive. Desperate for any connection, Greyson pulled up his messages and typed one out.

Greyson

4:37PM

hey, mom. how are you doing?

The wind howled around him while he waited for a response. The sun was already set, and darkness had settled over the alleyway; Greyson tried to remember the last time he saw the sun, without luck. Please respond, a tiny voice in his head begged. Please.

A minute passed, then two, then ten. Service was about to start; if he didn’t get inside to the middle station soon, his chef would come looking for him – and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Greyson pressed his lips together, coughed painfully into his coat, and stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette. One last time, he checked his phone: no new messages.

After

Per the usual, Matt was the first to succumb to Greyson’s illness.

“Already?” Elijah groaned. The two chefs were in the back kitchen, though to say they were prepping would have been a stretch. “It’s literally been one day, Greyson, how did you already manage to get Matt sick?”

The question went unanswered; Greyson was a bit preoccupied. “Hhh-! Huh...hnghh. Fugck,” he groaned, sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket. “God, that’s getti’g old. Hh-!”

“Hh’IGTSZH-ue!” Behind him, Matt pitched forward, suddenly, into both hands. “Ew, gross – HRRTSH-uhh! Hh...ITSZHH-ue!”

“Stop fuckigg stealing fromb mbe,” Greyson growled, turning towards his sous chef. “It’s rude.”

“I’mb rude?” Matt balked, snatching the box of tissues from the table that separated him from both his bosses. “You’re the one who mbade mbe like thi-ihh… HTSZHH-ue! RRSHH-ue!” This time, he managed to cover his mouth with a handful of tissues. “God, I can’t stop fuckigg sndeezing. HHITSCHH-ue!”

“Don’t rub it in,” Greyson muttered, pawing at his nose. Beside him, Elijah’s eyes were closed, his lips pressed into a hard line of annoyance. “Mbaybe we should start taking bets,” Greyson said, elbowing his boss playfully to keep the man from completely losing it. “Who goes downd first, who goes down last… mbight be a fun activity for the whole fam-”

On the last syllable of ‘family’, Greyson’s voice – which was mangled to begin with – fell off completely. Elijah swung to look at his counterpart, as Greyson’s hand flew to his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Greyson whispered.

“Did you just lose your voice?” Elijah’s voice verged on the edge of mania. “Tell me you didn’t just lose your fucking voice.”

“Umb,” Greyson wheezed, with effort. “I didn’t just lose mby voice.”

Elijah groaned. Greyson let out a small, painful cough. Across the prep table, Matt was stuck in his own personal hell.

“HRRSHH-uhh! Fu – NGTXSH-ue! Hh-! Hh’ITSZCH-ue!”

The two older men shared a concerned glance – normally, it would have been Greyson who asked, but since apparently speaking was no longer an option for him, Elijah regarded the younger chef. “Matt… are you -”

“HRRSHH-ue!”

“-okay?” Elijah finished, as Matt succumbed to a fit of ticklish coughs. He blew his nose, then tossed the tissues and nodded at his bosses.

“I’mb okay,” he said, near-panting post-fit. The heel of his hand found his eye, rubbed until both Elijah and Greyson winced on his behalf. “Christ, Chef, where do you pick this shit up,” Matt muttered, more to himself than anything. As if in response, Greyson doubled over, coughing into his sleeve until his eyes watered with the effort.

Elijah looked from one chef to the other, unsure of what to do or say; what Greyson said yesterday held true. It was restaurant week, one of their busiest weeks of the year, and no matter how much he wanted to send these two idiots home, it just wasn’t in the cards. He checked his watch – 2:55PM. Almost two hours until service.

“Okay, listen up you sick fucks,” Elijah regarded the two chefs. “It’s time to take a nap.”

At the word nap, both chefs visibly deflated. “Lij,” Greyson whispered, “mbuch as I love that idea, like ten out of ten, would a thousand percent love to participate… we just have so mbuch prep to do for restaurant week.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Like, we haven’t even gotten to half the mbenu. Hh-!”

“HHUHETSZCHH-ue!” This time, it was Greyson who doubled over to sneeze – a sound so harsh, Elijah was sure he wouldn’t even be able to whisper after it.

“Ndow who’s stealing,” Matt muttered, his sneeze obviously lost. They both glared at one another, then turned when Elijah began speaking again.

“Par the menu down,” he said. “It was choice of? Now it’s not. You two need to take some medicine and lay down, at least for an hour. I wish I could send you home, but I can’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair; obviously, this wasn’t a decision he wanted to make, but he had to do something. Otherwise there was just no way Greyson and Matt would make it through service.

“You’re sure, boss?” Matt asked, desperation painted on his face. If he could have made a sound, Elijah was sure Greyson would push back on this idea – as it stood, the executive chef just pressed his lips together, swallowed painfully. Elijah nodded, one curt, small nod.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Now, let’s get you two medicated.”

Before

Night was coming.

During the day, being sick with nowhere to go was not ideal, but ultimately it was fine. Matt would pick up extra hours at the diner – washing dishes, bussing tables, anything that didn’t involve having to speak – and stay there from open at four a.m. until they closed at six in the evening. It was hard to work while ill, yes, but it was easier than roaming the streets of New York with nothing to think about except how shitty he felt.

At night, though, the diner was closed. On normal days, Matt would crash at a friend or coworker’s house; he’d buy beer, or dinner, or weed and in return, he’d be granted a night on their couch, or their floor or – if he was lucky – a night pressed up against them in their bed. But those rare times when he was under the weather, he didn’t get invites to anyone’s home, no matter how close he thought they were. His weed and beer money never seemed to be enough to get any of his coworkers to bring an ailing Matt to their apartments, heat him up a can of soup, allow him a quiet night in a warm bed.

“NTSHZH-ue!” Matt sneezed painfully into his too-light jacket and shivered in the cold of the Manhattan evening. This was the third time he’d been sick since he was kicked out of his final foster home the day he turned eighteen, and each time went the same: he couldn’t manage to swing an evening at a friend’s house. The shelter turned him away – if we let you in, we get everyone sick, and then we’re taking care of a hundred sick homeless people. Sorry, it’s just policy. – and all his former foster parents let his calls go to voicemail. When it was finally too late to try anything else, Matt would find a bench in the park, put his backpack on his front with his jacket zipped up backwards over it to keep anyone from stealing it, and try to get some fitful rest until it was time to work again.

Eventually, just like every other time he’d been sick while living on the street, the cold and the elements would catch up with him. He’d end up with walking pneumonia, end up sleeping for at least one night in a bed in the ER. When the accounting department would ask where to send the medical bills after he’d been pumped full of antibiotics, he’d give them the address of one of his former foster families. Serves them fucking right, he’d think as he walked out of the emergency room.

Then, he would wait. He would go to work, get back to crashing on couches and sleeping with people he had no interest in just to get the sweet relief of one night in a bed, and he’d wait for the inevitable next illness to strike. Wait for the cold night to overtake him once again.

After

In the past, it had always been a toss-up as to whether Mark would fall victim to the yearly Greyson Flu. There were some years where he’d be the last to get it – usually a week or so after everyone else had recovered, which was exactly Mark’s style. Hold it together until everyone else is okay, he’d tell himself when he woke up with a sore throat and aching joints, and hold it together he would, until it was safe to take a day off. Then there were years where Mark was the only one to avoid the flu; his immune system tended to be better than the other manager’s, and he was the best at taking care of himself, though that wasn’t exactly a hard prize to win in this restaurant.

This year was different, though. This year, Mark and Matt were officially an item.

“NTSHH!” Mark wrenched to the side, attempting to hold back the sneeze that snuck up on him just as Elijah passed by the office. At the stifled sound, Elijah’s head turned on a swivel to see Mark, doubled over his elbow.

“No,” Elijah groaned, the look on his face so devastated that Mark felt his ears burn with shame. “Mark, please tell me you aren’t sick, too.”

Mark shook his head, attempted to keep from sniffling, and said, “I’mb ndot.” Wrong choice of words, he chided himself after hearing how congested his voice came out. Elijah looked like he might cry.

It was Day Three of the restaurant’s latest pestilence. Restaurant week hung over all of them like a wet blanket, soaking them to the bone, too heavy for anyone to remove. Each night had been busier than the last, and tonight – Friday night – was to be the busiest one of them all. Mark swallowed around a throat on fire. “I’mb sorry,” he whispered to his boss, sniffling. “Mbatt likes to snuggle whend he’s sick. Hh…hhETSCHH-uh!”

Taking pity, Elijah found one of the myriad tissue boxes placed strategically for the chefs on the line and brought it to Mark, who begrudgingly took one. “You’re supposed to be my rock, Mark,” Elijah said, his voice light and joking, but the words stinging the younger manager all the same. The GM sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Greyson!” Elijah called towards the prep kitchen while Mark blew his nose.

After a beat, they both heard a hoarse call-back. “What?” Greyson asked. Elijah rolled his eyes, annoyed.

“Come here!” he yelled.

They both heard an audible groan from the back kitchen – at least his voice is back enough to groan, Mark found himself thinking – and then Greyson was standing in the doorway of the office, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Does it look like I have nothigg going ond?” Greyson asked, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb ass-deep in yellowtail right ndo – ahh… ahKTXSHH-ue!” The chef attempted to stifle the sneeze into his elbow, then attempted to clear his throat – both attempts seemingly in vain.

“Bless,” Elijah said, automatically, before pointing directly at Mark’s face. “Look what you fuckin’ did. Asshole.”

Greyson’s eyes shifted towards the younger floor manager. Mark knew what he looked like; his eyes were red-rimmed, his mouth partially open in order to breathe, his nose scarlet and glistening. He had the flu, same as Greyson. They both looked like shit.

“Oops,” Greyson said, pressing a hand to Mark’s forehead and wincing. “To be fair to mbe,” Greyson said, turning towards Elijah, “this one’s mbore Mbatt’s fault than mbine.”

“Matt’s only sick because you are physically incapable of keeping germs to yourself. Now my fucking floor manager looks like he has a fucking wasting disease on the busiest night of the month.” Had they forgotten that Mark was still there? Or did they assume the fever had fried his brain past the point of understanding them?

“C’mon, Lij, he looks…” Greyson glanced back at Mark, made a little face. “He looks fine...ish.”

“No one would want him touching their table. I wouldn’t want him touching my table with a ten-foot pole.”

“That’s a little drambatic, don’t you thingk?”

“You kndow I’mb right here,” Mark broke into the conversation suddenly, prompting the other two to shoot their glances his way. “Right?”

With that, the wind was taken out of both Elijah and Greyson’s sails. “Sorry, Mark,” Elijah said, pulling a hand down his face. “You don’t look like you have a wasting disease.”

“Okay,” Mark said, brilliantly. “Thangk – GTSZCH-ue!” He sneezed into his lap, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. From above him, Mark heard Greyson snort out a laugh.

“Oh, fuck,” Greyson said, laughing and coughing at once. “Oh, jesus christ, we are so fucked.”

The laughter was as contagious as the illness Greyson brought in – Elijah was doubled over as well. “The fucking timing,” he guffawed. “The timing is just… it’s impeccable.”

Mark looked from one of his bosses to the other – Greyson doubled over coughing, Elijah crouched into a ball laughing – unsure of what to do. “Uh,” he said, “does all this mbean I can stay and work?”

If it was even possible, Elijah started laughing harder. “Fuck, Mark,” he sobbed with laughter, “you literally have to stay. We have no other choice but to put your half-dead ass on the floor.” Greyson grabbed his stomach, hysterical.

“Fuck, we have to stop I’mb gonna keel over,” he said, wiping under his eyes. “Oh, mby God.”

Behind them, Matt crept up from the prep kitchen. “What the fugck is goigg on up he – hh! HhITZSCHH-ue!”

This seemed to be the nail in the coffin; Greyson and Elijah fell to the floor in hysterics, with Matt and Mark groggily staring down at them. “Uh,” Matt said, wiping under his nose, “are they gonna be okay?”

Mark just blinked, bleary. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “NTSHZCH-ue!”

Before

The phone lit up for the third time that hour, buzzing angrily in an attempt to get Mark’s attention. On the top of the screen, the word that always sent a pit directly into his stomach: Dad.

With effort, Mark rolled over on the uncomfortable dorm-room bed and picked the phone up off the side table. For a moment, he considered tossing it across the room, watching it shatter into a million pieces, never having to speak to his father again – a freedom he couldn’t even imagine. He answered the phone.

“’Lo?” Mark croaked, biting his cheek to keep from dissolving into a fit of coughs. He hadn’t spoken in almost three days, not since he’d gone to the campus infirmary for a Z-pack in an attempt to rid himself of the illness one of his roommates had so kindly brought back to their dorm, and his voice sounded rougher than he thought it would.

“Mark, that you?” his father boomed on the other end. “It’s your dad, why the hell didn’t you pick up the first time?”

A vein in Mark’s head pulsed at the immediate accusation; he’d texted his father after the first call that he was sleeping, but apparently that wasn’t an acceptable excuse. “Sorry,” he said, yanking the phone away from his face to cough into an elbow. When he brought the phone back, his dad was already speaking again.

“-money for the goddamn cafeteria, I thought we talked about this.” The tail end of a sentence, but Mark instinctively knew what the first part had been. His mother and father got a bill for the campus cafeteria, despite the fact that Mark had promised to get a job to cover his own food expenses at university. Fuck.

“I’mb sorry,” Mark said again. “I’ve been lookigg for work, but it’s hard to find sombewhere that’ll accommodate a student’s schedule. Hh – HRRSXHH-ue!” This time, he didn’t have time to pull the phone away. On the other end of the line, his father grunted.

“You sick?” he asked after a beat; an accusal, not a concern. Mark swallowed hard.

“Ndo, sir,” he said.

“Good,” his father replied. “Figure the job thing out, Mark. I get another damn grocery bill from that school, and I’m done paying for any of those damn classes. Got it?”

Mark pressed his lips together. Do not cry on the phone, do NOT. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice small.

“Mom says hi,” his dad said, though Mark knew she hadn’t. “Talk soon.”

The line was cut before Mark had a chance to say goodbye – not that he wanted to. He let out a pathetically soupy cough, and put his head in his hands, defeated. What the fuck kind of parent says that shit, he allowed himself to think. The angry tears he’d held back during the call fell before he was able to sniff them back again. Fuck you, Dad.

For the next six weeks, until he finally found a part-time catering job, Mark would avoid the cafeteria completely; he’d scrounge from his friend’s leftovers, be the first at the dorm parties to shove cookies into his pockets, live on dollar gas station burritos so that he wouldn’t hear from his dad again. For now, he gave in to his baser desires: turning the phone over in his hand, Mark viciously hurled it across the room, cracking the screen into a million tiny webs.

After

By the time Sunday – the final day of restaurant week – rolled around, the restaurant could have been better classified as a biohazard unit.

“Last big night, guys,” Elijah said to the coughing, sniffling servers during the week’s final pre-shift. “Let’s just get through it and… and then we-ehh…” The servers all groaned as Elijah pitched into his elbow. “NGTZHH-ue!”

“Not you, too,” Riley, Elijah’s lead server, moaned. “Who’s going to help us on the floor now?”

Elijah flushed and cleared his throat. “Fuck off, all of you,” he said. “I’m fine. One sneeze does not the flu make. Let’s get back to the task at hand, hmm?”

They all knew, of course, that the denial was in vain. Elijah had felt the tendrils of a nasty fever work their way behind his eyes post-service the night before, and had only made it until four p.m. today without any accusations due to an arsenal of meds – meds that seemed, at this point, to be losing their ability to help him. His lungs felt heavy, his head and body ached, his nose was sore from sucking nose spray in every five fucking minutes. Despite the fact that they’d barely gone over any reservations, Elijah dismissed the servers to go eat family meal early; he needed to remedicate.

In the kitchen office, Matt and Mark were taking their Greyson-mandated nap on the pile of old tablecloths and coats; since his fever had broken, the executive chef seemed mostly-recovered and had taken charge of medicating and babysitting the younger managers. Elijah wasn’t about to complain; he had enough to deal with without doling out meds every five minutes. Perched in his office chair above the sleeping couple, Greyson was playing a loud-ass game on his phone with one hand and coughing into the other.

“Is there not anywhere else you can do that?” Elijah whispered, sitting quietly in his office chair. “Can you not see them trying to fucking sleep?”

“Oh, please,” Greyson said at full volume. “They’re out like fuckin’ lights. Watch.” He used the toe of one of his clogs to gently kick Matt’s shoulder. The sous chef let out a little cough in his sleep and rolled closer to Mark, not opening his eyes. “I snuck a little Nyquil in their teas,” Greyson admitted, laughing a little.

“Why would you do that?” Elijah asked, pressing his fingers into one of his eyes. “We still have service tonight, dipshit.”

“Oh, this was hours ago,” Greyson said, turning back to his phone game. “They’ll be good by five.” He shrugged. “Maybe. I was over listening to them coughing.”

“I’m over listening to you coughing, but you don’t see me drugging yehh – HNXTSH-ue! Huh - ! HRRSCHH-ue!” Elijah cleared his throat into the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing at the pain there. The soft sshhh of the box of tissues being slid across the desk prompted his eyes to shoot up from his elbow.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, pointedly. “Man, took you long enough to catch it. I feel like I should give you a prize or something.”

Elijah pulled a few tissues out and cleaned himself up. “I have ndot caught it,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “Until service is over tondight, I am well. I am healthy. I – HUHESTCHH-ue!” This time, he was unable to even partially stifle. Greyson made a noise of sympathy in the back of his throat, reached across the desk to put a hand on his boss’s arm.

“Yeah,” he said as Elijah blew his nose. “That’s not really how being sick works.”

Before

In his hand, Elijah held the key to the rest of his life.

He honestly couldn’t believe it was real; a key, a real, physical key to the restaurant he’d dreamed of since he was a child. Sliding it into the lock for the first time, Elijah could feel his life changing. The door creaked open and there it was: his restaurant, in all of its dusty, ripped-to-the-studs glory. Elijah pressed his lips together, on the verge of tears – nothing could ruin this moment for him. Nothi-

“NGTZSHH-ue! HRRSTSHH-ue! Fuck,” he wiped his nose with the back of his hand – ugh. Nothing could ruin this, he repeated to himself, not even this bitch of a cold he’d picked up at work three days prior; he’d been laid up in bed when he got the call from the commercial Realtor that actually, the keys would be ready for him today, if he wanted to pick them up. Never had he ever bolted out of bed so quickly.

Elijah walked carefully through what would one day be the dining room of Elliot’s, pressing his fingertips into the stone walls as though introducing himself to them. Hi, he whispered to the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the hundred-year-old stove that he was sure was a fire hazard. I’m home. Elijah had the sudden urge to call his parents.

It wasn’t an urge he had often; in fact, he’d only mentioned once in passing that he’d been trying to purchase a restaurant to them, and that was almost a year ago. But he needed to tell someone, needed someone to share in this excitement with him. He dialed his mom’s number.

“Hello, may I ask who’s calling?” his mother answered, formal as ever even though she knew exactly who had called. Elijah smiled into the phone.

“Mbom,” he said, his voice hoarse and congested. “It’s me – it’s Elijah.”

“Oh, Elijah, hi honey,” she said, distracted. “Is something wrong?”

“Ndo, mom, sombething is actually… ambazing,” Elijah said, still looking around his dark pre-restaurant. “Is dad there with you?”

“Mmm, yes, he’s watching golf, is this important honey? We were about to head out to the Club.” The Club. That was what Elijah’s parents called the only restaurant they’d ever cared about while he was growing up – the country club that was their pride and joy to be a part of. Elijah rolled his eyes.

“It’s really important,” he insisted. “Please – just put mbe on speakerphone. I have sombe huge ndews.”

The moment huge news came out of his mouth, Elijah knew he’d made a mistake. Immediately, his mother gasped and called to his father in delight – oh, no, Elijah thought.

“Honey! Greg, honey, it’s Elijah, he’s going back to school! He’s going back to medical school! Isn’t that right, sweetie? Huge news! Yes! Oh, we knew you’d go back. We knew this whole restaurant thing would blow over.” His mother’s voice tumbled out so quickly she was nearly breathless. Elijah felt his head spin.

“Mom, I-”

“Back to medical school, that’s great, son!” Elijah’s father bellowed from what was obviously the other side of the room. “My son, the doctor,” he mused.

Mouth dry, Elijah managed to speak over his parents, who were now discussing who at The Club they would tell first. “Mbom, Dad, please,” he managed, before dissolving into a coughing fit. His mother tutted.

“Oh, you sound terrible, sweetheart. All those nights up late studying, I’m sure!” The glee in his mother’s voice made Elijah sick to his stomach. He cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’mb ndot going back to medical school, mbom,” he managed. On the other end of the line – silence. Elijah was fairly sure he could hear a distant sob from his mom. Finally, Elijah’s father spoke back up.

“Why would you tell your mother that, then? Christ, Elijah, haven’t you put her through enough?” Greg, never quick to anger unless it involved his wife, audibly sat back down in his chair. He mumbled something Elijah couldn’t hear.

“I – I didn’t tell her that,” Elijah said, voice raising like a teenager’s. “She didn’t even let mbe finish what I was saying.”

“You said you had huge news!” his mother bawled. “What else was I supposed to think it was?”

Without thinking, Elijah pulled the phone away from his ear and once again looked around his restaurant. Fucking medical school. He’d dropped out almost ten years ago, and here they were, still holding out for him to be their perfect little doctor. Looking for a reason to brag about him at the club. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if his parents even told their friends they had a son.

Elijah glanced back at his phone, where his mother was still crying on the other end; silently, he pressed the end button and put the phone back in his pocket. Elijah closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath without coughing. Nothing will ruin this for me, he thought as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing.

After

Keeping the post-restaurant-week, thank-god-that’s-over manager meeting had been Greyson’s idea; Elijah had said they should cancel, but Greyson insisted they keep it on. Since he was the only one well enough to execute it, and since Elijah needed the distraction of being around other people to keep him from his flu-ridden agony, he’d agreed. He hadn’t known that Greyson intended to host a meal and a mock-funeral for the week they’d just had, but somehow, it was the perfect salve to the burn that was restaurant week.

“Dearly beloved,” Greyson said from behind the line, mimicking a microphone with his hands, “we’re gathered here today in his hellhole of a kitchen in remembrance of the Week From Hell.” He raised his paper cup filled with whiskey, and Elijah, Matt, and Mark copied the gestures with their cups of tea. “May it forever rest in agony, and may we never have to speak of it ever again.”

“Amben,” the three other men called from the couch they’d dragged in from the host stand. Elijah suddenly turned into his sweatshirt to cough, prompting a groan from Matt and Mark beside him.

“Every timbe you do that you yank the fuckigg blanket off me,” Mark grumbled, pulling the blanket they were sharing back over his lap. “I’mb fuckin’ cold, boss.”

“Oh, please forgive mbe,” Elijah croaked when he was finally able to compose himself. “I’mb so sorry that the illness you gave mbe caused mbe to cough and mbake you cold.” He pulled a tissue out of the box on Matt’s lap between them and wiped his nose. “I’ll self-flagellate in the street as soon as I’mb able to mbove again.”

This prompted a laugh, followed by a soupy cough, from Matt. “He got you there, babe,” he said, touching his boyfriend’s face.

“Alright, alright, enough bickering,” Greyson called from behind the line. “Soup’s almost ready, are you assholes eating on Elijah’s nice couch?”

Mark and Matt glanced over to Elijah for confirmation – the GM just shrugged, exhausted. “I certainly can’t get up,” he said. “So I guess the answer is yes.”

Greyson bowled the soup up, pushed a serving into each other man’s hands, and took his seat at the end of the couch next to Elijah. Silently, they all dug in.

“Fuck, that’s good, Chef,” Matt moaned, sniffling into his soup. “I don’t thingk I’ve had a real mbeal all week.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his sous. “Uh, thanks – I mean, that’s fairly concerning, but thanks anyway,” he said, prompting a laugh from all of them.

Without warning, mid-laugh, Elijah’s breath hitched. “Hh-! HRTSCHHH-ue!” Before he could realize what he was doing, the GM had turned towards Greyson and sneezed, mostly uncovered, into the chef’s face. Belatedly, he covered his face with his hand while Matt and Mark howled in laughter behind him.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, wiping his face with his hand. “Asshole.”

Elijah smiled – the laughter from the two younger chefs was contagious – and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’d say sorry,” he said, “but to be fair, you’re the onde who got us into this mbess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes and smiling. “Whatever. Just eat your soup, dickhead.”

The four of them, squished on the tiny couch like sick little sardines, must have been quite the sight; spilling soup on the expensive couch, coughing into a shared blanket, laughing and shoving each other gently when someone sneezed too close to someone else. From the outside, Elijah was sure that they looked crazy – who the hell came into work the one day they were closed? – but from the vantage point of the couch, he couldn’t think of one single place he’d rather be. In this kitchen, on this couch – with these men. With his family.

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