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[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Flu Shot (M, flu)

Heyyy here I am again, going a month without posting a thing and then posting a fic and running away. This is the fic I did the poll about! In it, Greyson gets the flu and gives it to Elijah, who was supposed to get a flu shot and, shocker, didn't. It takes place 6 months into Elijah and Emily's established relationship, and explores their burgeoning relationship a bit. The boys are v sick in it. It's dual POV - Elijah & Emily, it switches back and forth. It's extremely long. If you read it, I hope you like it! I'd love to hear how people feel about this relationship.

CW: Male snz, male illness, contagion (not purposeful), lots of coughing, fevers, dizziness, all things flu-related. Mention of pneumonia, but nothing scary happens. 7kish words under the cut.

Enjoy :)

Flu Shot

The waiting room was a chorus, a cacophony, of coughing.

“I’m ready for whoever’s next,” Emily said to the charge nurse at the front desk, adjusting her mask so it better fit over her face. “And room two is clean.”

Rhonda, the charge nurse, smiled behind her own mask. “Thanks, Em, for being so quick about it. Maybe if everyone was as on top of it as you, we’d get through this waiting room before shift change.”

Emily hummed out a laugh. “Doubt it,” she said, squirting hand sanitizer onto her palms and rubbing it halfway up her arms. “It’s like a never-ending revolving door in this place lately.”

“Mmm,” said Rhonda, handing Emily a clipboard. “Flu season. My favorite time of year.” She rolled her eyes, prompting a giggle from Emily.

“Yours and mine both, sister,” she said, checking her watch with the clipboard under her arm. Elijah had texted her a good morning.“Hey, I’ll get this next one in just a second, if that’s okay.”

“No worries,” Rhonda said. “Not like they’re going anywhere.”

Emily placed a gentle hand on Rhonda’s shoulder before stepping around the corner and into the employee bathroom. Once there, she pulled her phone out and texted Elijah back – first, a good morning, and then, a reminder to get a flu shot, something he definitely should have already done, right? They had talked about it at least twice. The restaurant was a cesspool when it came to illness, Emily had come to realize in the six months the two of them had been dating. Close quarters, no one able to take a sick day, and long and late hours basically guaranteed that at least one person was sick at any given time, and this flu season really was shaping up to be… intense. Emily bit her lip as she typed; Elijah was a smart guy, with self preservation, she reasoned with herself. Certainly he’d already done it.

Pressing send on the message, she stepped back out into the hallway and grabbed the clipboard again, cracking her neck on the way to the waiting room. Only two hours into the shift, and she was already on her fourth clipboard. It was going to be a long day.

***

good morning <3. hey, random, and I know we talked about it a few weeks ago, but make sure u get ur flu shot if you havent already, its a srsly rough season this year xx

For the tenth time in two minutes, Elijah reread the text from Emily with his heart in his throat. Fuck, he knew he’d been forgetting to do something this past week – now, he remembered what it was. They had talked about flu shots when Emily got hers, courtesy of her work, last month; Elijah had promised he’d get his in the next few weeks, despite how busy the restaurant was. He did not.

Elijah slipped his phone back in his pocket, making a mental note to find the time today or tomorrow to get the shot. It would take less than thirty minutes, he reasoned with himself. Even he had thirty minutes to spare during the day. Thinking better of it, he pulled the phone back out, sitting back in his seat and perusing the closest pharmacy’s website for open flu shot slot times. There was one tomorrow afternoon, three pm – perfect. Before service, after manager meeting, and the pharmacy was barely a five minute walk away. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? Elijah pressed the time he wanted and began filling out his information, when he heard the back kitchen doors open and slam shut.

He heard Greyson before he saw him.

“HTTSHHH-uhh! Hhh… hh -! HRRTXXCH-ue!” The two massive sneezes were followed by a round of coughing, deep and chesty, the type of cough that you hear from the person next to you on the bus and start to hold your breath. Elijah’s head whipped up from his phone, mid-typing. No, he thought to himself, standing to walk toward the sound of Greyson’s suffering, please no.

“That had better not be you, Greyson,” he said, heading towards the back kitchen, phone long forgotten. Elijah thought back to Monday, when Greyson had texted him asking about the place that sold great miso soup near Elliot’s.

It’s called koi fish, Elijah had texted back. Why?

Because Reed was sick. He had the flu, they’d gone to urgent care to confirm, and he was completely miserable and refusing to eat anything. A pit had formed in Elijah’s stomach even then; Greyson, god love him, was absolutely unable to escape anyone near him getting sick without also succumbing. At this point, it was nearly a joke, a bit in the restaurant: if you have a cold, just go breathe near Chef for a minute. He’ll absorb it from you in a matter of moments, and you’ll start to feel better immediately. A rhinovirus succubus.

Please wash your hands while you’re taking care of him, Elijah had texted his friend. Sequester yourself if you have to. We have such a busy week.

Greyson had agreed, said he was being careful. He’d gotten a flu shot! He’d done everything right! He was a chef, he had to update his ServSafe card every five years to prove he knew how to keep his food from making people sick. If anyone knew how to keep from getting sick, surely it was him. And during Tuesday service, he was fine. Elijah thought, stupidly, that maybe they’d made it over the hump, so to speak.

But then yesterday – Wednesday – came around, and he’d been a little off during service. His consonants had been a little muted, his voice a little thin… but surely he was fine. Right? Surely he could make it through one illness his boyfriend had without catching it. Certainly he could.

When Elijah turned the corner into the prep kitchen, his heart, once lodged in his throat, immediately fell to the pit of his stomach. “Jesus Christ,” he said, taking the chef in.

Greyson looked miserable. His coat was zipped up to his neck, the hood slung over his head doing nothing to conceal his red, watering eyes and chapped nose. Clearly he could barely breathe; his mouth hung open, and when the coughs finally settled he was left wheezing into his sleeve, his breath just a catch away from the coughing fit beginning anew. “Hey, boss,” he managed, pulling his sleeve under his running nose. “How goes it?”

“Dude,” Elijah said, crossing his arms from the entrance of the back kitchen. “What did I tell you about sequestering yourself from Reed? Did it look like he was having so much fun on his death bed you needed to join him?”

Shrugging, Greyson turned on the water at the sink and thoroughly washed his hands before turning back to Elijah. “I got mby flu shot,” he wheezed, attempting to clear his throat. “I figured I’d be finde.”

Elijah closed his eyes, gathering himself before responding. “It’s not a magic spell, Grey. If you’re making out with your flu-ridden boyfriend, you’re going to get sick even if you had the shot. Everyone knows that.”

“Huh. Weird. They didn’t teach us that in culindary school. It’s almbost like it’s fuckigg food college. Ndot all of us went to three years of mbed school, Doctor Elijah. Ndot all of us are fuckigg a ndurse. Hh -!” Again, Greyson turned into his coat sleeve bracing himself on the sink with his free hand to keep from falling over. “HRTTTSCHH-ue! Huhh – HUHHTSCHCH-ueee!”

“Christ,” Elijah said, cringing. “Bless you. That sounds fucking painful.”

“It – hh -! Hh… hnng. Snrf. It is,” Greyson said, trying to sniff back some of the congestion and instead coughing hard enough that Elijah felt his chest contract in sympathy. He dipped out of the back kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the beverage fridge in the server station, and brought it back to Greyson, who drank gratefully until the fit abated. The chef took a slow, deep breath, testing the waters of his lungs, and let it back out. He nodded at Elijah, as if to say good for now.

“I’m not a doctor, dickhead,” Elijah said when Greyson regained control. “They literally tell you that when you get the flu shot, don’t they?” Greyson raised an eyebrow.

“Whend’s the last timbe you got a flu shot?” he asked, rubbing his chest with a closed fist. Elijah flushed red and, realizing how close he was to Greyson, took a big step back.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“Clearly,” Greyson said, moving out of the back kitchen and heading towards the office. Reluctantly, Elijah followed him – whether he wanted to sit next to the chef, breathe his germs in, or not, he did have to finish the schedule and the only place to do it was the office. They sat heavily in their chairs, Greyson’s rheumy eyes meeting his boss’s. “And also, I wasnd’t mbaking out with Reed, I was takigg care of himb. Tryigg to be a good boyfriend or whatever.”

“Mmm,” Elijah nodded. “You know you can be a good boyfriend without laying on top of him, yeah? You can take care of him without being attached at the hip.”

Greyson scoffed, coughed, and put his head on his hand, elbow resting on the desk. “Mbaybe you and Embily can take care of each other through a plastic bubble, but that’s ndot how Reed and I fly,” he said, eyes drooping towards closed. Elijah went to answer, but was cut off by a hastily-covered – “HTTSZZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCHHH-uhhh!”

Watching the droplets rush from the chef’s mouth into the air surrounding them in the office, Elijah remembered the disclosure agreement on the bottom of the form he filled out for the flu shot he was clearly going to desperately need. Any persons with cold or flu-like symptoms will not be permitted to receive the flu shot. Shit. He needed to get out of Greyson’s metaphorical splash zone, and quickly.

“Bless you,” he said again, while Greyson pulled a single tissue – then, thinking better, a whole handful – out of the box. “Grey, you are not well enough to be here. You need to go home, when does Matt get in?”

Greyson cringed as well blew his nose. “Yeah, that’s the thigg,” he said, pressing his fingers into his face where his sinuses resided. “Mbatt’s sigck too. I, uh, mbay have recruited himb to help mbe with Reed while Mbark is away.”

Groaning, Elijah sat back in his chair and pulled a hand warily down his face. Fuck. “So he isn’t coming in, then?” he asked, prompting a laugh from Greyson.

“Ndo, he’s combing in. I can’t do this ndight by mbyself, ndot like this. I figured the two of us incapacitated equals about onde of us healthy.”

Great, Elijah thought, giving Greyson an incredulous look. Surrounded by sick people all night. “You’re going to get your whole staff sick,” he warned his friend. Greyson shrugged.

“Is what it is,” he said, pulling another handful of tissues from the box. “Juuhh – just - HNTSZZCHH-uee!” he collapsed forward into the tissues and let out a little moan of frustration, before blowing his nose and tossing them aside. “Just have to tell themb ndot to get too close,” he croaked, coughing into his fist.

“Yeah,” Elijah said, looking down at the confirmation email from the pharmacy. “I’m sure that’ll work perfectly.”

***

Post-shift, and finally back at her Brooklyn fifth floor walk-up, Emily poured herself a glass of wine and sat heavily on the couch. What a day, she thought, downing half the glass in one large gulp.

The twelve-hour shifts she’d agreed to back in July were starting to wear on her. Sure, she only had to work four a week, and eight of those hours were guaranteed overtime, but christ those four days never got any shorter. Not getting back to her apartment until ten p.m. when she left for the day at seven a.m. had her feeling like Elijah and all the other restaurant workers – a creature of the night, relegated to only seeing the outside when it was dark. Less person, more vampire.

Speaking of Elijah, she thought, pulling her phone out and frowning at the screen. Her boyfriend hadn’t texted her since this afternoon, and even that text seemed hasty and distracted. She’d asked how his day was going, and he sent back the emoji that looked like it was gritting its teeth, followed by two words: Had better. To that, she sent a simple ? and had been left on read.

Now, with the restaurant closing in the next half hour, surely Elijah had some time to talk. Without thinking, she clicked on her boyfriend’s contact photo – a very Elijah-coded shot of him mid sip of a cocktail with a hand help up to the camera – and hit the call button.

Almost immediately, Emily was sent to voicemail. Confused, she pulled the phone away from her face and studied it, eyebrows furrowed. Again, she clicked the all button.

Again, voicemail.

This time, though, a text from Elijah popped up.

Elijah

10:21PM

Hey babe, sorry, we’re still finishing up service and Grey had to go so I’m cleaning on the line. Are you okay?

Emily cocked her head to the side at this message. Cleaning on the line? Where the hell did Greyson have to go that meant Elijah had to get on-line? She clicked the text box to reply.

Emily

10:22PM

yes, all good. what happened to greyson?

A few minutes passed before Elijah finally texted back.

Elijah

10:31PM

I sent him home. He and Matt have the flu.

A sigh escaped Emily’s lips as she read her boyfriend’s message. Of course the chefs had the flu. She put her wine glass on the coffee table and typed out another text.

Emily

10:34PM

oof, the worst im sorry. good thing u got the flu shot, right?

Another five full minutes went by without an answer. Finally, as Emily got up to pour herself another glass, a text pinged through. She looked down at the phone – Elijah had ‘liked’ her message, but didn’t send anything back. Emily pressed her lips together and put the phone down. Self-preservation, she thought to herself for the second time that day. He does have it… right?

***

T-minus six hours until the flu shot appointment.

Elijah let himself in through the back door of the restaurant and immediately pulled a hand down his face, still exhausted from the night before. He may as well have not even left; by the time the line was clean and the paperwork was done, it was nearly three in the morning. The seven a.m. wakeup call to come back in had come in the blink of an eye.

Slowly, Elijah made his way to the office at the front of the kitchen, typing out a text to Greyson as he did.

Elijah

8:55AM

Are you alive?

The evening previous, to call Greyson alive would have been more than a stretch. The chef had made it through about half of service, coughing and sneezing and wiping away fever sweat, but by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he was swaying on his feet. Dishes were leaving the kitchen ungarnished, temps unchecked, and seat numbers given to food runners forgone. Elijah knew if they wanted to keep their Michelin star, he needed to send his friend home. Greyson was entirely too sick to put up a fight; he’d yanked his apron off, donned his coat, and left the building without even saying goodbye to the cooks.

In Elijah’s hand, the phone buzzed.

Greyson

9:01AM

barely lol. fevers down tho, so ill be in later. like noon.

Relief washed over Elijah as he read; Greyson was able to text, he was up at nine a.m., he was joking around. Most likely, the worst was behind him.

Elijah

9:02AM

Matt?

Once Greyson was gone, Matt tried to step up to the plate and take over expo, but the poor kid was down just as bad as Greyson, and Elijah had to send him home about thirty minutes after the executive chef. Whatever Reed had passed along to the chefs was fucking lethal.

Greyson

9:05AM

mmm havent heard from him yet. probably not coming in tho. like I wouldnt bet on it

Elijah sighed; well, one was better than none, he supposed.

He stood from the desk and turned to the kitchen, moving slowly to turn on the lights and the gas and to crank up the heat. Outside, snow had begun to fall, and for once he was grateful; maybe it would be a slow evening. Maybe they could all get out and get to bed before three in the morning. Elijah’s bones ached with the desire to crawl up in his bed, Emily’s warm frame wrapped in his arms, nothing to do but listen to the snow outside and… and…

“Hhh…” Elijah’s breath caught, and he pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth to quell the itch in his sinuses. No, he thought, pinching his nose hard between his thumb and pointer finger. Not now.

It would have been a lie to say that Elijah felt… completely put together. Try as he might, he was just unable to ignore his body in the way that Greyson and Matt always seemed to; he was hyper-aware of it, in fact, tuned in to even the smallest twinge of difference. He’d felt it yesterday, just the tiniest bit off; he knew the second he swallowed and it went down a little weird. Oh, he thought to himself as he watched Greyson and Matt cough themselves dizzy. It’s so over.

Then, despite the late night, Elijah had gone home and tossed and turned in his bed from four until six in the morning, unable to breathe out of one nostril or the other, sitting up every few minutes to guzzle water, his throat dry and sticky despite the wild amount of liquid he was ingesting. As he lay pre-feverish in his bed, he thought of Emily. He thought of the busy-as-fuck week they’d had. He thought of Greyson.

Greyson was sick. And Matt was sick. And Elijah was getting a flu shot today, and Emily had warned him about the flu not just yesterday, but multiple times since fall had turned to winter, and he could not be sick. So when his alarm went off at seven, Elijah took the hottest shower he could handle and looked himself in the mirror. “You are fine,” he said to his reflection. “You are not sick.”

Manifesting had always been one of his strong suits, after all. Had he not manifested this life he made for himself? Manifested the restaurant and its accolades? Manifested his nice apartment, his happy life? Sure, some would say that he worked his ass off for it, had scrimped and saved and worked two or even three jobs at a time when he was young, learned how to wire and plumb and interior design when he finally saved enough to buy the restaurant so that he wouldn’t have to pay someone to do everything for him. Some would certainly argue that he even had to work to be happy, to feel deserving of all that he had, but who were they to say those things? It was all manifestation, baby. One hundred perce -

“HXTSH-uhhh! NTSHH-ieuu! Hh - ! HhIGTXTZCH-uee!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneezes into the back of his wrist, an effort that left him groaning at the pain behind his eyeballs. Can’t manifest health, he thought, then quickly pushed the thought away. Yes, he could manifest health. Of course he could. Mind over matter.

Elijah sniffed experimentally, testing to see how congested he really was. The sniffle barely moved any of the sludge beginning to build in his sinuses, and in fact only managed to make the constant buzz at the back of his nose and throat burn stronger. Again, he pinched his nose shut, this time managing to fully stifle two, three – four – shit – five sneezes in rapid succession, leaving him panting and stuffed up to the gills in the wake of the fit. Who the hell was he holding them in for, it’s not like anyone else was here. But Elijah knew, he was doing it to prove a point to himself – that he was well, that he was fine, that this afternoon he would be allowed by the pharmacy to get the flu shot. Manifesting. That was the reason. He checked his watch, and sighed.

Five hours, twenty-five minutes until the appointment.

***

Emily was sure this week was never going to end.

Eight hours into her fourth twelve-hour shift in a row, and she was the kind of tired you feel in the depths of your bones. The waiting room never got less full. The people never got kinder. At every new patient, every new throat she had to swab and temperature she had to take, she could feel herself untethering more and more. It was barely December – was this going to be the way it was all winter? She shuddered at the thought. Maybe she needed to take a mid-winter vacation.

Also, why the fuck wasn’t Elijah texting her back?

For the third time that hour, Emily checked her phone. No text from Elijah. She checked his location – still at the restaurant. It was two p.m., for god’s sake, it’s not like they were in service. What the hell was he doing?

The thought that she had often, the one she got whenever things seemed to be going well in a relationship, slipped into the back of her mind. Maybe he’s just done. Emily bit her cheek at the thought; much as she wished she could count it out, call it nonsense… it would honestly make sense. Elijah was chronically single, as Greyson put it when they all went out back at the beginning of her and Elijah’s flirtation.

“I mean, same,” Emily had said, smiling. Greyson had put his drink down on the bar top, turned away from the seat Elijah had just left to go use the bathroom, and looked at Emily, his face set into a serious look.

“No, like… look, Emily, Elijah does really like you. And like, I’ve known him for almost ten years and he’s never liked anyone, so that’s huge. But when I say he’s chronically single, I mean he doesn’t know how to be in a relationship. At all. He’s quite literally married to that restaurant. He’s there over a hundred hours a week.” He’d picked the drink back up, swallowed the remainder of it, and shrugged at her. “Just… I mean, just don’t be surprised if he picks it. When he picks it. He picks it over everything. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That had stuck with her, much as she didn’t want it to. Emily wasn’t the type of person who needed constant validation, truly; she was independent, she loved her space, and she knew Elijah was the same. It was something she enjoyed about their relationship, the fact that they didn’t have to be in constant contact or see each other more than once a week. It worked for them. But she couldn’t deny, six months into the relationship, that Greyson was right: Elijah did pick the restaurant over everything. Dates were often canceled, sometimes at the very last minute, and holidays and birthdays were a moot point. Elliot’s came first, always. And that was okay with her, really, she understood. Elliot’s was Elijah’s lifeblood, what he’d always dreamed of. She was proud that he was so passionate.

She just wished, sometimes, that he could be… more human about their relationship. Like now. When he was refusing to text back. She looked down at their text thread again – three texts from her, sent hours apart, two this morning and one an hour ago on her lunch break. No response. Fucker, she thought, annoyed. Again, the thought: maybe he’s just done. Emily sighed, clicked her phone off, and put it back in her pocket, heading towards the front for another patient clipboard.

Maybe. But she really, really hoped not.

***

“Elijah.”

“Sshh. I dond’t wandt to hear it.”

“Lij, c’mbon mban, you kndow they’re ndot going to let you -”

“Greysond. Shut the fuck up. Can you watch the servers for an hour while I’mb gone?”

“I mbean -”

“Can you?”

Greyson gave Elijah a withering, pitiful look. “Obviously I can,” he said, coughing into his elbow. “But you’re quite literally about to be turned away at the door,” he finished, voice croaky and waterlogged. Elijah placed an overly warm hand onto his own throat to keep from dissolving into his own coughing fit. He shook his head.

“I wond’t,” he said, “because I’mb ndot sick.”

The day had been… humbling, to say the least. Elijah had tried his best all morning to heed off the oncoming illness; downing tea and ignoring the constant itch in his sinuses, sucking on endless lozenges and then finally, after a couple hours of insisting to himself that he did not need it, giving in and shooting back double the recommended dose of dayquil. By the time Greyson trudged in at noon, Elijah could feel the mask slipping more and more with each passing minute.

“Oh, ndo,” Greyson said when he walked into the office and found Elijah doubled over into his elbow, coughing up a lung. “You sound like fuckigg shit.”

Painfully, Elijah rolled his eyes at his friend. “Pot, kettle,” he said, yanking a tissue out of the nearly depleted box just in time to – “HRRTSHHH-uhh!”

Greyson grimaced while Elijah blew his nose uselessly. “Bless you,” Greyson said. In return, Elijah flipped him off. “Sorry.”

Annoyed, Elijah tossed the tissue into the trash can by their chairs and squirted hand sanitizer onto his hands. “How are you feeligg?” he asked, ignoring Greyson’s blessing.

“Bad. But probably better thand you.”

Elijah deadpanned his friend, pushed up his glasses, and sat back in his chair, an attempt to look blasé. “I feel finde,” he said, trying to clear the congestion from his voice. “I amb fine.”

A soupy-sounding laugh escaped Greyson’s lips, followed by a crunching, painful cough that lasted entirely too long for Elijah’s liking. Despite his aching limbs, the GM pushed himself to a stand and went to the server station to make Greyson a tea, sickly sweet with honey, the only way the chef would drink it. By the time he returned to the office, Greyson had managed to collect himself.

“Thangks,” he said, taking a sip. “Where’s yours?”

Without meaning to, Elijah’s eyes panned over to the two empty coffee cups by his computer monitor. Greyson smiled and hummed to keep from laughing, to save his fucked-up lungs. “You sound like you have fuckigg pneumonia,” Elijah said, an attempt to change the subject. Shrugging, Greyson sipped his tea.

“Ndah,” he said, rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand. “Reed sounded the sambe the first few days; I’mb okay. Pneumonia feels way worse thand this.” If he wasn’t worried about collapsing into his own coughing fit, Elijah would have laughed.Only Greyson would have that reference point.

“You’re sickly. Like a Victoriand child. Has andyone ever told you that?”

Greyson raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said, a smile dancing on his lips. “I thingk that’s fairly well-established. I also thingk,” he said, reaching over to press the back of his hand to Elijah’s forehead, “that you’re deflecting.”

Elijah tried to pull away quickly, but his reflexes were slowed by the ache in his joints. “I’mb getting a flu shot at three, and they wond’t give it to you if you have...symptoms,” he said swatting at his friend’s hand, a poor attempt to ward off the accusation of illness. “I cand’t be sick.”

“Uhh,” Greyson said, pressing his lips together. “I mbean, I thingk your body doesn’t really give a fugck about what your plans for a flu shot were. Clearly,” he said, motioning to the GM as if he was flu-incarnate. “Also, didn’t Embily tell you to get a flu shot, like, two mbonths ago? Why are you just ndow going?”

A flush burned across Elijah’s face. “I mbay have forgotten. Like. Every time she said it.”

Greyson bit his cheek, a laugh catching in his throat. “You’re a bad boyfriend,” he joked, kicking Elijah.

“I’mb workigg on ihh – hh…” Elijah’s hand flew up to his nose, once again pinching it to keep the sneeze at bay. Not just to prove that he wasn’t ill – though that reason still stood – but because they were just exhausting. Grating and throat-scraping and seemingly endless. Before the chef had arrived, he found himself doubled over, sneezing so hard that his vision began to dance at the corners of his eyes. Passing out was not in the cards today.

“Good luck with that,” Greyson said, turning away from his boss to turn his computer on. Then, as he watched Elijah struggle out of the corner of his eye – “Lij, just let yourself -”

“HRTSCHHH-uee! GTSXXCHH-uhh! HhhhITSZCHHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-uhhh! Huh -! HuhhhETSZCHH-uee!” Again, Elijah found himself doubled over into his lap, the sneezes painfully and uncharacteristically unrestrained. Panting, he grabbed the last three tissues from the box and wiped himself up, afraid blowing would set him off again. He coughed into the handful of tissues, swallowing compulsively to try and make the fit stop quicker.

“Wow,” Greyson said. “There is ndo way in hell they’re goigg to let you get that flu shot.”

The next few hours had gone as terribly as Elijah could’ve imagined they would; he felt like fucking dog water, a descriptor the servers loved to use that felt so apt he couldn’t help but pick it up. Sludgey, tepid, nasty. The fever he’d felt warming the back of his neck at the beginning of the day now felt like it was boiling his brain, turning it into soup. The cough felt constant, and he suddenly understood why Greyson was spending so much time rubbing his chest – it hurt, hurt like a gorilla was sat between his neck and stomach. And then, there was the – the…

“IGTSZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCCHH-ieuu! Huh -! Huhh…! HuhhhETSZCHH-ieuu!”

“Bless you, Elijah.” Matt, who they thought wasn’t going to make it in, had come around two, and pointedly blessed his boss literally every time he sneezed. Greyson, who had given up on getting Elijah to admit to having the flu, had stopped an hour in and gone to the back kitchen to prep. Matt wasn’t giving up nearly as easily.

“Boss, you ndeed to take some more medicinde,” Matt said placing the dayquil that he and Greyson had just taken doses of on the desk beside Elijah. The GM shook his head.

“’m okay,” he said around the congestion in his throat. “Thangks.”

Matt sighed stuffily and shook his head. “I’ll leave it there just in case,” he said, turning to go back to prepping the line.

The cherry on top of this shitty day, though, was Emily texting him.

Emily

8:41AM

morning <3 hope you have a good day

Emily

10:12AM

are greyson & matt coming in today? fingers crossed it isnt too busy tonight!

Emily

1:20PM

this place is a fucking madhouse. think im getting misophonia from hearing so much coughing lmao

Emily

2:48PM

hellooo? earth to elijahhh

He wanted to text back, truly, but every time he opened their text thread he felt that familiar sense of dread; he’d promised her he’d get a flu shot, promised he’d stay healthy. And, of course, he’d managed to somehow fuck it up. There was little more he wanted than to text her, I’m down so fucking bad can you please come to my house tonight? To say, I feel like I’m dying and all I want is to be in bed with you. But he didn’t; he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to her.

And now it was nearly three, and Greyson was stood in front of him telling him he was going to be turned away from the pharmacy. Which of course he was right, of course he was sick, but for Emily and for his own stupid pride, he just could not admit it.

“I’m ndot sick,” he said to Greyson again, donning his coat and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So please, watch the servers. I’ll be back whend I’mb done at the pharmacy. Okay?”

Greyson just shook his head, obviously too tired and annoyed to continue to fight his friend. “Whatever, Elijah,” he said. “Good fuckin’ luck, bro.”

***

Thirty more minutes, Emily thought to herself. You can do anything for thirty minutes.

It had been just about the longest day of her life; she had to get off these twelves, they were quite literally sucking the life out of her. The stream of patients refused to let up, and all she wanted was a hot shower and a fat cocktail. And maybe Elijah to text her back, but at this point even that was neither here nor there.

“Em,” Rhonda called to her as she put yet another finished patient clipboard at the front desk. Emily grimaced at the sound of her name. Please, please don’t need anything from me.

“What’s up?” she said, trying to sound bright and happy, not like she was ready to lob someone’s head off. She walked towards Rhonda, who was holding yet another fucking clipboard.

“Room three was asking if you’re around,” she said, handing over the clipboard. Emily couldn’t help herself; she groaned aloud.

“Can Paul just tell them I left? Please? I only have thirty minutes left, Rhon. I’m so done.”

Rhonda shrugged. “Paul already said that you’re here, doll. Sorry. Just tell the guy you’re about to be off, let him know you’ll put the night lead on him if he’s so worried.” She held the clipboard out a little more forcefully, prompting Emily to, begrudgingly, take it.

“Fine,” she said, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “But if it’s that weirdo from last week who kept pretending to have a broken leg to see me, I’m calling the cops.”

Rhonda laughed. “Show ’em how it’s done,” she said. “I’ll take your name off the board for the rest of the shift.”

“You’re my hero,” Emily said.

Without looking at the clipboard – she could hear the coughing from the hallway, at this point she could diagnose the flu in her sleep – Emily knocked on the door of room three. She adjusted her mask, squirted some hand sanitizer on, and pushed through the heavy door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. -” she glanced down at the clipboard then, and stopped in her tracks. At the top of the patient intake form: Elijah Morrison. Emily’s head shot up from the clipboard and – oh.

There, on the paper-lined bench, sat her obviously very ill boyfriend. Beneath his glasses, Elijah’s eyes were lined with bags, his cheeks and nose scarlet from fever and constant rubbing, respectively. As she walked toward him, he removed the elbow he was coughing into and attempted a smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, his voice low and scratchy with illness. “I, uh… I thingk I mbight have the flu.”

A wave of deja vu passed over her, and Emily couldn’t help but to smile as she pulled down her mask. “Hmm, do you think?” she asked, placing a cool hand on Elijah’s hot forehead. “Jesus, baby. You’re burning up. What the hell are you doing here?”

Elijah managed a little laugh without coughing. “Grey wouldn’t let mbe combe back to work, said I’mb gonna scare off mby own customers. And I wanted to see you.” Ever the charmer, even when he’s on death’s door, Emily thought, shaking her head. “Is this how you talk to all your patiendts, by the way?” Elijah asked, grinning goofily – oof, that had to be a high fever for him to be making that face. “Kinda undhinged,” he said, tugging playfully at the braid she had hastily done this morning. Emily rolled her eyes, gave Elijah a little push.

“Yeah, that’s how most patients describe my bedside manner. ‘Kinda unhinged’,” she said, making Elijah laugh and then cough again, grating and painful. She stepped briefly into the hall to grab a cup of water for him, catching Rhonda’s eye as she did. Rhonda raised an eyebrow, pulled down her mask. I thought you were passing him off? She mouthed.

Emily sighed, shrugged. “It’s Elijah,” she said. Rhonda eyes grew to saucers. She shooed Emily back towards the room with her hand.

“I’ll mark the room as unavailable until you leave,” she said. Emily smiled. Truly the best, she thought as she walked back in and handed Elijah the cup. He drained it, finally catching his breath.

“Thangk you,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I’mb sorry.” Emily pressed her eyebrows together, confused.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked, taking his temperature and using the light on the otoscope to look into his ears and throat. Temp was high – 103.2 – but no ear infection, and it didn’t look like strep, so she put her tools down. “I can see why Greyson wouldn’t let you back, jesus,” she joked, hopping up on the bed to sit beside her boyfriend. “No need to apologize – I figured you’d probably end up sick, since Greyson is. You two are on top of each other like ninety percent of the time.”

Elijah shrugged, rubbing his nose and eyes – was he about to cry? Distraught, Emily started to say something, to take it back, when Elijah wrenched to the side, away from her.

“HHRDDTSCHH-ieuuu! RRTSCHH-uee! HTSZZZCHH-ieuu! Hh… hhITSZCCCH-uhhh!” Elijah folded in on himself over and over, the paroxysms so intense that they nearly moved the bed beneath them. Finally, Elijah sniffled, out of breath, and Emily jumped down to hand him a box of tissues.

“Thangk you,” Elijah said, stuffily. Emily nodded.

“Bless you,” she said as he blew his nose. “That sounded… painful.” Elijah laughed as he wiped his nose.

“That’s exactly what I said to Grey yesterday,” he croaked. Emily smiled.

“And?”

“And they are. Paindful. He said as mbuch.” Elijah shrugged. “He didn’t lie.”

“Mmm,” Emily hummed, placing the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and listening to Elijah’s crackling lungs. “You need to rest, by the way,” she said, taking the buds out and slinging the stethoscope around her neck to hold with both hands. “Your lungs sound rough. That could easily develop into walking pneumonia.”

“I also said that to Greysond,” Elijah laughed. Emily smiled again, a little sadly.

“It sounds like both of you need a day off,” she said, pointedly. A nod, a shrug from Elijah.

“Probably,” he said. There was a beat, then, a moment of silence before Emily couldn’t help herself.

“So, I assume you didn’t get a flu shot, like I told you to?” she asked, trying to play it off as light and playful, despite her worry. If Elijah didn’t get a flu shot, this was about to be a rough week for him. She made a mental note to ask when his symptoms started, to see if she could get him on Tamiflu. Elijah cringed.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why I was apologizing. I, uh, actually wendt to go get onde this afterndoon. But… they turned mbe away.” He smiled goofily again, shrugging. “Said you cand’t have a fever and get it.”

Emily pressed her lips together. “I could’ve told you that,” she said, sitting next to him again. “If you just asked.” Elijah nodded, turned to look at her.

“I’mb sorry,” he said. “I didn’t wandt you to worry. Or thingk I don’t listen to you. It just slipped mby mbind. But I should’ve just done it. I’mb sorry.”

Placing her hands on either side of Elijah’s hot face, Emily gently massaged his sinuses, nodded before he closed his eyes in relief. “Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked. One of Elijah’s eyes opened, just a bit.

“How could I forget,” he said. “I thingk it was ind this very roomb.”

“It was room nine. But close enough.”

Elijah smiled, hummed. “Dond’t mbake mbe laugh,” he said, closing his eye again. “Hurts.”

“Sorry,” Emily said, continuing to massage. “Do you know what I said to Rhonda, after you left that first time I saw you?”

“Mmmb?”

“‘That’s the hottest sick man I’ve ever met. I’d hate to see him well. It would be too much for my heart to handle’.”

This time, both of Elijah’s eyes popped open. “Yeah?” he asked. Emily nodded. “Well, Grey was basically mbarrying us the whole rest of the day. Called mbe ‘Mbister Doctor Embily’.” Emily’s face flushed – what happened to ‘he’s married to the restaurant’? – and Elijah chuckled. “That whole saga was so embarrassing,” he said, leaning his face onto Emily’s hand. He looked at her earnestly, then. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Emily’s heart thumped in her chest, butterflies swimming in the pit of her stomach. Maybe he’s just done, she’d thought earlier, but that wasn’t true. This man, this passionate and stubborn man… he couldn’t be just done. She wasn’t sure how she’d thought he could. “Lij?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Elijah looked into her eyes, his bloodshot and watery. His nose was running, just a little, his glasses askew from leaning on her hand. She’d spent all day annoyed at sick people, going from room to room to room wishing them all away, but somehow Elijah – sick Elijah, contagious and fluish Elijah – erased all of them, the whole day’s worth. Sick or well, she could look into his eyes all day long. “You’ll get sick,” he croaked out, sniffling. She nodded, brought his face close.

“I could use a day off,” she said, bringing his face close and pressing her lips to his, the kiss too warm and too wet and somehow perfect, the perfect kiss for the moment. He kissed back, hungrily, until he had to pull away to breathe.

“Thangk you,” he said. “And sorry. For giving you the flu.”

Emily pushed Elijah’s sweaty hair out of his face. “It’s okay,” she said. “It won’t be too bad. After all – I got my flu shot.”

This time, Elijah laughed in earnest, ending again in a crackly cough. “Touché, baby,” he said when he got himself back together. “Touché.”

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Nowhere to Hide (M, illness)

Would you guys believe me if I told you this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble? Hahahahah who the hell do I think I am??

This is a Matt & Mark fic, told in Matt's POV, which I don't think I've ever written in before. In it, Mark is sick and tries to hide it from Matt, which works exactly as well as you'd think it would. Guys, I have been writing this one alllll week which is so unlike me, and I think working on it over an extended period paid off because I honestly like it quite a bit. Matt's head was SO fun to get into, and Mark is SO fun to write miserable because he's awful at being miserable. It's a bit of a behemoth and there's no snz until over 2k words in (apologies), but I really think it's one of my better fics. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, please let me know your thoughts :) :)

CW: Male snz, male illness, coughing, fever, dizziness, illness denial, chance of contagion. Sappiness. Whump. Angst. The usual. Unedited for the most part because I need to get it out and have no more time this week to look at it lol. 6.5k words under the cut.

Nowhere to Hide

Bzz, bzz.

On a Monday in May, five months after making their relationship official, Mark texted Matt to cancel their date that night. From the second he glanced at the text, Matt knew something was up.

10:21AM

Mark

hey babe, can we reschedule tonight? forgot I promised ben that I would help him with promo materials for the gig they have next week :/ I know its last minute, im sorry!!

Matt furrowed his eyebrows at his phone, the inside of his cheek held between his top and bottom teeth in concentration. Huh.

10:22AM

Matt

ofc we can reschedule :) but im also happy to help with promo stuff!! I took that graphic design class in highschool, remember? and I mean ive been hoping to meet ben, since hes like. your only friend lmao

Mark didn’t respond; generally, he was the type to answer immediately, the bubbles on the bottom of their chat popping up almost the second that Matt’s message was sent. Today, though, the message didn’t even get read for almost five minutes. Again, Matt’s face pinched with worry. His boyfriend was absolutely not the type to cancel a date and then abandon his phone – quite the opposite, honestly. If anything, Matt figured Mark would have responded quicker than he usually did, falling over himself with unnecessary apologies and berating himself for forgetting something like this. After seven minutes went by, Matt unlocked his phone again and stared at their chat. Mark had read his message.

Patience was not one of the virtues Matt possessed. When the bubbles didn’t pop up a minute after Mark read his text, Matt pressed the video button to FaceTime his boyfriend.

Within three seconds, the call was rejected. Matt gave his phone a look of disbelief – no shot Mark rejected his call. No way. He pressed the video button again.

Brrm, brrm. Boop. Rejected.

What the fuck.

10:37AM

Matt

???

10:37AM

Matt

did I say something wrong? why are you ignoring my calls?

The texts were read immediately. This time, Mark started typing.

10:38AM

Mark

no!! im sorry, im just out right now, im driving. lets have you meet ben another day, if thats ok baby? I just know he wants to lock in on the promo stuff and I don’t want him like ignoring you or smthn and then you both hate each other

Matt read the text over twice. Was Mark high or something?

10:38AM

Matt

ur driving? since when do you have a car?

The text stream went silent again. Beneath the pajama shirt he was wearing – Mark’s old shirt, a Duluth tee that was near threadbare and smelled like his shampoo – Matt started to sweat. What was really going on here? Mark never canceled anything with Matt, not even if he was busy. They’d run errands together, been to Restaurant Supply in the middle of a date for Elijah and Greyson. Hell, Mark hadn’t even canceled a date post an all-nighter helping Elijah do inventory after a crazy service. Now he couldn’t do a date because he was going to be helping Ben? He was driving in Manhattan? Or… was he not in the city, did Ben live in the burbs? Matt couldn’t remember any details Mark had given him about his high school buddy, the only guy Mark ever hung out with outside the other restaurant employees. Had they had some sort of… fling in high school?

Was… was Mark cheating on him?

The thought sent a pang through his chest that felt like he’d been pierced by an arrow. A lump formed in the back of his throat, and immediately tears welled in his eyes. He was moments away from calling again, when a new text from Mark popped up in their chat.

10:41AM

Mark

sorry, I meant im on the train. little out of it today lol, I guess anothee reason to reschedule?

And now he was sending texts with typos. Mark, Matt’s Type-A boyfriend (was there something beyond Type A? Type Pre-A? Type A-Plus?) was hastily sending misspelled texts and mistakenly saying he was driving when he wasn’t. Something here didn’t add up. Sighing heavily through his nose, Matt typed out a message back.

10:42AM

Matt

are you ok?

Sure, they’d only been together officially for a few months, but Matt and Mark had known one another for years. Matt figured they’d been close for long enough that he could cut through the bullshit. And this? This situation was fucking bullshit.

10:43AM

Mark

im ok baby, sorry for canceling and being confusing. everything is fine, pls don’t worry :) ill see you at work tommoro ok?

At this second typo, Matt closed their chat and stood from his bed. He pulled on the closest pair of jeans he could find, keeping the sleep shirt on and donning a hoodie over top it. He needed some air.

***

“Wow, one day off in the last ten days and you’re calling me. I’m honored, really. I didn’t realize you loved work this much. Care to come in tonight?”

Matt, twenty blocks from his house at a patio table at his favorite coffee shop, rolled his eyes so hard he was sure Greyson could hear it through the phone. “Fuck off, Chef,” he said, sipping his latte. On the other end, Greyson laughed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” his boss asked, the bustle of the kitchen preparing for service a constant hum behind him. Matt sighed through his nose, tracing the outline of his coffee cup with a finger.

“I think Mark might be cheating on me,” he said, his voice low. Before he could even really register what he’d said, Greyson guffawed.

“Mark? Are we talking about the same Mark who can’t keep his hands off of you for three seconds to get through a service? The one who leaves those gay-ass little poems in your apron every day? That Mark?”

“I don’t think you can say ‘gay-ass’ like that, Chef. I think people frown on that now.”

“Why? I’m a gay-ass. You’re a gay-ass. Mark’s a gay-ass. The poems are gay-ass.” Greyson said, the sound of a Kitchenaid being thunked on the prep table obnoxiously loud behind him. “It’s a descriptor at that point. Not a slur.”

Matt couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “You’re certainly an ass,” he said, prompting another laugh from his boss.

“Whatever,” Greyson said, turning on the noisy Kitchenaid and yelling into the phone. “All I’m saying is I would sooner bet on the moon being made of fucking brie before I’d bet on Mark cheating on you. What the fuck even happened?”

Leaning back in the patio chair, Matt squeezed his temples between a thumb and forefinger. “He’s being fucking bizarre, that’s all. He canceled our date for tonight, said he’s doing some random thing with his friend, and when I asked if I could just join him he started acting weird. He’s ignoring my calls, avoiding me. Texting fucking typos, if you can believe that. It’s just all…” Matt blew air out from between his closed lips, a soft pbbtt sound escaping them. “It’s just… weird. I dunno.”

For a moment, the other end of the line was silent, save for Greyson steadily chopping and Elijah coming up to ask who’s on the phone?

“Tell Elijah I said hi,” Matt said.

“Matt says hi.”

Why the fuck is Matt calling you?

“He thinks Mark is cheating on him.”

In the background, Elijah snorted out a laugh. Put him on speaker. Then, more clearly, “Matt, Mark is not cheating on you.”

“Greyson, can you not keep anything to yourself?” Matt asked, frustrated. “Seriously.”

“Sorry,” Greyson laughed. “I figured Elijah didn’t count as telling someone.” A thunk in the background, then an ow! as Elijah smacked Greyson. Matt groaned. Again, he relayed the story while Elijah listened on.

“Hmm,” Elijah hummed, thinking. “Have you gone to his house?”

Matt rolled his eyes. What a boomer, he thought, though he kept it to himself. “No, he said he isn’t home,” he said. “He was on the train or in a car or in some guy’s bed.”

Elijah huffed out another laugh. “Yeah, so you said. But I mean… Mark isn’t known for being a great liar. And while you’re right, this all sounds like a lie, I agree with Greyson. Mark would rather eat glass than cheat on, like, a spelling test. I think he’d pass away before he’d cheat on you. So I mean… maybe just like… go there? See if he’s there? Because I’d assume he’s just, like, having a freak out over something. Panicking over whether you really like him or whatever, you know how he is. I doubt he’s even left the apartment today.”

While Matt hated to admit it, that did sound like something Mark would do. He let a beat go by before he answered the two older men waiting on the other end. “Alright,” he said, standing. “Okay, yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll… I’ll head over there.”

Greyson made a noise of approval. “Good man,” he said, his voice becoming clearer as he took Matt off of speakerphone. “And hey, he lives so close to the restaurant, if he doesn’t answer you could always pop in and run middle for me!”

At this, Matt snorted. “Yeah, Chef, sure. Thanks, asshole.”

“Welcome!” Greyson sang. “Good luck. Tell Mark we said ‘mwah, mwah.”

Matt rolled his eyes, hung up the phone. He pulled up his his uber app and typed Mark’s address in. It’ll be fine, he thought to himself, everything will be fine.

***

This is a mistake.

As Matt’s uber pulled up to Mark’s apartment building, he felt his insides twist like they were being coiled into a balloon animal. He nodded to the driver and stepped out of the car, his heart thumping wildly, and stood silently at the front door, trying to work up the nerve to push the call button for Mark’s apartment. Why had he done this? Why did he listen to his old-ass bosses?

“Just go to his house,” Matt mumbled mockingly under his breath. “The hell is wrong with me.”

Instead of pressing the call button, Matt took a picture of the call box outside of Mark’s apartment and sent it in their text stream. Surprise? He typed out under the picture, and sent that as well. In his chest, his heart hammered ever harder.

Unlike this morning, the three dots popped up in their chat immediately after Matt’s picture went through.

Mark

12:32PM

?

Mark

12:32PM

are you at my apartment?

“Fuuckk,” Matt muttered, pulling a hand down his face. Of course Mark would be pissed; who just showed up at someone else’s house, unbidden? This wasn’t the fucking eighties. Leaning on the wall of the apartment building, Matt attempted to fix what he’d done.

Matt

12:33PM

uhhh, maybe? lol.

Matt

12:33PM

you seemed a little weird this morning over text...i just wanted to make sure ur ok

Matt

12:34PM

sorry, I know that’s kinda weird. but could I come up? just to say hi?

He waited. The bubbles took a moment to pop up after he sent his last text, but – finally – pop up they did. It took a few tries, but eventually Matt heard the bzzz of the front door unlocking. On his phone, Mark replied.

Mark

12:36PM

ok. juust don’t judge the mess. hjaha

Matt clicked his phone off, the lump of worry resurfacing as he clocked more typos from his boyfriend. Maybe Mark was drunk? Elijah may have clocked it; some sort of mental health crisis day might have been underway. Maybe it’s good I came, he thought, climbing the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor. Maybe this is what he needs.

When he got to Mark’s front door, though, he hesitated. It was still weird, right? That he’d come? And when Mark asked why he’d really shown up here unannounced, what would he say? I’m a jealous little baby who wanted to make sure you weren’t fucking around on me? That didn’t sound great, honestly.

But also… he was worried. This was part of it, right? Part of loving someone. Part of being serious – you checked on each other. You reached out to each other. Matt pulled in a deep breath through his nose; he was here. Mark knew he was here. No choice but to follow through now. He knocked on the door.

It took a moment, but eventually the door clicked open to a Mark unlike Matt had ever seen him before. He was so shocked by his boyfriend’s appearance, Matt couldn’t help but mutter an “Oh,” as they made eye contact.

“C’mbon in,” Mark muttered, clearly embarrassed. “Sorry againd.”

Matt stepped inside and took in both his boyfriend and the surrounding apartment. Mark’s impossibly tall frame was stooped, his hair unwashed and greasy in his face. Around them, the apartment was certainly a mess; takeout containers and gatorade bottles littered the kitchen, the blinds were half-drawn, and on the couch there were a mess of blankets that Mark had clearly just emerged from.

Matt had never seen Mark like this; was this a mental health crisis? He took in his boyfriend’s face, the two of them not moving from the entry of the apartment. His bright blue eyes were watery, like he’d been crying, and he was deathly pale; shit. What am I supposed to do?

“Are… are you okay, baby?” Matt finally asked, a question that felt ridiculous given the state of his boyfriend. Mark attempted a smile, before his face faded into a look that Matt didn’t recognize. Oh, fuck, is he about to cry? Fix it, dumb ass, fix it!

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, “I mean, it’s fine if you’re not okay, I was just -”

“HUHTZCHH-uhh! NnGTZCH-ue!”

Mark wrenched into a crumpled tissue Matt hadn’t realized he was holding, the sneezes tearing out of him painfully. He stayed there for a moment, turned away from his boyfriend, as a flurry of congested coughs escaped him. When Mark righted himself, his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, the tissue hidden in a fist. Ohhh.

“Bless you,” Matt said, carefully. Swallowing hard enough for his adam’s apple to bob up and down his throat, Mark nodded. “You’re sick,” Matt mused, not moving from his spot. Mark coughed out a laugh.

“What gave it away?” he managed, swaying lightly on his feet. Feeling bold, Matt took three steps across the entryway and slid an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. Their height difference was always comical – Greyson loved to make fun of them for it – but today, it felt almost dangerous. Mark was really swaying, clearly unable to stand for much longer, and Matt wasn’t sure if he’d be able to catch his boyfriend if he came toppling down. He held tight.

“Can we sit?” Matt asked, sagging under Mark’s weight. Mark nodded slowly, groggily.

“Yeah,” he said, untangling himself from Matt’s grip. “Sorry, yeah, let’s sit.”

Carefully, Matt guided Mark back to his blanket nest and sat him down as gently as possible, flopping down next to him in the process. “You mbay wahh – hh… ngh. Wandt to sit a little further awahhh – hhETSZCH-ue! Snf. ’Scuse mbe,” Mark grabbed a tissue from the box that was set on the coffee table in front of them, turned away to quietly blow his nose.

“Bless you,” Matt said again, ignoring his boyfriend’s warning. “Baby, why didn’t you just tell me you were sick?”

Mark attempted a smile, wiping the tissue beneath his nose gently. “Didn’t, uh… didn’t want to worry you,” he managed, clearing his throat. Matt scoffed.

“Babe, I hate to break it to you, but you sending cryptic-ass texts with typos galore was far more worrying than knowing that you’re sick,” he said, pushing Mark’s sweaty hair off of his face. Christ, he was burning up.

Beneath Matt’s hand, Mark visibly relaxed. “Feels good,” he muttered, eyes closed. Matt moved his hand down his boyfriend’s face, cupping his hot, dry cheek. They really needed to get that fever down.

“Have you taken anything?” Matt asked, voice low. Mark shrugged.

“Didn’t have andything,” he said, sniffling. “Onesec – hhhITSZCH-uhh! HIIITCH-uee!” Again, Mark collapsed into the near-ruined tissue, pained coughs on the tail of even more painful-sounding sneezes. Matt winced at the pinched, crunching sound.

“You sound fucking awful, babe,” he said, rubbing Mark’s back in slow circles. “We really need to get you something for that fever. How did you get so fuckin’ sick, like, overnight? You seemed fine at work yesterday.”

If it was even possible, Mark’s fever-reddened face deepened in color. “Umb,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “I, uh… I’mb pretty good at, like. Hiding it?” He pushed his palms into his sweatpants, avoiding Matt’s gaze. “I’ve felt off for, umb. I dunno. A couple days?”

Matt blanched at this admission. “A couple days? Baby, seriously, why would you hide that from me? Or Elijah or Chef? I mean, if Elijah knew you were sick I’m sure he would’ve sent you home. Did you feel this shitty yesterday?”

“Ndo. I felt okay, today is the worst so faahhh… snrf. So far – hh-! HhNTSZCHH-uhh!” This time, Mark didn’t have the wherewithal to fold into the tissue, opting instead to sneeze into his own lap and wipe his hands over the spray left there. Against his better judgment, Matt pulled a handful of tissues out of the box; a few to hand to Mark to clean himself up, and a few for Matt to wipe off his boyfriend’s pants. Mark flinched at the touch.

“Don’t,” he said, gently pushing Matt’s hands away. “You’ll get sigck.”

“Baby, I don’t care if I get sick, I think that’s what you’re not understanding. I would rather get sick a thousand times over than know you’re alone in your apartment with no medicine, sick as a dog. I’d rather get sick as fuck than know you’ve hidden feeling shitty from me for days on end. That hurts, Mark. I don’t give a fuck about getting sick, Greyson infects the rest of us like once a month, minimum.” He held his boyfriend’s face between his palms then, the heat radiating into his hands. “I really just want to be there for you. Okay?”

Mark opened his mouth to answer, but his face dissolved into a now-familiar one before he could. Before Matt could remove his hands from the other man’s face, Mark crushed his nose into his own shoulder, attempting to stifle. “Hhh-TXCH! NGTSH-uhh! HRXTSH-ue!” Another gurgling, helpless sniffle. Another grating, congested cough. Matt sighed; this conversation was going to have to wait until Mark was medicated, that much was obvious.

“Bless you, babe,” Matt said, handing the box of tissues on the coffee table to his boyfriend. “Okay, enough of this conversation. I need to go to the pharmacy and pick you up some shit. You’re fuckin’ dying.”

This snapped Mark out of his stupor; his head shot up, bloodshot eyes locking desperately with Matt’s. “Ndo, ndo babe you don’t ndeed to get mbe anything. I’mb fine, really, please don’t -”

“Mark,” Matt interrupted, a gentle hand placed on his boyfriend’s bouncing knee. “Honey. I say this with love: chill out. I’m not being put out by you or whatever. I want to get you medicine. Alright? Where’s the closest pharmacy to here?”

Defeated, Mark shrugged. Helpful, Matt thought, pulling out his phone and -

“Fuck, you live close to, like, nothing,” he muttered, scrolling through the results google pulled up. “Why is it all fancy-people areas have nothing helpful around? There’s not even, like a grocery store within a ten-block radius.”

“Butlers?” Mark offered, prompting a snort from Matt.

“How could I forget about butlers?” he asked, clicking through the apps on his phone. “Okay, either I can order a doordash that’ll be here in… fuck, two hours? This area, I swear to god… okay, not that. I can walk to this Duane Reed, and be back in like… an hour and a half?” He glanced up at Mark, whose white face and wet eyes betrayed exactly how he felt about Matt leaving for an hour and a half. Pivot, Matt thought to himself.

“Or…” Suddenly, an idea popped into Matt’s head. He sat up straighter, smiling at Mark when it did; perfect.

“Or,” he said, “I can just run next door to Elliot’s and raid the cabinet Elijah keeps there.”

At this, Mark paled even further. “Ndo,” he said, adamant. “Babe, Elijah is goigg to be so annoyed if you show up there to steal mbedicine for mbe. I’mb okay, I promise, I’ve mbade it this long without anything, just… just stay with mbe.” He held tight to Matt’s hand.

In his chest, Matt’s heart ached like a vice was gripped around it. He pressed his lips together, folding his other hand over the one Mark had taken. “Honey,” he said, carefully, “I want to stay with you—I will stay with you – but we have to get your fever down. We have to get your cough under control. And Elijah won’t give a fuck, he buys all that shit for this exact situation. It’s literally either this, or urgent care.” He shrugged in a way that he hoped conveyed this is the best idea I can come up with, please just go with it. Mark sighed, defeated.

“Okay,” he said, voice small. “But I - I really don’t wandt to be alonde. I’mb sorry for trying to keep you away.” He looked up, feverish tears threatening to fall. “But please don’t leave mbe alonde.”

Matt pushed a hand through his hair, the lump in the back of his throat reappearing. “It’s a short walk,” he said, finally. “Just… let’s get you bundled up. If you can walk, you can come with me.”

***

Any hope Matt had that they could make this a quick, quiet trip was dashed the moment they stepped in the back kitchen doors.

“Hh-!” Mark’s breath hitched audibly, his glazed-over eyes fluttering closed as he tucked into his elbow away from Matt. “Hhh-ITSZCCH-ue! Huh -! HHITSZCHH-uhh! ITSZCHH-uee!” The sneezes ripped out of him, loud enough to make Matt flinch in sympathy. Around the corner and across the kitchen, Elijah’s voice rang out as Mark attempted to recompose himself.

“Jesus fucking christ… who’s back there?”

Mark’s face colored, embarrassment further flushing his pink cheeks. “We should just go,” he whispered to Matt, voice thready and congested. Matt shook his head; they’d made it here, somehow, despite the fact that Mark was swaying on his feet and couldn’t get a word in edgewise without sneezing or coughing so hard he nearly fell over. They’d walked the two blocks over here – a five-minute stroll that had drawn itself out into a forty-five-minute diatribe – and they’d made it in the doors. Matt wasn’t leaving until Mark was medicated, whether everyone here liked it or not.

“No,” Matt said, guiding Mark slowly through the kitchen. “We made it here, we’re getting you medicine. Plus, you need to sit down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Unable to argue with that point, Mark just huffed out a sigh that immediately turned into a coughing fit. The spasms wracked his body, tore him in half and into his elbow right in the middle of the kitchen, unwilling to let up until he was nearly gagging with the effort. Slowly, carefully, Matt rubbed small circles into the small of his boyfriend’s back while Elijah and Greyson popped their heads out of the office in concern.

“...Mark?” Elijah asked, standing from his desk chair and walking towards the younger two managers. “Good lord, what are you guys doing here?”

Finally, when Mark was able to get a hold of his lungs, Matt helped him stand to his full height and answered the question for the both of them. “Um… well, Mark isn’t cheating on me,” he said, an attempt to make light of the situation that immediately backfired when Mark’s head turned on a swivel to give his boyfriend an incredulous look.

“You… you thought I was cheatigg ond you?” he asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.

Oops, Matt thought, cringing. “I… no, baby, I was just worried because you wouldn’t call me back, I didn’t actually think you were cheating, I-”

“I would ndever cheat on you, Mbatt,” Mark interrupted, tears welling in his eyes. “Ndever. I… I cand’t believe you would thingk -”

“- I didn’t think it, baby, I was just worried, I-”

“Okay,” Elijah cut in, placing a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. “Maybe we save this conversation for later, hmm?” He looked at Matt, then Mark, then back to Matt. “Let’s stick with the original question: what are you fucking doing here? Mark looks like he’s about to keel the fuck over, and neither of you even work today. I know we’ve instilled some bad habits in you both,” at this, he looked to Greyson, still seated in the office, who held up both of his hands in feigned innocence.

“Why am I catching strays?! I’m not even a part of this conversation!”

“Because you Pavlov’s Dogged our management team into thinking that they have to come to work when they’re sick, whether they’re on the schedule or not, apparently,” Elijah answered, turning back towards the younger men. “Anyway,” he said, “don’t you think you should be… home?”

Matt sighed, Mark still leaning heavily into him. “We were at Mark’s place, but he doesn’t have any medicine,” Matt explained. “And this stupid rich people area isn’t exactly rich in pharmacies, so we figured we’d come and use the in-home pharmacy.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow, confused.

“The office,” Matt explained, gesturing that way. “We figured it’d be easier to come here and steal some Nyquil than try and make it across town to buy some.”

“Ahh,” Elijah said. “Got it. And… you couldn’t come by yourself?” He gave Mark a once-over, taking in the chills wracking his body, his pallor and red, running nose. Mark looked down, while Matt lowered his voice to explain.

“Um… he didn’t want to stay home alone,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a long walk.”

Finally, Elijah seemed to understand. “Oh,” he said, face softening. “I see.” He turned to Mark then, grabbing him gently by the shoulder and leading him towards the office. “Let’s see if we can’t get you doped up.”

While Elijah sat Mark in his office chair and began perusing the medicine drawer, Greyson exited the office and approached his sous.

“So I was right,” Greyson bragged, slapping Matt on the back. “Per the usual.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “You knew he was sick? Since when?”

“Not about that,” Greyson said, cringing as they watched Mark dip into the elbow of his sweatshirt to sneeze again. “You’re going to be down so bad in a couple days, fuck. Take some Zicam or something, I’m not letting you stay home this weekend.”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt deadpanned. “What do you mean you were right?”

Greyson shrugged. “That he isn’t cheating on you. I mean seriously, Matt, did you really think Mark of all people would cheat? The man worships the ground you walk on.”

The lump that had made its home in Matt’s throat all day dissolved into tears that filled his eyes; he worships the ground you walk on. It wasn’t an overstatement, not really, and Matt knew it. From the moment they began seeing each other, Matt began receiving flowers almost weekly, had been taken on near-constant dates, and was always getting little messages from his boyfriend about how beautiful he was, how lucky Mark was to have him. There was almost nothing Matt could do wrong in Mark’s eyes, it seemed – Matt was a chef, quick to anger and frustration, and Mark never took the bait to fight, always stayed cool and collected. He never made Matt feel like he was lesser than, the way Matt had always felt from the time he was a kid, never flaunted the money his family clearly had, never made Matt feel weird about the fact that he barely spoke about his fucked-up upbringing. Mark was good. Mark was everything Matt knew he didn’t really deserve, but got to have anyway. He swiped under his eyes quickly, hoping Greyson wouldn’t notice the tears falling.

“Yeah,” Matt said, voice thick. “Hey… do we still have that beef stock from the wedding over the weekend?”

Greyson knit his eyebrows, glancing over at his sous. “Yeah, it’s in the freezer. Why?”

“Would you mind if I took some with me when we go?”

Before he could answer, Mark pulled both their attention back to the office. “HNTSZZCHH-uhh! Fuck, ’scuse mbe, sorry,” he muttered, pulling a few tissues out of the box on the GM’s desk.

“Bless,” Elijah said, placing the Nyquil in front of his floor manager. “Don’t take that til you get home. Greyson, can you go into dry storage and get the Lysol spray?”

“Let me amend,” Greyson said to Matt, “we’re all going to be down so bad in a couple days.” He sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Yes, dear, I’ll go get it,” Greyson called to Elijah. Before heading to the back, he turned to face Matt. “You can have the stock,” he said. “Go. Take care of your guy.”

Matt nodded. Take care of your guy. He would certainly try.

***

“Okay,” Matt said as they walked in the front door, “go lie down.”

For the first time all day, Mark laughed in earnest. “What amb I, a dog?” he asked, the laugh quickly turning to an angry cough. In lieu of trusting his boyfriend to follow any instructions in this state, Matt guided him to the couch and gently lowered him down.

“Not a dog,” he said, pulling a blanket up over Mark’s middle and turning the TV on to the Great British Baking Show. “Just bad at being sick. Obviously. This or What Not to Wear?”

“This is good,” Mark said, eyelids already drooping. “Sit with mbe?” he asked, voice giving out on the last word. Matt bit his cheek at the raw sound of his boyfriend’s voice, then leaned down and kissed his warm – not hot, thank god the ibuprofen was starting to kick in – forehead.

“Soon,” he said, holding up the Trader Joe’s bag filled with supplies from the restaurant. “Just give me a bit to put this all away. Close your eyes, love.”

Mark nodded, nearly asleep before the words even came out of Matt’s mouth. “Love you,” he muttered, swiping mindlessly under his nose. Matt’s heart ached.

“Love you,” he said back, though Mark had already begun to snore.

In the kitchen, Matt quickly and quietly got to work. The bag from work he’d filled with medicine, and more tissues, and, at Greyson’s insistence, Lysol wipes, but he’d also filled it with everything he’d need to make beef stew; carrots, potatoes, celery, even some filet scrap that he was fairly sure Greyson wouldn’t notice was missing. Working his ass off in a kitchen had to come with some perks, he reasoned with himself.

Last out of the bag was the beef stock he’d made for a demi they’d included on the filet set from the wedding over the weekend. Matt had spent hours babying the stock, feeding it beef bones and veal bones and fortifying it with some older stock they’d been trying to use up. What had been borne of his babying was a rich, deep broth that frankly he could’ve just gone at with a spoon and a piece of bread. The demi it made was unreal.

Now, standing in Mark’s tiny kitchen, Matt uncapped the stock and set it to the side. With an expert hand, one that had spent thousands of hours doing it at this point, he peeled potatoes, chopping them into equal-sized chunks, then moved on to thinly slicing the celery and carrots, mincing the garlic. He carefully picked and chopped thyme, his hands moving quickly and with practiced ease. When he was younger – younger even than anyone knew, about fifteen – Matt had begun washing dishes, doing prep at a diner; grating potatoes for hashbrowns and par-cooking bacon and chopping so many onions that the skin under his eyes was constantly red and raw from weeping. It was hard work, but it was everything to him. It kept his mind busy, gave him a reason to step away selling pretty good weed and horrible coke. Cooking wasn’t what he wanted to do when he grew up, but in all honesty the idea that he would even grow up past his teen years had been a long shot before he got the diner job. Cooking gave him a lifeline, it changed all that. It gave him the gift of considering the future.

And when he was nineteen – again, younger than Greyson, who thought Matt was into his mid-twenties when he brought him on, realized – and he saw that a new restaurant, a buzzy, hip restaurant that just screamed James Bear Award Winner, Michelin-bait, as it were, had opened up clear on the opposite side of town from where he worked and lived in a studio with three friends, he knew he had to work there. He got the job on the spot; the first time he knew he was worth something. Cooking hadn’t been his dream, but in a lot of ways – ways different than he even knew at the time, he thought, looking over to his snoring boyfriend – it had been his destiny. And who was Matt to argue with destiny?

Matt turned the stove down, allowing the flavors to meld together, and cleaned up the small area. While the soup simmered and English people talked about soggy bottoms quietly on the TV, Matt checked his phone. One new message.

2:37PM

Chef

lij said to tell mark to stay home tomorrow, if u could let him know plss!! hope hes feeling better soon. don’t get sick, ur still comin in whether u want to or not LMAO. love ya kid. enjoy the filet scrap ;)

The tears he’d been fighting all day finally coursed silently down Matt’s cheeks. Fucking Greyson. If he weren’t such a player, the man would’ve made a great dad.

Matt took a deep breath, clicked off his phone, and turned off the soup. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, composing himself as much as he could before looking for a vessel for their meal. The bowls Mark had were cereal bowls, not soup bowls, but they would do; Matt ladled out the soup and headed to the couch, gently rubbing Mark’s shoulder to wake him.

“Mmm?” Mark startled awake, a hand pressing deep into his eye socket beneath his glasses. “Sorry, did I fall asleep?”

“Yes, but don’t apologize,” Matt said, setting the bowls down on the coffee table. “You’re sick, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

Mark huffed out a little laugh. “I guess,” he said, sitting up slowly. “Did… you mbake mbe soup?”

Matt blushed. “I mean, I made both of us soup. Because I figured if I just made you soup, you wouldn’t eat it.”

“You kndow mbe well,” Mark managed, taking Matt’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that. I have food here.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, amused. “Protein bars aren’t food,” he laughed.

“Proteind bars aren’t good food,” Mark corrected him. “But they are technically food.”

This time, they both laughed, Mark’s ending once again in a soupy, productive cough that he muffled into his sleeve. “Sorry,” he said again, “gross.” Matt handed him the water bottle on the coffee table, rubbed his back in slow circles.

“Can you please stop apologizing for not feeling well?” he asked, earnest. “Please?”

“Ndo prombiseehh – hh – HRTZCH-ue! Huh -! Hh… hhITSZCCHH-ue!” This time, Mark folded his hands over his nose and mouth, grimacing at what Matt assumed was the mess he left behind. Matt walked over to the kitchen table where he’d left the medicine and supplies, opened a box of tissues. Handed it silently to his boyfriend.

“Sorry,” Mark said once again, after he’d cleaned himself up. “God, I’mb a fuckigg mbess.”

Matt tilted his head in a little half-nod. “Kinda,” he said, prompting another laugh from Mark. “But baby… that’s okay. You’ve seen me a fucking mess. Hell, you’ve taken care of me as a fucking mess like, twice since we’ve started seeing each other. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you sick.”

Mark scoffed. “That’s ndot true. We’ve worked together for years, you’ve definitely seen mbe sigck.”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve like, seen you with a cold at work a couple times. But even then, you like hide from everyone. Half the time no one even knows you’re sick until you’re like forced to call out. I’ve never seen you… I don’t know, ill. Like this.”

Shrugging, Mark began to pick at the blanket over his lap. “I mbean… yeah. That’s kinda by design.”

“But why?”

Mark sighed stuffily. “I just… I don’t kndow, baby. I wasn’t, like, allowed to be sick as a kid. My parents weren’t exactly… the warmbest. It’s just what I’mb used to. Sweat it out, alone. Put on a brave face.”

“Apologize for normal bodily functions.”

A laugh. “Yeah. I guess that, too.”

They sat in silence for a moment after that, letting the words sink in. Finally, Matt said, “I’m sorry for thinking you were cheating on me. I’m not used to having things work out. Or be good. Or whatever.”

Mark looked at his boyfriend. Gave a little smile. “You deserve good things,” he said. The lump reappeared, and Matt looked down while Mark placed a hand over his. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’mb sorry for… hiding. Ndot telling you. I should’ve told you.” He squeezed Matt’s hand then, and Matt squeezed back. “I’mb sorry.”

Matt looked up at his boyfriend – his miserably ill, pale, red-eyed boyfriend. His sweet, tender boy. Never had he ever felt such affection for someone. It was scary, to feel this much, to have something to lose. He knew that Mark felt that, too.

“It’s okay,” Matt said, pulling Mark in for a hug. Against what Matt knew was his boyfriend’s better judgment, he hugged back, held Matt tight until he was once again forced to pull away to -

“HRTSZCHH-uee!” Unable to get to his elbow, Mark sneezed into the space between the two men, their laps misting with spray. “God, you’re gonna get so fuckigg sick,” Mark muttered, swiping under his nose and looking up at Matt with those big, apologetic eyes. “Like so fuckigg disgustingly sick.”

Matt shrugged, leaning in to kiss Mark’s hot, wet lips. “Oh, well,” he said, a hand placed on his boyfriend’s cheek. “At least I’ll have someone to ride it out with.”

Without pulling away, Mark closed his eyes, a smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “You will. You always will.”

[hachiibun]

Sketch Commission for @suddencolds of a scene from one of their lovely Yves and Vincent fics! Give them all a read, you'll love these two!

If you like my drawings, and are willing and able to do so, please consider commissioning me, pledging to my Patreon, or donating through ko-fi ☕! You're not obliged to, but every bit helps to keep me living decently and I really do appreciate it!

❗ PLEASE NO REBLOGGING TO NON-KINK BLOGS ❗

[very-freakin-effable]

Show Off - Haz/bin Ho/tel (Pre-canon)

I started writing this pretty much the day after episode 7 of season 2 dropped because I took ONE look at Vin/cent Whit/tman and decided "yeah he's getting WRITTEN ABOUT"

So I decided to make him suffer at my hands by writing him struggling with a cold at work as a reporter and having a horrendous streak of bad luck.

You don't really need to know Haz/bin for this because it's set before canon, at a TV studio on the 1950s, but I will include a picture or two of him below the cut so you know what he looks like.

Anyway this took three months and 7.8k words, enjoyyyyy

Featuring: a couple of OCs whom I love dearly, implied kink!Vin/cent, and canon typical murderous thoughts on Vin/cent's part (those thoughts are not acted upon, don't worry)

thank you @rosieknows for helping me with research and for having beta read this, this one was written kind of sporadically and often very late at night so there were a fair few typos and inconsistencies that they helped me catch

the guyyyy

(also look at that side profile, his nose is gorgeous)

anyway on with the fic!!

••••••••••••••••••••

Vincent Whittman was very nearly fearless.

An ambitious man like himself had to be. No-one who was too chicken to fire a gun ever hit the target, did they?

Well, Vincent personally preferred a more creative touch than a firearm, but the point stood regardless.

He had perfected the balance between his camera-ready charm, his level, calculating eye for detail, and that razor-sharp smirk of his that could silence a room in an instant. He’d spent the last several months reinventing himself - dyeing his hair a darker brown, wearing the same suits his predecessor as Studio 6’s news anchor had worn, chiselling away at his flaws - and plastering over some of his more… murderous tendencies.

“Façade” was the wrong word altogether, as it implied that the humble weatherman Vincent had once been still existed underneath it all. No, this was a complete reconfiguration of the self, a honing of his every trait to unbreakable perfection.

As such, the only thing Vincent would say he truly feared - not that he’d ever admit such a thing, even with a knife at his throat - was the loss of his near-perfect control over himself.

Losing his temper was one thing; it helped to keep those below him in line. It was a show of force, so it was all well and good with him.

But it would be a cold day in Hell, Vincent told himself, before anyone at that studio ever saw him as weak.

Now, Vincent couldn’t possibly have known this at the time, but contrary to popular earthly beliefs, Hell has a wildly fluctuating weather cycle.

This week, the so-called “fiery pits” were anything but. The last several days had been a ceaseless ordeal of driving, freezing rain.

Much the same weather, as it happened, currently held what must’ve been half the state of Virginia in its grip.

The damp chill in the air had triggered an epidemic of sorts - the common cold ripped through the studio with all the indiscriminate power of a forest fire.

Vincent, naturally, kept his distance. If someone so much as sniffled whilst in the same room as him, he’d immediately make some excuse to leave, or at the very least to stand as far back as he could. The utter revulsion that coursed through him at the thought of being among the next to fall ill was a force of nature in and of itself.

Tangled up among the threads of his self-preservation instincts was an idea that seemed to whisper in his ear like a devil at his shoulder.

If his co-anchor were… indisposed…

Brenda wasn’t a threat to Vincent. Not like her old colleague had been before Vincent took his position by force. Not like the other higher-ups at the studio were.

Vincent did, however, find her profoundly annoying. Through no fault of her own, of course - but God, that voice…

He wasn’t sure yet how he’d manage it, but if he could just… orchestrate things in such a manner that she fell ill while Vincent didn’t, he’d get at least a couple of days’ reprieve from having to hear her talk.

He could have left it in the hands of fate, of course. With the amount of people in that studio who had the habit of working through minor ailments - Vincent himself among them, if he was honest - it seemed to be a matter of not if, but when.

But Vincent was a man who craved results, who valued certainty.

And just as he was pondering how he’d pull this off without himself getting caught in the crossfire, his answer stared him right in the face.

Right after the cameras stopped rolling for Vincent and Brenda’s evening report, one of the studio executives walked in.

Well… “walked” was a loose term. Arthur Warren seemed to almost stagger into the room, looking remarkably dishevelled and clutching a patterned handkerchief. His dark grey hair was unkempt in a way that couldn’t possibly have been on purpose, and his eyes held that unfocused look that signalled feverish exhaustion. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and his nose was a striking shade of red.

Vincent’s expression suddenly went very tight. He had to admire Warren’s dedication, but - to him, at least - the line between looking at something in admiration and in silent horror was about the width of a single hair.

Seeing the near-unshakeable man that was Warren, laid low like this and, despite it all, still doing what needed to be done, felt like witnessing the sinking of a grand ship - and the people on board, desperately trying to keep the doomed vessel running.

“Absolutely stellar work up there, as usual,” Warren said, the sound low and hoarse, “Ahem-hrm! Ugh, Curtis, get mbe a glass of water, mby voice is shot…”

Curtis Whelan, a short, red-headed man who’d barely turned twenty-two, nodded eagerly before rushing off. He’d just been hired this week, and he was determined to make the best possible first impression.

“Mr. Warren,” Vincent looked over at him, concern for the welfare of both his superior and himself tying itself in a knot just below his larynx, “How- uh, how are you?”

Vincent knew the answer to the question before he’d even thought to ask.

“Well, I’mb— sndff—! Standing, aren’t I?” Warren answered, giving a wry chuckle that trailed off as his face went slack.

“I… H’huh…” Warren turned to the side, raising the square of cloth in one hand to his face, “Hh- HihHDTtchh-uhh! Oh- w-wait—” he held up an index finger as his head reared back before pitching forwards again, “HehH-IYTSCHh’hmff! Oh, dear God, Vidcent, you’ll have to excuse mbe…”

Vincent did his absolute damnedest not to draw back when he heard how absolutely awful Warren sounded.

There was something other than that undercurrent of slight shock, though Vincent couldn’t quite put words to it. The word scandalous came to mind, but Vincent dismissed the thought just as quickly.

“Um,” Vincent muttered, “Bless you, sir.”

“Oh, I’ll be finde,” Warren waved him off, “I’ve handled worse. Ndow, I simply have to hand it to you, you’ve been’d doi’g— Hold odd…”

Vincent winced in pity and actually did take a half a step back as Warren blew his nose, before giving a low groan.

“Look, Vincent,” Warren started again, his voice a little clearer, but still gravelly, “As I was about to say, you’ve been doing a brilliant job.”

Vincent perked up.

“You’re young, you’re dynamic - Hell, in the couple of months since you took over the news, our ratings h-have… heh… Have gone up— Hhgh-ISCHhhw! Sorry-ihHEH-! Hhuh’ADTshIHhue!”

Warren massaged his aching throat for a moment.

“Damn cold,” he muttered, “Half the studio’s either sick at home or working through it…”

That sentence, spoken in that weary tone, and in that strained-sounding voice, made Vincent feel a little squirmy.

He hadn’t expected Warren to be so… casual about admitting weakness, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to feel.

“Well, don’t you worry about me,” Vincent said, turning up his trademark gleaming confidence, “I don’t get sick - trust me, I’ll be here to keep this place going.”

“See, this is what I like about you,” Warren smiled, “You, sir, are a godsend.”

Something in Vincent lit up, like arcs of lightning in his chest.

“Really?” Vincent beamed, eyes sparkling behind his glasses, “I- wh- I don’t even know what to say, but- I just…”

He fumbled and faltered over the beginnings of words for about five more seconds before, seemingly out of nowhere, Curtis reappeared carrying a tray with three glasses of water with ice in them, and made both Vincent and Warren jump.

“I got that water you asked for, Mr. Warren!” Curtis said brightly, “And for you and Brenda, if you’d like.”

Curtis turned to Vincent, looking up at him, and Vincent, for a moment, saw his younger self in Curtis. In awe of those above him, ever-determined to please.

Warren took a glass, raising it to his lips and sighing contentedly as the cool water soothed his throat a little.

Vincent’s gaze lingered on the glasses of water on the tray as Brenda came over to pick hers up, thanking Curtis for being “such a dear.”

The idea that had been nagging at him all day took shape — oh, it was a wicked thing, but when compared to murder, this would be practically saintly of him.

He took his own glass and waited for Warren and Brenda to both be distracted.

To his surprise, this didn’t take long at all. Brenda seemed thoroughly involved in her conversation with someone from the camera crew, and Warren was writing something down on the notepad he kept in his pocket.

They’d both set their glasses down on the desk nearby.

Neither of them were looking in Vincent’s direction, and for once, he was glad to not have eyes on him.

Vincent reckoned he had all of three seconds, if that, before one of them turned to face him.

So, very quickly, he switched the glasses.

Brenda would drink from the one that, mere moments ago, had been Warren’s, and if Vincent was right - and he had the feeling he was - Brenda would, within the next couple of days, be in such a sorry state as to be incapable of reading the news with him, leaving Vincent alone in the spotlight.

Vincent figured he ought to take his leave quickly if he was to avoid the same fate; given how terribly Warren was faring, this would not be a pleasant thing to have to deal with.

“See ya tomorrow, sir!” Curtis waved jovially as Vincent walked past on his way out.

“You sure will, someone’s gotta read the news,” Vincent shot finger guns at the intern, his smile faltering for a moment as the sentence came out slightly hoarse.

Only slightly.

Nothing to worry about...

Even so, Vincent was on-edge, and he spent the drive back to his house thinking back over the last week.

He’d been doing a lot of interviews lately - which probably explained the recent scratchiness developing at the back of his throat. Talking a lot sometimes had that effect on him, so surely he was fine.

He recalled one in particular a couple of days ago, with some actor whose name had already escaped him - and who, during their chat, had frequently paused to cough into his fist.

Who, at one point, right before the interview, had shaken hands with Vincent.

Well, son of a bitch, Vincent thought bitterly, making a mental note to end the man’s career some other time.

If he acted quickly, maybe he could dodge this. A glass of orange juice and a clove of raw garlic, and he’d be right as rain.

••••••••••••••••••••

The sound of his alarm clock seemed to pierce Vincent’s skull as he woke up.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, and he already knew the day was a lost cause.

The fact that he couldn’t breathe through his nose was the first sign that he was well and truly done for.

He swallowed, noticing that his throat was dry and sore - he almost dreaded to think what state his voice was in.

Slowly, Vincent pushed himself into more of a seated position. The pressure in his head shifted painfully as he did so, and he instinctively brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Somewhere in his barely-awake mind, through the fog of malaise, he realised the clock on his nightstand was still ringing.

He shut it off and groaned, the low sound scraping past his vocal cords before stuttering into a few short gasps.

“H-huh… Egh— Hehgk’zsSCHhhuh! Oh, ndo— hHhdt- ehh, hheh- Hhp’GTSCHhhew—! Ughhh, fugck- snff, SNF-!”

Vincent got up, taking his glasses from the nightstand, and practically dragged himself to his bathroom to take a shower before work.

He didn’t even look in the mirror, not wanting to face how exhausted he probably looked until he absolutely had to. He brought over a towel for afterwards, got undressed, and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over his body, warming him up.

“Hhdt- huh…”

The buzzing itch at the back of his nose intensified, and he leaned back as he hitched, bracing himself against the wall on instinct.

“HehhDTZCHhhew!” Vincent sneezed, more harshly than he’d have liked and definitely more so than his throat appreciated. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Hh’IHGKktt—! Hh’huh- Heyh’ITTschhue! Ehh’EYSCHhh-uhh!”

He sniffled, before getting on with washing his hair.

After about ten minutes, he was still in the shower. The water pressure against his back was relaxing, and he completely lost track of time for a while.

Then, of course, he remembered he still had to go to work.

Vincent scrambled out of the shower, hurriedly drying himself and getting dressed. He glanced at his watch, and his heart sank.

It was after half past eleven in the morning.

“Shit!” he panicked, running to the kitchen.

Now, Vincent didn’t have much of a reason to worry. After all, his news segment wasn’t until later in the afternoon, and he mainly spent his mornings in the studio walking around, observing everything that went on, stepping up to prove himself in any way he could.

He did, however, appreciate the feeling of control that came with being there earlier than he needed to be. It made him impressive, and that in turn made him feel powerful.

He quickly made some plain buttered toast for himself, and briefly considered coffee, but decided against it. Instead, he made tea in the small Thermos flask he had in one of his cupboards, and added honey and lemon juice to it, before getting his keys and heading out.

••••••••••••••••••••

On the drive to the studio, Vincent did some vocal warm-ups. This in itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for him - as a reporter, he’d learned several exercises to get his voice ready to deliver the news. Singing in scales to practice projection, tongue-twisters to help with articulating his words, that sort of thing.

Today, though, as the rain fell hard and fast against the windshield of Vincent’s car, it wasn’t going well, by any means.

“She stood—” Vincent started hoarsely, before clearing his throat and taking a sip from his flask of tea.

“She stood upon’d the balustraded balcody— oh, this is hopeless…” he muttered, but pushed on anyway, “Indexplicably mbi— ugh, sndk—! Mbi’bicki’g themb hi… hihh—! Ohhh, ndo the fuck you don’t...”

He scrubbed at his nose, but that didn’t help in the least.

“Hheh— hUH’KZCHHh—ahh! Oh, for— sndf, snfF—!” he shook himself off, before continuing, “Okay. Hiccuping, and ahhdt... And amicably wehhhehh—! Ehht’IZSHh’hhew! Aughhh…” Vincent ran a hand down his face, sniffling.

“And ambicably welcombi’g themb ind,” he finished, his voice cracking as he did so.

I’m fucked, he thought, but went on driving.

••••••••••••••••••••

Vincent walked up the corridor to his dressing room, intending to just wait there until he had to do his report, and then go home.

If he was quick about it, perhaps no-one would even see him for long enough to notice how he looked.

That plan was swiftly thrown overboard by Arthur Warren coming up to him almost as soon as he’d stepped through the front door.

Warren’s face fell when he saw Vincent looking almost as worn-out as he did.

“Oh, Christ, Vidcedt— khfF, KHF-hmm! Snrff— Ugh, I amb so sorry…” Warren apologised.

Vincent was completely thrown off for a second.

For one thing, Warren knew he was sick, and that was a major failure on Vincent’s part.

For quite another, though, the brief - though very unlikely - consideration of having caught this from Warren of all people, as opposed to that actor he’d interviewed, sent something of a shiver up the back of his neck, and made him feel… well, less weirded-out than he should have.

“Sir, don’t worry about mbe- snf-” Vincent brushed off the other man’s concern, but was horribly aware of the slight hoarseness to his voice, and the fact that he’d sniffled at the end of that statement.

“Are you sure?” Warren raised a brow out of concern, “Because you defin’ditely sound like you’re getti’g ill—”

“I’m in perfect form, as always,” Vincent interrupted, because he simply couldn’t bear hearing Warren talking about him, addressing how his voice sounded; any other time was fine, but not today, “I just got here, and it’s freezing out - I just need to warm up a little. For the record, Mr. Warren’d- snf, even if I was coming down with something,” Vincent continued, “I would be completely fine to do the show. You know me.”

“I hope you’re right,” Arthur told him, “You do look sort of run’d-dowd— snk- a’d I wouldn’dt wish this odd ady… hegh’Hhuh— Aehh’EGHTshhhuh!”

The strange feeling in the pit of Vincent’s stomach seemed to intensify, hearing Warren seem actually concerned, even while still so ill himself…

No-one needed to worry about him, why did he care so much—?

“Really, Mr. Warren, you shouldn’t stress yourself out like this,” Vincent insisted, “In’d— snf, in fact, if you need me to handle anything around here, I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Warren sighed, “Brenda called in’d earlier, she won’t be here, so you’ll be readi’g— sndff! Guh… Reading the news alone.”

Vincent tried very, very hard not to let himself show the triumph he was feeling. Despite it all, his plan to be the sole news anchor, if only for a day, had worked.

Now, getting through the report itself without showing obvious symptoms was going to be an entirely different matter, but that was an issue for the Vincent Whittman of four and a half hours from now to deal with.

“I should probably go,” Warren said, “The schedule n’deeds to be adjusted because of how m’bady people aren’t here, that’s goi’g to be a disaster…”

Vincent was barely paying attention to what Warren was saying. His focus was split between mentally lingering on the roughness and muddled consonants of Warren’s voice, and trying to fight back the burgeoning tickle that was slowly but surely making its way forth, threatening to unravel the delicate falsehood that Vincent was, in fact, well.

“We’ll talk later,” Vincent flashed a grin, before walking away, waiting until he was out of earshot so he could—

“Hh- hEHh…” Warren began to hitch, and Vincent let out a tiny sigh of relief that quickly trailed into a soft catch in his own breath.

No matter, though, if I can just time this perfectly…

“Hhgt—” Vincent put a finger under his nose.

“Hhuh— EhyIGHT’tchHEW! Eh’HahdtTSCHhiehh!” Warren sneezed into his elbow, at the exact moment Vincent’s eyes shut tight.

“IhGKTtzsh-! Huhp’tchh—uhh!” Vincent managed to at least somewhat stifle the pair of sneezes that escaped him, and kept walking.

••••••••••••••••••••

Vincent had never exactly minded the fact that his dressing room was near the back of the studio. It meant he had the privilege of seeing everything that went on, and it was something he greatly enjoyed. Besides, the walk was nice enough.

Today, though, that same walk through those very corridors meant that everyone else at Studio 6 that day had the chance of running into him on his way there.

Again, not something he usually had any objections to.

But at this moment, he was taking a discreet sip from the flask he’d brought from home, hoping it would at least do something to help the pain in his throat when he spoke.

And he had scarcely raised it to his lips, when he heard the chirpy tone of Curtis fucking Whelan of all damn people from directly behind him.

“Hi, Mr. Whittman!”

Vincent was so badly startled that he all but jumped. The sudden, sharp motion sent the scalding-hot contents of his Thermos spilling all over his front.

“Agh—hahh, ffffuck!” Vincent yelped in mingled pain and shock, before looking down at the vaguely lemon-scented liquid suffusing his shirt and jacket.

“For God’s sake, I just got this dry-cleaned!” Vincent snapped. His voice carried a not-insignificant amount of gravel as he turned to Curtis.

“Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry, sir!” Curtis apologised, “I just wanted to talk to you about today's lineup…”

“Well, make it quick,” Vincent said, almost disdainful at how much the intern’s eagerness reminded him of his younger self, “I’m- hehh…”

Well, shit.

“I’m a very busy man, Whelan,” Vincent began to briskly walk away, and to his utter horror, Curtis started following him.

Vincent had a loose fist pressed against his mouth, one knuckle under his nose to try and stop himself from sneezing.

If he could just make it to his dressing room fast enough…

“I- I know,” Curtis faltered, noticing Vincent speeding up, and started almost jogging to keep up with his long, confident strides, “but I really think I ought to tell you—”

“Hhgh’huhh!”

Well, there was very little chance of that, Vincent realised, so his new plan was to make this as quiet and as dignified as possible - Hell, maybe Curtis would be so caught up in his own incessant rambling to even notice—

“Heh- Ehh’NGTtzschh!” Vincent dipped forward, the buzzing itch in his nose having only slightly lessened.

“Bless you,” Curtis offered, “Are you—”

Before Curtis could finish the query with “okay,” Vincent turned his head, glaring at him.

Curtis gave a frightened squeak and hurried off in the other direction, and Vincent went on walking…

“Hh’mghtt—tschh! Hhuh- h’hehh— IGKT’tzchhuh!”

If anyone else in the corridor Vincent happened to be walking through had heard his barely-suppressed sneezes, or the quiet, frustrated groans that accompanied them, they at least knew better than to bring it up.

••••••••••••••••••••

Vincent didn’t go to his dressing room, instead taking a brief detour to the break room; he figured he should make a cup of tea to replace the one he was currently wearing.

No thanks to the intern, Vincent thought to himself as he searched the cupboards - there were teabags in a box on a shelf, but the room was completely devoid of honey or lemon juice.

“Dammit,” Vincent muttered, closing the cupboard door and thinking about what his other options were; if he didn’t sort this out, he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about how hoarse he sounded.

Wait, he thought, the set for the cooking show…

The cookery show wasn’t slated to begin filming until six, which gave Vincent plenty of time to find what he needed on set.

He left the break room and quickly walked back the way he came, carrying his flask under his arm.

••••••••••••••••••••

Most of the sets at Studio 6 were standard setups with lights, cameras and a sound system, that could be changed out between shows fairly easily.

Some, though, for more specialised programmes, had other features - specific props that couldn’t be moved, musical instruments or large pieces of furniture that had been built in the room they were in and would be impossible to relocate.

Cooking With Vivienne had hot and cold running water, a gas-fired stove and, crucially, a well-stocked pantry.

As it happened, tonight’s episode of the show was planned as something of an answer to the current outbreak at the studio. Vivienne would show the viewers how to make comforting at-home remedies, chicken noodle soup and the like.

Vincent strolled leisurely onto the set, knowing it would be empty for at least the next few hours, and put the kettle on.

If anybody were to walk in on him, though, he knew he was done for. It was a well-known fact amongst the so-called veterans of the studio that if Vincent Whittman was drinking tea, it was a sure sign that he probably should have been lying in bed at home.

But he didn’t need to worry about that!

He hummed quietly to himself, juicing a lemon and getting the jar of honey out of the cupboard…

“Huh— HDTtzschh’uhh! Ugh, khff- God…”

The process of making the tea was interrupted every so often by the reason it was necessary in the first place.

Vincent took a few of the paper towels from the roll standing on the countertop, using one of them to blow his nose and stowing the rest in his pocket for later.

Slight amusement flickered on his face as he pictured himself decked out in a frilly apron and hosting this show.

Cooking with Vincent, tonight at six, he imagined, his thought punctuated by the whistling of the kettle on the stove, where Chef Whittman whips up a classic French soufflé—

The sound of the door opening snapped Vincent out of his daydream.

“… So, this is my set,” a woman’s voice - that of Vivienne herself - faded into earshot, “Technically I don’t have to be here till about five thirty, but I thought I’d show you around the place…”

“Thank you so much, Mrs—” Curtis began, and Vincent felt himself tense up at the sound of his too-eager voice.

“Miss, actually, but please, call me Viv,” Vivienne told him.

Vincent hurried to finish what he was doing, taking the tea bag out of his flask, stirring in the honey and lemon juice and quickly put everything back into the cupboards to hide what he’d been doing—

“Mr. Whittman?” Curtis asked, “What’re you doing here?”

Not quickly enough, Vincent thought to himself, realising he was going to have to act his way out of this.

He turned on his heel to face Vivienne and Curtis, hastily fixing a smile on his weary face.

“Ahem— Well, you kn’dow mbe- snff!” Vincent said, trying to sound nonchalant and not yell at the pair of them to get out of the kitchen, “I was just making sure everything’s in order for later.”

“Hi, Vin!” Vivienne said gleefully, “I was just showing Curtis around, and figured I’d stop by here.”

“That is just…” Vincent fought to hold his tongue, “So thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, you made tea?” Vivienne asked, and the question felt, to Vincent, like an arrow to the ribcage.

“Ndo- sndf!” he lied, “This is… coffee; I couldn’t find any in the break room, so I came here.”

He turned to walk away, knowing the excuse he’d just made held about as much water as a paper-maché model of the Titanic, but froze in place when Vivienne spoke again.

“Waaait a minute,” she said, “You never drink tea, Vin… Are you okay?”

“Yup!” Vincent assured too quickly, his voice audibly cracking, “Ne-hhehver better…”

He sniffled, hoping that would hold off the inevitable, but it only made the tickle lurking at the back of his sinuses more pronounced, and in a way that told Vincent he would have to get out of here, immediately.

Curtis looked at him like he was about to ask the same question Vivienne had - albeit with a little more concern to his tone than Viv’s apparent suspicion - but Vincent began to walk away, looking back at Curtis over his shoulder and giving him that hawkish glare that shocked the poor intern into silence.

Vincent rubbed at his nose as soon as he was out of their sight, and he’d barely made it out the door when the silent, stuttering hitches rose to a gasp.

“Hh’hhdt—ZTCHhh-! HhEHT’izschhew!” Vincent sneezed as discreetly as he could manage, ducking into his elbow whilst still clutching the Thermos in his other hand.

“Bless you!” Vivienne and Curtis called, seemingly in-sync with each other.

Vincent pointedly ignored them.

••••••••••••••••••••

The walk back to Vincent’s dressing room was accompanied by low, gravelly muttering under his breath, quietly cursing everyone who’d dared to voice their concern for his welfare.

Mostly, though, his fury was directed at one man in particular. Strangely, it wasn’t even at the actor who’d, in all likelihood, given Vincent this God-forsaken cold in the first place.

“I amb goi’g to kill that fucki’g intern’d, so help mbe God— sndkk!” Vincent seethed, and hearing the hoarseness and dulled consonants in his words only further pissed him off.

He would have to do something about this, and he figured he knew exactly what.

During his interview with that insufferable plague rat of an actor, he’d learned a rather common trick of the trade in theatre. Performers singing eight shows a week on Broadway would often use steam as a way to lubricate the vocal cords and ease the strain on their voices.

It was also common knowledge that putting Vicks in hot water and breathing in the vapours was a tried-and-true way to help clear up congestion.

He reckoned he could kill two birds with one stone, and he’d sound at least a little more like himself during his report.

Vincent was a man who practically lived and breathed the spotlight. More than just home to him, it was his very being.

As his headache worsened, though, he found himself turning off the lights in his dressing room. He even decided to close the curtains most of the way, only leaving enough of the hazy, clouded sunlight filtering in from outside for him to see what he was doing.

Yet another reason for him to dread his upcoming report, he thought, chalking this day up to the universe’s sadistic sense of humour.

The bowl on his vanity table currently held an assortment of hair products, brushes and clips. He emptied this onto the table and brought the bowl into his bathroom, filling it with scalding water from the hot tap. He also grabbed the navy-blue towel that was hanging from a hook on the wall.

Then he looked around one of his cabinets for the small jar of Vicks he knew he had in there somewhere…

He found it, unscrewing the lid and scooping some of it into the water, using an old pencil to stir it until it dissolved. He was, after all, nothing if not resourceful.

Vincent draped the towel awkwardly over his head, gazing listlessly into the mirror with tired, bleary eyes behind glasses that were growing foggy from the steam rising from the water’s surface.

He took them off; his vision blurring was the least of his problems right now.

The distinct scent of menthol, eucalyptus and camphor made Vincent cough, and he noticed his nose was beginning to run. He’d expected this, but nonetheless gave a groan of slight displeasure.

“Eughhh… h’huh-hH-” he hitched, struck by a sudden, urgent need to sneeze.

“Hh- huhh… HehEYISCHhh— Hhgh! HTZzschhue!” Vincent pitched forwards, hands held loosely in front of his face, and sniffled, the sound damp and perfectly miserable. Almost immediately, he found himself gearing up to sneeze again, and he could tell it wouldn’t be for the last time, by any means.

“HhGXSHhew! Nghh… Ihgkt’tchh! Huh—Hhpt’TZSHh— Ehh’KSHhih— HTSCHhh’huh!”

Well, the brief attempt at stifling hadn’t helped at all, he realised, as the burning itch only seemed to redouble its efforts, leaving him slack-jawed and gasping for air like a drowning man.

“Iihh… h’hEHh—! HHDT’schhew!! Huh—ITTSHhheuw! Sndff—! Ohhh, shit…” he muttered, eyes wide as it dawned on him that the very thing that was supposed to ease his suffering was backfiring spectacularly and making his symptoms worse.

Vincent stood up and took three quick, almost stumbling steps back away from the table. He all but ripped the towel off his head and instead buried his face into the rough fabric - the floodgates had been opened, and he knew, now that he was well and truly in the throes of it, he was going to have a hard time stopping.

“Ugh, mby fucki’gg Chri— hh’iIGHh-! Hh- Hehht…” Vincent’s breath stuttered in his chest, ebbing and flowing like tides at a jagged shore, and he shuddered forwards into the towel with—

“HhEIHDTSHh— TZSHhih- HTSCHhew!”

A shockingly rapid trio of sneezes, as forceful and as unsatisfying as they were sudden. What was worse, and possibly the cruellest of God’s seemingly incessant run of twisted jokes, was that the scent of the vapour that had sent him into what was easily the most desperate fit of his life had fully permeated the fabric of the towel he was holding firmly over his nose and mouth, and it was only stoking the relentless tickle ever further.

The sound of the door opening snapped Vincent out of whatever thoughts he could string together when he was this much of a wreck.

“Uhmm… Mr. Whittman?” Curtis asked meekly from the doorway, holding his clipboard, “You’re- you’re on set in fifteen, sir…”

“Get out,” Vincent muttered, his voice quivering.

“Sir? Are you feeling alright?” Curtis took a step into the room, and was met with the sight of Vincent emerging from the relative darkness, looking like hell.

He was clutching a towel, his hair hung limply in his face, his eyes and nose were streaming, and from how he was standing - hardly standing, really - he looked like he was being held upright by cables tying him together at the joints.

“I said,” Vincent approached Curtis, that unhinged look in his eye that spelled certain fucking doom, “G- heh’EHh... hihh! G’KZSCHhh— Ihhdt’TIZCHhHUE-!”

He turned away, muffling the harsh sneeze into the towel in his hand, but dampening the sound did nothing whatsoever to lessen the pain in Vincent’s throat.

“Bless you, sir,” Curtis said, the words coming out completely on instinct.

“N’guhhh... Get OUT!” Vincent snapped, his voice low and carrying a fair amount of gravel.

“Yes-Mister-Whittman-I’m-sorry-I’m-leaving!” Curtis dropped the clipboard he’d been holding and ran off down the corridor.

Vincent opened the window to air out the room, and then picked up the clipboard from near the door. He turned on the lights and put his glasses back on - he figured even a worsening headache couldn’t possibly make him feel any more shitty than he already did - so he could actually get a halfway-decent look at it.

Between the dizzy light-headedness brought on by his recent paroxysms, the fever he’d probably been running that was no doubt spiked by the exertion, and this morning’s lack of coffee catching up with him, it took him a few minutes to truly grasp what he was reading.

Especially because it looked like his news segment was on the wrong row of the table that had been drawn up.

“Wait…” he murmured.

Oh no.

Oh, what the hell…

“I should probably go,” Warren had told him almost as soon as he’d arrived, “The schedule n’deeds to be adjusted because of how m’bady people aren’t here, that’s goi’g to be a disaster…”

…

“Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry, sir!” Curtis had apologised profusely after having run into Vincent earlier, “I just wanted to talk to you about today's lineup…”

Vincent checked his watch.

Then he looked at the schedule sheet in front of him.

He had all of ten minutes to get himself cleaned up and camera-ready.

“For the love of fucki’gg God-!” he said to himself, rushing to finally get changed out of the tea-stained clothes he was still wearing - and it occurred to him as he hastily buttoned up the clean white shirt and dark blue jacket he was going to wear on camera that he really could have done with getting that out of the way earlier.

Vincent sat back at the vanity table and hurriedly started on his makeup. He’d gotten somewhat good at doing it without the help of the studio’s makeup artists - yet another way in which he showed that he wasn’t one to rely on anybody but himself.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror. As he’d predicted, he looked terrible - somehow pale and fever-flushed all at once, with deep, dark shadows under his eyes that looked like they’d been carved there. The spotlight of his focus, however, was drawn to his nose, which was currently a garish shade of red.

He looked at himself with utter resignation, got his foundation powder out of the drawer it was in, and set to work, covering up the worst of the visible signs of illness on his face.

Vincent tried to keep from sniffling, or God forbid, actually sneezing as he tried to make himself look presentable. The lingering effects of that damn Vicks having set him off meant that he was all the more susceptible to external irritants - including the very powder he was currently applying to the bridge of his nose.

“Ngh- snfF! Hh, hheh…” he hitched, and it dawned on him that trying to rub at his nose to quell the itching would remove the newly-applied makeup, and doing it again would take time he didn’t have.

“IHGXSHh—hhew! nNGKSHhhw-!” Vincent half-stifled a pair of ticklish sneezes, allowing himself that moment before he had to pull himself together for the camera.

He checked his watch again, realised that whatever imperfections in his makeup were visible were going to have to stay that way, and took off from the dressing room at a sprint to make it to the set on time.

••••••••••••••••••••

Vincent’s shoes click-clacked swiftly on the corridor’s hardwood floors, and he nearly tripped as he entered the set, frantically finger-combing his hair into place.

“What on’d Earth—?” Warren blinked in shock as Vincent ran past him and sat at the desk trying to catch his breath. Normally, he’d have gone over the notes in front of him in detail, but the cameras were due to start rolling any minute, so he settled for giving them a cursory flick-through, clearing his throat as he did so in a last-ditch effort to preserve his voice long enough to get through this.

He looked up briefly, and met the gaze of Warren, sitting across from him in the director’s chair. There was a tired concern, pity even, in the older man’s eyes, but Vincent looked back down at his notes, bluntly ignoring him.

Warren sighed. Vincent Whittman, he’d noted, wasn’t one to learn from his mistakes.

“Lights,” he said, and the set lights went up.

“Cambera— snfF-!” he went on, his voice cracking a little on the word.

“And… action.”

The jingle played, and Vincent took a deep breath before beginning.

“Hello,” he began, “I’mb Vidcedt Whittmban’d—”

Oh, God damn it, Vincent thought.

“Snff! Sorry, Vincent Whittman, and welcome to Studio 6 News. Due to some… staffing issues here at the studio today, my co-anchor can’t be here, but regardless - ahem-! Our main story tonight, the recent thunderstorms have caused roughly a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of damages to infrastructure across the state…”

It was going fairly well, all things considered. Save for the occasional glance down at his notes, or the mercifully infrequent moments where he had to sniffle or cough, this was yet another successful report.

What was more, talking about the weather made him feel comforted, like he was going back to his roots. Like somehow, despite it all, he was still the bright-eyed weatherman he used to be… wait, when did he start getting so emotional…?

The lights shining onto him added fuel to a couple of half-literal fires. The heat from the filament bulbs had him sweating through his shirt - at a guess, he’d say his temperature was at about 102, and perhaps higher even than that, given the way his head was beginning to swim. As well as that, given the fact that he was already terribly sensitive to begin with, the light itself elicited a prickling feeling behind his eyes that threatened to make him sneeze.

He had to get through this first, though, so he gave a quiet, shaky sigh before moving on to the last point of his report - one he hadn’t even had a moment to read over in his notes beforehand.

Seeing the words “Public Service Announcement: Cold And Flu Season” on the page in front of him made him wish, for the first time, that he’d never taken the old news anchor’s job.

What a hilarious coincidence, Vincent thought, his lips pressed to a thin line and his eyes widening in sheer dread for a moment. He could already feel himself getting warmer still from what he could only describe as preemptive shame.

But he had quite literally killed for this job, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to do it.

“Well, hgt-hmm—” he started, clearing his throat awkwardly and adjusting his glasses, “while our n’dext- snf-! Next topic is much lighter, it’s, ah… Certainly still nothing to sneeze at, though it h-hh…”

The notable scratchiness in his voice was humiliating enough, but for him to actually display the very symptoms he’d just alluded to - he’d never hear the end of it.

Irony, Vincent thought, discreetly rubbing his nose and sniffling, is a bitch.

“Though it has been making many of us do precisely that,” Vincent continued, “I am of course talking about the fact that cold and flu season has well and truly hit its peak, and it seems to be a rough one this year. Khff- kgh-hrm! Local physicians advise… hhuh— that we all remain vigilant- sndf-! Remember to wash your hands regularly, try to a- hH’hh, avoid going an’dywhere too crowded, a’d- Snf! And, h’hUHh—!”

He took his handkerchief out of his pocket - plain linen with a navy blue border around its edge and a small image of a sailboat embroidered on one corner.

“Should you h-hh- happen to come down with whatever’s going around,” Vincent went on, though his voice was really beginning to falter now, “it’s iihH, HGHh-! Hehh— HPTZSHh- hHGTzchhiuh!”

He turned to one side to try and preserve some semblance of professionalism, then pitched into the cloth in his hand, using the other to steady his glasses so they wouldn’t fall.

“Nghh,” Vincent straightened, “It’s very imbportadt- sndfF—! Ugh, important that you stay h- huh- H-hombe— ehhHDT—! IGKTT’schhiew! Oh, dear God, I- iighH- Huh’TZSHhh’schhuh! UhHGKXSH- Hht’zZSHh— ’KXxshhIEWw!! Snf, snrk—! Eughhh…”

“Cut!” Warren called hoarsely, and the camera stopped rolling.

“F-hh… hHUH! F-fuck—!” Vincent gasped, “hh’KGTtchh-! Ihhdt’zZCHhue!”

He then gave an exhausted groan and a terribly damp-sounding blow into his handkerchief.

“For Christ’s sake, Whittm’band, go home,” Warren said, that dutiful look on his face, “You’re ind a worse state thand I amb, and that’s… hhgh… That’s really sayi’g sombethi- hihh-! Ehh’HEHTtchHIIWw-!”

“But—”

“I’ll figure sombethi’g out- snff—!! Someone will cover for you, now go before you keel over,” Arthur insisted.

The sound of the door slamming echoed behind Vincent as he stormed out, muttering furiously under his breath.

••••••••••••••••••••

Vincent was running on the dying embers of his own frustration as he drove home from the studio.

He pulled over about halfway through the journey to stop in at the local drug store.

The bell above the shop door jingled as he walked in, already damp from the persistent rain outside despite the fact that the journey from his car to the pharmacy had been a mere dozen steps, and he shivered as he approached the counter.

“How may I help you, sir— oh!” the pharmacist asked, blinking back surprise as he saw just who was standing in front of him with what was clearly an awful cold.

“Hey, uh, you’re that news reporter,” the man asked, chuckling awkwardly, “Vincent Whittman, right?”

“We both kn’dow why I’mb here,” Vincent said, an almost solemn note to his ragged voice, like he was ordering a stiff drink at his lowest moment, “A bottle of six-sixty-six, and- khf- ahemm—! Cough drops… please.”

He added the last word as an afterthought, really, figuring he ought to at least extend some kind of basic courtesy.

The pharmacist handed over what he’d asked for, and Vincent paid for his things and walked briskly out the door.

••••••••••••••••••••

Between having arrived late and subsequently being forced to go home early, today was probably Vincent’s shortest working day.

That fact didn’t stop it feeling like it had been the longest five hours of his life, though.

He got changed into a sweater and his pyjama pants, prioritising comfort over looks for once.

As he stood at his kitchen counter, opening the can of Campbell’s cream of chicken soup and pouring its contents into a pot on the stove, Vincent’s mind wandered down a more murderous path.

The actor who’d gotten him sick would be first on the proverbial chopping block, of course. Vincent had been eyeing the man’s talk show spot for some time now anyway, but now it went beyond mere envy; anyone who interfered with Vincent’s ability to do his job was asking for it.

By that last point of logic, it stood to reason that Warren - and that pathetic new hire, Curtis - would both do well to start sleeping with one eye open.

“And your little dog, too…” Vincent muttered to himself with a slight smile of amusement, quoting The Wizard of Oz. He lingered on the memory of having seen it in the movie theatre near his house, where his father had worked in the projection room, being utterly fascinated by the way it switched from sepia to Technicolor when Dorothy first arrived in Oz—

Okay, he was going to have to do something about that fever - surely it was the only explanation as to why he’d been so damned reminiscent today, as that was very unlike him.

He looked at the writing on the box of tablets he’d picked up at the pharmacy.

666 Cold Preparation, the front of the box read. Vincent rolled his eyes at the vaguely demonic connotations, but he supposed he did feel like he’d been dragged through Hell…

Further reading confirmed the medicine worked as a decongestant and as relief for pain and fever.

“The works,” Vincent murmured, placing one of the tablets on his tongue and washing it down with a glass of water.

A while later, his soup was ready, and he turned the television set on as background noise, hoping he’d be able to distract himself from the nightmare that had been his day.

“Hh… IGTtshheww—!” Vincent sneezed, covering loosely with his sleeve.

He sat on the couch and raised a spoonful of the soup to his lips…

“Wh- hgjkk—?!”

Only to almost choke on it out of mingled shock and incandescent rage when he saw Curtis sitting at his news desk, wearing a lilac shirt and light grey jacket, holding a bundle of papers and smiling brightly at the camera.

“Keep well at home, folks,” Curtis said, and it was clear from his tone that this was his first time in front of a camera, “And remember - trust us with your news!”

“Fucking intern—!” Vincent’s voice rose as near to a scream as his ravaged throat would allow, and the sudden increase in volume sent him into a coughing jag.

He threw his head back against the couch cushions, knowing all too well that there was nothing he could do about any of this now, so he reckoned he may as well try and relax.

And relax he did; Vincent fell asleep not a half an hour later, all thoughts of vengeance fading as he slipped into unconsciousness while still holding the soup spoon in his hand.

••••••••••••••••••••

thanks for reading!!!

a couple of notes

the 666 brand cold medicine isn't something i made up because this is a Hazbin fic, this was an actual thing that was sold in the US in the first half of the 20th century, I had to do some research because apparently modern cold meds like NyQuil etc weren't around until the late 50s or early 60s and this is set a little earlier

no interns were harmed in the writing of this story, i'd like to assure the reader that Curtis lives (he quits his job and moves to California)

anyway that's all for today and remember trust us with your snz fic

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Had It (M, cold)

Ok I pushed through and finished it before I grew bored and abandoned it (please clap)! 😂 In this, Greyson insists the cold he has is one he caught from Elijah, and he is wrong lol. There's some drama, but it's mostly misery for Greyson lmao. Listen guys, I'm feeling a little rusty since I haven't written in over a month, and the ending is not my favorite but I'll be honest with you, I just didn't have another scene in me. I was in danger of the ADHD taking over and making me scrap it, so the ending is what it is. I really like most of this, so let's all join hands and pre forgive me for an unsatisfying ending, k? K. Please enjoy, let me know what you think, etc etc.

Ok, onward!

CW: male snz, illness, coughing, contagion is mentioned but definitely not graphically. 4k words under the cut

Had It

“Hhh-IGTSZCCHH-ue!”

“Bless you.”

“Huh -! Hh..NGTSZCH-ue!”

“Bless you.”

“HRRTSH! Hh’ETSZCH-uhh!”

“Jesus Christ, Greyson,” Elijah turned in his computer chair to face his counterpart, moving his reading glasses to the top of his head to address the situation in full. “Bless you, asshole. You sound like fuckin’ shit.”

Across the tiny office, Greyson yanked a handful of tissues from a rapidly-depleting box, his eyes half-shut and hands raised to catch another sneeze. It took a minute, but – “HRTSZCH-uhhh!” – eventually he got there.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, deadpan. “Again.”

Gently blowing his nose, Greyson rolled his eyes at the man next to him. “Thangks. Dick,” he said, voice waterlogged and hoarse. Elijah winced.

“Seriously, I have never met an adult who gets sick more than you. It’s honestly a feat of accomplishment at this point,” Elijah said, sarcasm masking the worry in his voice. The chef had been at work for a whopping twenty-five minutes, and had hardly been able to get a single breath in without sneezing or coughing; how he planned on working his shift was anyone’s guess. As Greyson yanked another tissue from the box, Elijah continued to press. “Where the hell did you pick this shit up from?”

A confused, hazy look crept onto Greyson’s face. “Dude,” he said, coughing into a fist. “Obviously I caught whatever you and Mbark had.”

Before he could even register it, Elijah let out a bleat of a laugh. “You do not have what Mark and I had, Grey,” he said, sizing the chef up. Greyson’s eyebrows knitted together, his head cocked slightly to one side. He cleared his throat as well as he could.

“Yes, I do. Where the hell else would I have gottend sick?”

“Greyson, I don’t know where you got sick, but I know for a fact that you have something different than Mark and me. Unless it somehow mutated ten times over before it made it to you, I am sure it’s something different.”

The week previous, Mark had come in with what could barely be called the sniffles. Because they worked practically on top of each other, he gave it to Elijah almost immediately – but in all honesty, it was hardly anything. The two of them had dealt with sticky throats and stuffy noses for a few days before quickly returning to normal. Matt had also succumbed to, and recovered quickly from, the cold Mark passed around with little fanfare; it was a nothing-burger, the kind of illness that you barely even registered until you were back to normal and realized maybe you’d spent a couple of days feeling out of it.

In stark contrast, Greyson had spent the night before coming in with his current illness downing cups of tea, complaining of a wicked sore throat and an ache in his chest, and that was before his symptoms truly set in. Elijah knew he’d be worse for the wear today when he’d slunk out of the kitchen last night at nine pm without saying goodbye, though he hadn’t realized quite how much worse. This certainly wasn’t the barely-a-cold he’d had the week previous. This was, in the parlance of Greyson, a Whole Thing.

“Well, I’mb sure it’s the same thing you had,” Greyson said now, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. “I don’t go andywhere else, Lij. Like, I haven’t beend to a club in mbonths.”

“What about Reed?” Elijah asked, backing his chair up as Greyson coughed near but not into his elbow. “Has he been sick?”

Greyson shook his head. “He’s in LA for sombe sort of writer’s conference. He left the ndight before last, he was finde.” The chef sucked in through his nose, the sound painfully congested. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re patient zeee – hh – HRTSZCH-uhh! Snrf. Zero.”

Was he though? Elijah took in Greyson’s appearance again, doubtful. He was sure he hadn’t felt as badly as the chef looked, hadn’t had a fever or a cough, hadn’t been fatigued. The reality was that Elijah, ten years older than Greyson, just didn’t bounce back that quickly when he was down with something more sinister than a little cold. If Greyson was as sick as he looked, Elijah was sure he wasn’t the culprit.

And he really, really didn’t want to catch this… whatever it was.

“Okay,” Elijah said, backing off. “Fine. You think my stuffy nose got into your body and morphed into the flu, that’s your prerogative. But Grey please, for the love of God, at least act like you have something we haven’t all had yet. Okay? We have a busy weekend. I can’t have all of us out sick.”

A huff of a laugh from Greyson quickly turned into a series of productive-sounding coughs. When he regained control of his lungs, Greyson stood and placed a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “Have andy of us ever beend out sick?” he asked as Elijah shrugged his hand off. The GM rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” he said, squirting some hand sanitizer into his palms. “And don’t touch me.”

Greyson shrugged out of his sweatshirt, pulled a chef’s coat off the back of the door, shoved his arms into it, and caught Elijah’s eyes with his red-rimmed ones. “Relax, Lij,” he said. “You’ve already had it.”

***

At twelve fifty-six Greyson walked into his and Reed’s apartment, and by twelve fifty-six and twenty two seconds, he was dosed with Nyquil and under the covers in their bed. Before he had a chance to fall asleep, he pulled out his phone to call Reed – if anyone could salve the burn of the evening, it was his boyfriend.

It had been a trying night at the restaurant, to say the very least; not only was Greyson sick as a dog, but it seemed like his cooks were just completely incapable of doing their jobs without constantly fucking up. A steak that was supposed to be mid-rare got sent back for being very clearly well done. Two salads had hairs in them – two fucking salads, what was this, the Golden Corral? – and at least three tables waited a full forty minutes for their food.

“Grey,” Elijah had said, gently placing a hand on Greyson’s shoulder as the chef laid into his team post-service. “Chef, it’s alright. It was one bad night.”

Greyson had spun around, still fuming, and pushed Elijah’s hand off of him. “We’re a Michelin starred restaurant, Elijah,” he said, his voice breaking on the word starred. “Tondight was completely unacceptable and they,” he turned back towards the cooks, who were looking down, cowed, “need to realize that.”

He didn’t turn back around to face Elijah again; instead, he’d screamed the house down, told his cooks that he could have cooked circles around them back when he was in their shoes, that they were treated better than any cooks he knew when he was coming up, paid more and given time off, treated with kid gloves, really. The dressing down continued until, finally, Greyson was forced to turn away to cough into his elbow.

“Okay, Chef,” Elijah said as Greyson attempted to regain control of his lungs. “I think that’s enough.”

“Chef,” Matt said, slipping out from behind the line, “go home. I’ll make sure everyone deep cleans, okay? You… I mean, you sound really awful. You should go get some sleep.”

Invigorated by anger, Greyson had turned to face Matt, then swiveled to look at Elijah. “Ndo,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’mb not leaving until this place fuckigg sparkles. You,” he said to Matt, poking his number-two in the chest, “will ndot be overseeing, you will be pulling the oven out and sweeping behind it. You think you get off easy for what happened tonight, Mbatt, think again. You wanna run your own kitchen one day? Be the big boss? Then you ndeed to be sure that every plate that goes out is perfect. You’re the mbiddle. It’s your responsibility to mbake sure they -” at this, he pointed to the cowering cooks “- aren’t fucking up. Show me­eeh – snrf – show mbe that you are better than tondight. We are ndot equals in here, Mbatt. We just got our star. I ndeed you to show mbe that you’re serious about – about… hh…” Greyson’s rant was slowed only by the incessant fucking buzzing in his sinuses. He attempted to keep it at bay, pawed at his nose with the back of his hand, but it was for naught. “Hh -! NTZCH-uhh!” He attempted to stifle it, a mistake that backfired immediately.

“HRRSCHH-ue! Snf, guh – hh...hh’ITZCH-ue! Hh -! HhETSZCH-uhh!” Greyson collapsed in on himself again and again; when the fit was finally done, he was beyond spent. If he could have taken it all back, the screaming, berating Matt in front of everyone, he would have. He’d admit he was actively dying, needed Nyquil and sleep. But pride prevailed.

“Bless you, Chef,” Matt muttered, eyes cast downward. Swallowing the flurry of coughs Greyson knew were on the tail of the sneezes, he stood to his full height and pointed behind the line.

“Go clean,” he said, the fire gone from his voice. “I’ll be in the office.”

Forced to keep it together to maintain the Big Bad Boss Who Was Very Angry vibe, Greyson sat at his desk and stared at the computer, willing himself not to sneeze or cough or make himself look like a fool in front of his staff again. After a few minutes of stewing, Elijah came in and closed their office door.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, sitting in the chair opposite the chef. “Who are you, Gordon fucking Ramsey? You never yell at them like that. I think Matt may be out back self-flagellating as we speak.”

Slowly, Greyson turned to face his friend. “He better ndot be,” he said, coughing into the back of his hand. “I told himb to clean behind the oven, did I ndot?”

“You know what I mean,” Elijah huffed, rolling his eyes. “Greyson, you can’t berate your staff just because you don’t feel well. It isn’t their fault that -”

“What the fuck are you saying, Elijah?” Greyson cut his boss off, newly invigorated. “Can’t berate themb because I don’t feel well – they fucked up tondight! I’mb not yelling because I have a fuckigg stuffy nose, I’mb yelling because I give a shit about this place! They fucked up all ndight long and I’mb just supposed to let that slide? In a Mbichelin-starred restaurant? You worked at fucking EMP, would tonight fly there? They should kndow -”

“-You fucked up, Greyson,” Elijah exploded, poking Greyson in the chest the way he had Matt. “You are the Executive Chef. It’s your job to make sure the food goes out the right temperature, or sans hair. It’s your job to keep an eye on ticket times, and I know you know that, and in normal circumstances you would acknowledge it instead of blaming your staff like some old-school prick. I was trying to give you an out out there, trying to let you off the hook because I know you don’t feel well and that can give us an off night, but now you’re just being an asshole. So I’ll be the one to let you know that tonight was a failure because of you.”

“Wow,” Reed said now, as Greyson recounted the evening over FaceTime. “So what did you say after that?”

Greyson sucked in uselessly through his nose and pulled a hand down his face, shrugging. “I mbean, what could I say? He’s right. I was an asshole for no reason. I basically just turned away and waited for the cooks to be done cleanding.” Again, he attempted a sniffle, which only ended in a soupy-sounding cough. “God, hold ond, I ndeed to blow mby fuckigg nose.”

As he put the phone down to trudge to the bathroom, he heard Reed say, “Perfect timbing, so do I.”

Greyson stopped in his tracks – wait, what? “Hold ond – are you sick, too?” he asked, picking the phone back up, tissue-be-damned. On the other end, Reed was missing from the frame.

“Yeah,” his boyfriend’s voice called from what was clearly across the room. “I felt it coming on on the plane; yesterday I was a mess at the conference.” He reappeared then, picking up the phone and shrugging. “I thought I texted you that? Mbaybe not, though. I was pretty out of it last night.”

At this, Greyson groaned. “What?” Reed asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Ndow I’mb going to have to fuckigg double apologize,” he said, flopping back on the pillows and wiping his nose on their comforter in lieu of getting the tissue box. Reed coughed out a laugh.

“I’m lost, honey. What does me being sick have to do with you apologizing?”

Pressing a thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, Greyson sighed heavily. “Well, I mbay have also told Elijah that he was the one who got mbe sick, so I didn’t have to worry about, like, infecting himb. And the rest of the staff.”

“When was Elijah sick?”

“Last week, he had a cold. Or sombething. Hh - !” Greyson pressed his wrist into the side of his nose, an attempt to squelch the oncoming sneeze.

“Bless you,” Reed said, preemptively. Like it always seemed to, the early blessing left Greyson sans-sneeze, eyes watering and sinuses throbbing. “I don’t remember him being sick when I went in for drinks last week?” Reed said as Greyson rubbed at an aching eye.

“It was sombe tiny thing,” Greyson muttered, eyes closing. “Himb and the boys had it.”

“Matt and Mark had it? Were they sick whend we went to dinner on Monday?”

“I don’t kndow. I thingk so. Whatever it was, it wasn’t this garbage. ” Greyson coughed into their pillows, the movement reigniting the feeling of needing to – “Hh -! Hh’ITSZCHH-ue! HRTSZCH-ue!” – sneeze.

“Bless you,” Reed said again. “You sound miserable, baby.”

“Mmmb. Thangks,” he said, opening one eye. “Anyway. Ndow I’mb also going to have to apologize for getti’g everyone sigck.” Even to his own ear, Greyson could tell he was nearly-indecipherable for the congestion in his head. “Ultimbate bad guy, Greysond Abbott.”

Reed coughed out a laugh. “You can blame mbe, if you want. I’ll be your fall guy.”

“I’ll take it under condsideration,” Greyson mumbled, eyes closing again. “Fuck, I was a dickhead tondight. Do you thingk I should call Elijah ndow and apologize?”

“Did you already take Nyquil?”

“Yeah.”

“Then no, I think you should probably wait,” Reed said, laughing again. “If it mbakes you feel better, I’m a day ahead of you and I felt way better today than I did yesterday. So hopefully tomorrow you feel a little mbore human.”

A hum of approval was all Greyson could get out now. His phone was propped up only by the pillow, his consciousness quickly fading. On the other end of the line, Reed tsk’d, concerned. “Go to sleep, baby. You can figure out your apology tour in the mborning.”

“Stay ond the line til I fall asleep?” Greyson croaked, already nearly there.

“Of course,” Reed said. By the time he laid down in the hotel bed, Greyson was already snoring. “Sweet dreams.”

***

The first positive was that Greyson apologized for his temper tantrum the evening previous with the best bagels and coffee in the city.

“Jesus Christ,” Elijah said when the chef came in with two dozen bagels in a massive paper bag. “The hell time did you get up to buy them out of bagels? Don’t people start lining up there at like four a.m.?”

Greyson shrugged as he sipped his latte, placing the bagels and box of coffee on the prep station in the middle of the kitchen. “I kndow Barry who owns the shop. He owed mbe a favor for cooking his family’s turkey last Thanksgiving,” he said as explanation. Elijah nodded slowly, taking the chef in.

The second positive was that Greyson seemed at least somewhat less ill than he had been last night.

“You’re looking more human today,” Elijah said as Greyson pushed past him into their office. “Did you get some sleep, princess?”

Rolling his eyes and coughing into his elbow away from Elijah – wow, he even learned manners overnight – Greyson sat in his chair. “Yes, mbom. I also doped mbyself up pretty good this mborning.”

There it is, Elijah thought, nodding again. Though certainly not as sick, Greyson still seemed… weird. Cowed, even. As if reading the GM’s mind, Greyson turned towards his friend to word-vomit out an apology.

“I’mb sorry about last ndight,” he said, sniffling. “I was a dick. You’re right; the fuckups are on mbe. I’mb sorry for that, too.” Greyson’s nose twitched, and he pressed the back of his hand to it, frustrated. This was a battle he wasn’t about to win. “God, sorry, I – HITTSZCH-ue! Hh-GTZSHH-ue! Snrf. ’Scuse mbe,” he said from the crook of his elbow. Polite, Elijah thought to himself. Maybe he really is sorry.

“Bless,” Elijah said as Greyson blew his nose quietly. After a beat or two, he nodded. “Alright,” he said.

“Alright?”

“Alright,” Elijah repeated. “I forgive you. I mean, you have to apologize to Matt. And your staff. Obviously. But I forgive you.”

A smile ghosted across Greyson’s chapped lips. “Thangks, Lij,” he said, coughing again into his elbow. Elijah’s eyebrows knit together at the crunching, stifled coughs.

“You still sound shitty,” he said as Greyson regained his composure. “Are you going to be good for tonight?”

Without missing a beat, Greyson nodded. “Yep,” he said, clearly attempting to brighten his voice. “I’mb all good. Sounds worse than it is.”

Again, Elijah nodded – something was still… off. “You’re sure?”

“I’mb sure.”

There was nothing else to be done about it; Elijah shrugged and again said, “Alright” before turning to his computer to begin the day’s work. And Greyson kept to his word, apologizing to Matt and the team the moment they walked in, prepping quietly with them between stifled sneezes and coughs. The thing was, something still felt weird; Greyson clearly still didn’t feel well, he was congested and pale and couldn’t stop coughing for more than a few minutes at a time, but he refused to complain. If anything, he seemed to be wont to pretend that he wasn’t still under the weather.

“You’re acting weird,” Elijah said, cornering Greyson post preshift. “Do you have a fever or something?”

Greyson ducked out of the way of Elijah’s hand. “I don’t have a fever,” he promised, rolling his eyes. “And I’mb ndot being weee – hh… Hh - !” Greyson brought an arm to his face, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation, and turned away from Elijah. “Hhh… hnngh.” It had evaded him, it seemed, but Greyson stayed turned away to clear his throat into his elbow.

“Bless you,” Elijah mocked, prompting an eye roll from Greyson. “That. That’s weird.”

“Mbe ndot being able to sndeeze?”

“No,” Elijah rolled his eyes in return. “You’re, like… being super polite about it. The sneezing, and coughing and whatever. What happened to ‘you can’t catch it, you already had’ – oh.” As Elijah said it, Greyson’s face burned red. Caught. “You’re fucking kidding me,” Elijah said.

“I said I was sorry -!”

“Not for fucking infecting us, you didn’t,” Elijah moaned, pulling a hand down his face. “Goddammit, Greyson.”

“I thought it was what you had, really, but thend I was on the phonde with Reed last ndight -”

“I fucking knew it wasn’t what we had, but you always have to be right, Christ -”

“I’mb sorry,” Greyson said, hanging his head. “It didn’t feel like the right timbe to be like ‘oh, by the way, sorry for being a dick yesterday, but also I probably gave you all the flu’ -”

“It’s the flu? Jesus christ, Greyson -”

“Ndo, that’s not – it’s ndot the flu, I prombise -”

“Oh, you promise, perfect, your promises mean so much to me right now -”

Before Greyson could respond again, his face crumpled and – “HITSZZCH-ue! HRTSXCH!” Greyson sniffled, coughed, wiped his nose on his sleeve away from Elijah. “’Scuse mbe,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

“Bless -”

“HRRSHH-uhh!” From behind both of them, on the line, Matt wrenched to the side once – “ETSCHH-ue!” – twice – “HRRTSCH-uh!” – three times. Greyson pressed his lips together while Elijah bleated out a laugh.

“I hate you,” he said, the laughter unable to abate. “Sometimes, Grey, I really fucking hate you.”

Greyson tipped his head back and forth, as though considering something. “I thingk that’s fair,” he said. “Would it mbake you feel better if I said I’ll buy you a dringk… when everyone feels better?”

The chuckle from before evolved, then, into a guffaw, a laugh so hard that Elijah felt tears stream down his cheeks, felt everyone in the kitchen’s eyes on him, until he was sure someone would have to fucking sedate him for it to stop. “Should I take that as a yes?” Greyson asked as the GM attempted to calm himself.

“Greyson,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, “after the past few days, you’re going to have to buy me the entire bar.”

A smile flitted onto Greyson’s lips. “That could be arranged,” he said, sniffling. Still smiling, Elijah shook his head. “Sorry again.”

“It is what it is,” Elijah said, sighing. “I assume I should stock up on Dayquil?”

“If I were you, I’d spring for the good Sudafed. The onde they mbake meth with.”

Again, Elijah couldn’t help but laugh – this time, Greyson joined in, his laughter pock marked with crunching coughs. He couldn’t help it; Greyson was his best friend, despite it all. His flawed, often fucked up best friend. Though he wished he could stay mad, as the two of them laughed until they had to sit on the floor, Elijah knew amends were made. He would get Greyson’s awful cold, they all would, and the scene would play out again and again, but still he wouldn’t be able to stay mad. Greyson was who he was; flawed, and gregarious, and too caring and too bullheaded. And always, at least by Elijah, forgiven.

[ghostlychill]

You know what? Instead of his elbow or hands, I bet Abel uses his wing to cover his sneezes.

Oh my god you're right

[very-freakin-effable]

AW WAIT THAT'S ADORABLE

[chestcongestion]

Practical Ill Effects: Ha//zbin Ho/tel

Finally finished! The "faking someone else's sickness" trope with Al/ast/or. Fic is under the cut as always, I had a lot of fun working with this and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! ^^

Word count: 6.5K

Content warnings: Manipulation/ Gaslighting, Drugging, Food tampering (This whole fic is basically "Al/ast/or gets gaslit for 6 thousand words")

“This blows,” Angel scoffed, sitting on top of a dumpster in an alley that was a brisk walk away from the hotel. Husk was sitting on the dumpster to his right, and Niffty was running around in circles, stepping on ants with her tiny feet. 

“You’re tellin’ me,” Husk said, taking a swig of whiskey from his flask before slipping it back into his pocket. 

The trio of demons were gathered in the alley for a meeting of minds of sorts. In two days, Charlie and Vaggie would be leaving with Lucifer on a trip to the Wrath Ring, and while they were gone, the rest of the group would be heading to LuLu World as a reward for their incredible progress. 

However, Vaggie was skeptical about the group behaving themselves in public without a ‘sane, responsible adult present’, and elected to- ironically- put Alastor in charge of chaperoning them for the trip, something the Radio Demon took glee in accepting. 

“How he is the responsible one out of the four of us, I have no fuckin’ idea,” Husk grumbled, folding his arms. 

“Maybe it’s just ‘cause he’s the oldest,” Niffty offered. 

“We’re all basically the same age, that’s bullshit,” Angel replied, massaging his temples, “How’re we gonna ditch ‘im?” 

“Ooo! We could hit him in the head with something heavy! Like a piano!” Niffty proposed, jittering in place at the idea. 

“This ain’t a cartoon, Niff, we’re not droppin’ a piano on his head,” Angel argued, “I don’t think he’ll let us get close enough to ‘im to do somethin’ like that anyways.” 

Husk leaned back against the brick wall behind the dumpster, a mischievous grin spreading onto his feline face, “Charlie’d probably force him to stay behind and let us go on our own if he was sick,” he said. 

“But he ain’t,” Angel replied. 

“Who says Charlie has to know that?” Husk said, his smile widening as he hopped off of the dumpster, dusting off the seat of his pants. 

“But he’d just tell ‘er he’s fine,” Angel said, still sounding skeptical. 

“He’d do that anyways, he’d insist that he’s fine even if you were wavin’ positive test results in his face… if anything, that’ll help,” Husk explained, cracking his knuckles, “I think I’ve got an idea.” 

“Alright, spill, I’m all ears,” Angel said, kicking his feet as Husk paced back and forth between the dumpsters. 

“I know that fucker’s allergic to oak moss… he used to force me to shower every time I tried to wear cologne,” Husk grumbled, “If all three of us wore it… just a little, it’d be enough to set him off without anybody noticing.” 

“O ooo, that’s so bad, I love it,” Angel said, sighing wistfully as he hopped down from his dumpster perch, stretching out his back. 

“That ain’t the entire plan, but it is the first step, I’m gonna have to explain it quick, that motherfucker’s always eavesdropping,” Husk explained. 

After a brief huddle, the triad of demons went back into the hotel through the rear entrance, disappearing into separate rooms for about an hour. 

Later on that evening, Alastor was sitting in his armchair in the parlor and reading a book, when Husk wandered downstairs, taking his station at the bar and taking inventory of the bottles, gently ruffling his wings. 

Alastor sniffled quietly, swiping a finger under his nostrils before returning to his book. 

“Feet up, Alastor! I need to get a stain out of the carpet!” Niffty requested, ducking underneath Alastor’s feet and scrubbing away at the rug with a washcloth, the smear of oak moss perfume oil that Husk placed on the back of her neck wafting up towards Alastor. 

Alastor sniffled a bit harder, his sinuses and the back of his throat beginning to itch, “Hmm,” he hummed to himself, getting up from his chair and swallowing experimentally, feeling a scratchiness in the back of his throat.

“Heya Alastor, Fat Nuggets stole one ‘o your slippers earlier, wanted to let ya’ know I put it back,” Angel said, gently pushing up his chest fluff, pretending to glance at Alastor’s hair, “I’ve been meanin’ to ask… was this your natural color back when you were alive?” 

While looking, Angel gently reached around and smeared a bit of oak moss perfume residue on the back of Alastor’s neck, pretending to reach out and touch his red locks. 

Alastor sniffled, nudging Angel away with his microphone and struggling to keep his hands away from his twitching nose, “Hh… H-hihh… No, no it wasn’t, my hair was dark brown, thank you… hHih!” he replied, covering his nose and mouth with one hand when the oak moss fumes from the oil on his neck made his nose start to run, a speedy trickle threatening to run all the way down to his chin.

“You alright, Smiles?” Angel asked, fluffing out his hair and watching as another mist of allergenic droplets wafted into Alastor’s face. 

“Y-Yihh… Ehh… Hh!!” Alastor paused, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping off his drippy nostrils before accidentally letting out a heavy, congested sniffle, “SDdfFF! SnFF-SnrRK!” 

A silence fell over the room, and Alastor wanted to disappear under the floorboards. What was happening to him? He couldn’t smell anything suspicious before and with the sudden rush of congestion, he certainly wouldn’t be able to for the foreseeable future. 

“You didn’t hear that,” Alastor threatened, feeling another bloom of histamine tickling his nose, “SnFF-SnFF! Hehh… Ehh…H-hehh!” Alastor fanned a hand in front of his face, the overwhelming urge to sneeze building to a crescendo so quickly that he didn’t have time to teleport someplace to hide- as a matter of fact, the urge was so great he ended up dropping his microphone to free up both hands. 

Angel opened his mouth to make a sly remark, only to be interrupted by a harsh feedback sound as Alastor was thrown into a sneezing fit. 

“H-hehh’KZzhht! He-eh’KTxhhiew! Eh’KzZHht! Hnk’Kxhht-sShew!” Alastor sneezed, straightening his posture and wiping hopelessly at his streaming nose, “Sdfff…SnFF!” 

“Gesundheit,” Husk said casually, holding in his laughter as he centered his focus on cleaning beer mugs, “Never heard you let loose like that around so many people.” 

“Awww, maybe he’s warmin’ up to us, in’t that sweet?” Angel crooned, sneakily reaching out and tracing a heart on Alastor’s chest with his oil-contaminated hand before Alastor slapped it away. 

“Oh hush, I simply didn’t have the time to use any discre-ehh… E-Eh’KXHHT-sShhiew!” Alastor replied, punctuating his sentence with a particularly wet, heavy sneeze, right when Charlie wandered into the room. 

“Bingo,” Husk whispered to himself, knowing that Alastor’s ears were just stuffy enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“Oh, Bless you, Alastor!” Charlie exclaimed, “I heard someone sneeze a couple minutes ago, I didn’t realize it was you.” 

“Thank you- SnFF!- pardon me, I’m not sure what came over me to cause that… outburst,” Alastor replied, turning away from Charlie to blow his nose, expecting to yield no results, only to wince at the gurgling rumble of congestion leaving his sinuses, his handkerchief growing damp before he pulled away, “Euch…” 

Charlie remained silent for a moment, as though mentally shuffling through responses and making sure she didn’t pick one out that reflected her quiet disgust, “That was… a lot… are you feeling okay? Sounds like you might be getting a cold,” she probed, noticing the irritated skin on Alastor’s nose.  

“Of course n’dot- SnFF!- of course not, I’m perfectly fine, there’s just… something in this room that appears to be irritating a sensitivity of mine,” Alastor replied, somehow giving off a perfect mixture of nonchalant and offended. 

“You’re only set off by strong scents: lavender, teakwood, citronella, oak moss, the kinda shit you really only find in perfume and cologne,” Husk argued, fighting tooth and nail to hide his amused smile, “If somethin’ like that was in here, we’d all be able to smell it.” 

“That’s true, I don’t smell anything out of the ordinary here,” Charlie observed. 

“Hmph! Well thed… SnFF!” Alastor replied, an indignant scowl on his face as he scrubbed at his nostrils with the back of his hand, “I’m n’dot exactly sure what it could be.” 

“Maybe you should head to bed early tonight! Extra rest always helps me when I’m fighting something,” Charlie offered, “Hopefully you can kick it before it settles.” 

“Of course,” Alastor said with a sigh, “Thank you for the recommendation, Charlotte.”  

“No problem!” Charlie replied, turning to leave the room when Alastor’s nose began to twitch again. 

“h-HiIhh’Kxzzhhtt-SsCHEW! Ih’Kxhht-SscHiEW!” Alastor sneezed, gently rubbing his irritated nose. 

“Bless you!” Charlie said before vanishing through the doorway.  

“Th- Tha…ank- Hih’xXSschew! Hi-IH’KxXHHT!” Alastor replied, wrinkling his nose with a damp, heavy sniffle, rubbing at his watery eyes with the heel of his palm before vanishing into his own shadow. 

“That was almost too easy,” Angel chuckled in a hushed voice. 

“It only gets easier,” Husk snickered, pouring a glass of rye whiskey and stirring it with a contaminated claw before leaving it on the bar counter as bait.

“Alright, as fun as this is, I’m takin’ a shower, this stuff is so sticky it’s mattin’ my fur,” Angel scoffed, arching his back to stretch as he wandered up the stairs, Husk following after him. 

Niffty, left to her own devices, skipped into the hotel’s basement to chase after families of cockroaches and centipedes with a broom, swatting at them even as the night stretched onward. 

A few hours later, Husk and Angel were curled up in Angel’s bed- Angel scrolling listlessly through his phone while Husk kneaded at the mattress and sheets with his large paws- when they heard a sound coming from a few doors down. 

Husk’s ear twitched, and his eyes widened as he attempted to focus on the sound, sitting up in bed and waiting in breathless silence. 

“What’s up-” Angel began to ask, only for Husk to shush him, tilting his head to the side and twitching his left ear, “What is it?” Angel whispered. 

The sound of wheezy, irritated, desperate coughing from the other room became audible, making Husk’s face melt into a smug smile, the ticklish coughs occasionally being muffled by bursts of static.  

“He drank the whiskey,” Husk whispered, stretching out a bit further in bed and waiting patiently. 

“khff…Khff-Khff…KHHFF!” 

“Bullseye,” Husk yawned, gently pawing at the air in front of him before nuzzling against Angel’s fluffy torso and dozing off, with Angel following close behind.

Alastor, however, had managed to cough himself awake. He felt as though he was losing his mind- eyes watering, nose streaming, and his throat so unbearably itchy that it couldn’t be soothed even after inflating his bladder with glass after glass of water. 

“Oh for- Khhff!- goodness sake- KHFF! Khff…khff!” Alastor muttered to himself, pacing in a tight circle and trying to muffle his ceaseless coughing behind both of his hands, his struggle stretching across the entire night until the tickle in his throat managed to fade around sunrise. 

Leaning against the back of his armchair, Alastor attempted to straighten his posture and stand on his own two feet, finger-combing his hair and feeling around on his person for his handkerchief to blow his hopelessly stuffy nose. 

“I have n’do clue what’s happend’ig… Snff!” Alastor said, pinching his handkerchief around his nostrils and letting out a heavy, wet blow, feeling his sinus cavity vibrate from the release, “hh…H-hihh… Hi-Ih’DddTsSchiEW! Hnk’tchhew!”  

With his nose still buried in his handkerchief and exhaustion tugging at his heels, Alastor bit the bullet and wandered downstairs to start his day in earnest. 

Upon arriving downstairs, Alastor grabbed his favorite mug and quietly filled it with water, taking slow sips in an attempt to drown the scratchy sensation in his throat and sinus cavity- to no avail- as people slowly entered the room after him. 

“Good Morning, Alastor!” Charlie greeted with her usual bouncy and colorful demeanor, rocking back and forth on her heels, “Feeling any better?” 

“Yes, a good night’s sleep was all I needed,” Alastor replied, looking away from Charlie to avoid dwelling on the exhaustion that was weighing him down, making his steps and movements seem much slower, much more deliberate. 

Charlie shot a brief glance at the dark rings underneath Alastor’s eyes, “Are you sure you got any sleep? You were coughing a lot last night,” she probed. 

Alastor felt a pit open up in his stomach, but maintained his nonchalant expression and scoffed, “Nonsense- snff!- I slept incredibly peacefully last night, you must have heard someone else.” 

Charlie looked unconvinced, but turned to Husk and Angel with a shrug, “Was it you guys?” she asked. 

Husk laughed, “Nope, those were too dry to be mine,” he said, letting out a sharp exhale that rattled his lungs, “Not after a life and afterlife of puffin’ on cigars.” 

“They were too normal to be mine,” Angel said with a scoff, “Every time I start coughin’ it sounds like a seal fucked a chew toy.” 

“Dad went out last night and didn’t come home until morning, and it was a male voice… so it had to be you, Alastor,” Charlie insisted, “Maybe you were just coughing in your sleep, so you didn’t notice.”  

Alastor swallowed, silently cursing the stinging sensation that radiated through his raw throat, “I suppose so,” he said, relenting as his left ear twitched slightly, “Regardless, I’m still feeling much be-eehh… EH’KXxht-shhiew! Eh’KzZhht-Sshew!” 

Husk snickered as he watched Alastor blearily wipe his nose, watery mess trickling into his handkerchief as friction from the fabric reddened his sensitive nostrils. 

“Bless you, Alastor,” Charlie said, “It’s okay if you’re still feeling sick, you don’t have to hide it. As long as it doesn’t get any worse you’ll still be okay to go to Lulu World with everyone!” 

“Mbarvelous- snff!” Alastor replied, blowing his nose into his handkerchief until the fabric was damp and the sensitive skin on his nose began to burn from the constant rubbing. 

Charlie vanished upstairs, having a few more things to pack for her trip, leaving the scheming trio of sinners to enact the next phase of their plan. 

Two hours after his conversation with Charlie, Alastor was relaxing in his armchair in the parlor, reading a book he’d been meaning to finish. Annoyingly, every few pages Alastor was forced to set the book down, using his finger as a bookmark, to scrub furiously at his nose with the heel of his palm in an attempt to quell the persistent itching, or to desperately cover a wet sneeze with the back of his wrist. 

“E-ehh’Kxhht-chew! EH’Kxhht-Sshew!” Alastor sneezed, his stomach churning with disgust after he looked at the damp patch of fabric on his sleeve from soaking up about thirty sneezes’ worth of spray.

Suddenly, Alastor felt a tug on his pant leg, and he looked down through rheumy eyes to see Niffty, eagerly clutching a container of ice cream. 

“Hello Ndiffty- snff!- pardon mbe… what can I do for you?” Alastor asked, quietly twirling a stray lock of Niffty’s hair around his finger. 

“Nothing… I just wanted to see if you wanted this butter pecan ice cream, I found it while I was clearing out the freezer!” Niffty offered, handing Alastor the small pint of ice cream and a spoon. 

Alastor licked his lips, butter pecan was a classic, and it was one of the only sugary things he considered an exception in his indifference towards sweets. Plus, the thought of smooth, cool ice cream cascading down his scratchy throat sounded heavenly. 

After a reluctant glance away, Alastor dug into the ice cream, eating spoonful after spoonful with so much gusto that he didn’t notice that the ice cream container was not properly sealed. 

“It’s delicious, thank you Niffty… He-EH’KXHHT-Chhew!... pardon mbe,” Alastor sighed, scraping the bottom of the ice cream container for one last spoonful before Niffty plucked the empty carton out of his hands. 

After Niffty scurried away to continue cleaning, Alastor returned to his book, thumbing through the pages and pausing every so often to sneeze, until he felt a drowsiness come over him like a dreary fog. Alastor yawned, stretching out in his armchair and rubbing his eyes. 

Three pages later, Alastor yawned again, suddenly fighting to keep his eyelids up as each blink seemed to drag on just a bit longer than the last. 

“Ehh…Eh’kxhh-shhew! Hnk’tshew!” 

Alastor rubbed at his raw nostrils with his cold, damp handkerchief, muttering drowsily at his waning energy seemingly affecting his sneezes. 

Two more pages and another intense yawn later, and Alastor finally lost the battle against his own body, drooping his head to one side and falling fast asleep, still loosely clutching his book in one hand and snoring softly- the snores occasionally being interrupted by a congested sniffle.  

Niffty smiled from her position on the other side of the room dusting the curtains, quickly racing upstairs before coming back down with Husk and Angel following behind her. 

“Look, I did it! That was easy!” Niffty cheered, clapping for herself as her two friends stared in awe at the unconscious Radio Demon. 

“How the hell’d you get him to sleep?” Angel asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I crushed up some of Husk’s gabapentin, some Hell-Dryl, and a couple of sleeping pills into a carton of ice cream!  He ate the whole thing!” Niffty explained. 

“You are one twisted little doll, y’know that?” Husk asked, ruffling Niffty’s hair, “He’d kill us if he knew we were doin’ this.” 

“Welp, he don’t, so we’re fine,” Angel snickered, pulling out his plugged-in curling iron and holding the hot metal close to Alastor’s face until he could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and flush on Alastor’s cheeks to match his friction-reddened nose. Carefully, Angel moved the exposed metal over and brushed it against the insides of Alastor’s ears.

“I’ll be damned, if I didn’t know about this, I’d be convinced… he looks pathetic,” Husk said, watching Alastor’s chest rise and fall as he peacefully snored, “Hurry and go get ‘er before his ears cool down, I’ll hide the curling iron.” 

“Got it,” Angel replied, handing Husk the iron before quietly practicing his lines to himself, putting on a skeptical but concerned face, and wandering hurriedly up the stairs, “Charlie?!” he called out, disappearing around a corner. 

“He’s a damn good actor when he’s not readin’ someone else’s trash script, I’ll tell you that much,” Husk mumbled, stashing the curling iron behind the bar counter on a heat-safe cloth and pretending to look busy, grabbing a beer mug and polishing it with a rag right as Charlie followed Angel into the parlor from upstairs. 

“Oh, Angel, you’re right, he looks awful,” Charlie crooned, pressing her hands against her cheeks in dismay, “And he’d never fall asleep just out in the open like this, either…” 

Alastor, still unconscious, shuddered a bit due to a residual chill from demolishing the pint of ice cream so quickly. 

“He’s shaking,” Charlie said, sympathy dripping from her every word as she carefully reached out and pressed her palm against Alastor’s artificially-warmed forehead, feeling the heat and sweat on his skin, “He feels warm, too.” 

“Want me to go get the ear thermometer?” Angel offered, celebrating internally when Charlie shook her head. 

“No, no need, we’re already pushing our luck as it is, Alastor hates being touched… he obviously has a fever, I don’t need to know the specifics until he wakes up,” Charlie said, “This is horrible, he was so excited to go to Lulu World with you guys.” 

“It’s a damn shame,” Angel said solemnly, “We’ll bring back somethin’ for ‘im.” 

“Awww, that’s sweet,” Charlie replied, smiling before turning her attention to Husk, “Do you think you can keep things in order while you guys are at the park? I don’t want you guys to miss out on your fun time just because Al has to stay home.” 

“No worries Princess, I got it,” Husk said with a confident smile. 

“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” Charlie said with a sigh, looking at Alastor’s unconscious, snoring form and wincing with discomfort at the strange angle the Radio Demon was positioned in, “He’d be so much more comfortable in bed, but I don’t wanna wake him up.”  

Husk quietly shook Alastor’s shoulder as an experiment to see how much movement he would tolerate before he woke up, looking pleasantly surprised when Alastor didn’t react- the cocktail of drugs he’d been given had lulled him into a comfortable and deep sleep. 

“I think if I’m careful, I can just-” Husk scooped Alastor up into his arms, supporting his back with one hand and his knees with the other, “-there we go. I got ‘im from here, I’ve done this song and dance a couple times before when he was drunk.” 

“Oh, thank you so much, Husk, that’s so nice!” Charlie replied, clasping her hands together as a warm smile spread across her face, “I have to finish packing, but I’ll come check on him later.” 

Husk gave Charlie an understanding nod as she disappeared up the stairs. Once Charlie was gone, Husk carried Alastor upstairs and opened the door to his room one-handed. 

Husk rummaged through Alastor’s clothes until he found a pair of linen pajamas, removing Alastor’s suit and slacks and changing him into the pajamas in about four minutes. 

Once Alastor was dressed for bed, Husk sighed, peering into the dense brush of the wet Louisiana forest pocket dimension that occupied the other side of Alastor’s room. “Where the hell’d you move your bed to this time?” Husk inquired rhetorically, balancing Alastor’s sleeping form on his hip before venturing into the forest. 

“Snff…Snff-snff!” Alastor’s pitiful sniffling could be heard from his position with his head resting against Husk’s shoulder. 

Husk rolled his eyes, peering around bushes and behind trees until he found Alastor’s bed in a corner near a stream, hidden slightly by a curtain of hanging plants. Husk peeled back the duvet and sheets from their position neatly tucked underneath the pillows, gently laid Alastor down onto his mattress, and pulled the covers back up until they reached the Radio Demon’s shoulders. 

“There we go,” Husk said with a triumphant smile, “Nighty night, sucker.” 

Laughing at his victory, Husk wandered out of the dense forest, folding Alastor’s suit, vest, and slacks before placing the neatly folded clothes on a chair up against the wall, shutting off the lights, and closing the door behind him. 

Alastor remained peacefully asleep, his congestion clearing up and his hopelessly itchy throat returning to normal as the allergens on his clothes were no longer present to irritate his system. 

In the blissful darkness of Alastor’s room, his shadow slipped out from underneath his bed frame, a mischievous smile on its face as it pulled back the covers on Alastor’s bed and unbuttoned his pajama shirt. 

A cool breeze swept through the humid air in the forest, sending a chill down Alastor’s spine as he slept. Shuddering, Alastor curled in on himself in an attempt to stay warm as the cool air hit the exposed skin on his chest and neck. 

“Hnk’tchew! Hnk’tshiww!” 

Alastor’s nose twitched, and he sleepily rubbed the back of his hand against it to ward off a building itch before falling back into his deep slumber as the chilled air continued to blow on his sweat-dampened skin. 

Early the next morning, Alastor woke up to the sight of Charlie jostling his shoulders while standing at his bedside. 

“Mm… what time is it? When did I get here?” Alastor asked with a scratchy yawn, rubbing his eyes.  

“Husk brought you to bed yesterday after you dozed off downstairs,” Charlie explained, “They left for Lulu World already, but I didn’t want to leave for our trip until you woke up.” 

“They left without mbe?!” Alastor asked, moving to get out of bed, only for Charlie to press a hand against his bare chest, gently pushing him back against his pillows. 

“Yes, Husk promised he’d keep everything under control, but they left without you,” Charlie said, “I’m sorry, Alastor, I know it’s disappointing but you really shouldn’t be out and about while you’re this sick.” 

“I explained this before, Charlie, I amb perfectly he-ehh…Eh’Kxhht-shhew! Eh’KzZht-chiew! EH’KXHHT-SHEW!” Alastor argued, pawing around on his bed for his handkerchief as his nose began to run, “snff!” 

“Yeah, this is what ‘perfectly healthy’ sounds like,” Charlie scoffed, “I hate to break it to you Alastor, but you’ve been sniffling and sneezing for three days now-” cautiously, Charlie held the back of her hand up to Alastor’s forehead, “-and you have a fever. You’re sick, there’s nothing wrong with that, it happens to everyone.” 

Alastor folded his arms, refusing to look Charlie in the eyes, “If you say so,” he muttered.

“Will you be okay by yourself? I can call Rosie and ask her to come over if you want, I just want to make sure you’ll be alright before we leave,” Charlie offered.

“I’ll be fide, thank you- snff! Snff!- pardon mbe,” Alastor said, grumbling as he pulled a handkerchief out of the ether, pinching the fabric around his nose and letting out a heavy, gurgling blow, “Uch…e-Eh’KZzhht-chew!” 

“Alright, if you say so,” Charlie said in reply, stepping away from Alastor’s bed, “Call us if you need anything, okay?” 

“Alright, have a ndice trip- snff!” Alastor said, blowing his nose again as Charlie and Vaggie left the hotel to meet Lucifer outside. Once they were gone, Alastor got out of bed, staggering a bit once he got to his feet. He felt strangely tired, almost weak. 

“I know those scoundrels were up to sombething- snrkk!- I ab ndot sick,” Alastor grumbled to himself, only to pause when a sudden chill made him shiver, buttoning up his pajama shirt and tugging on his red dressing gown, sighing in relief at the comfortable warmth of the plush fabric. 

“I should go to that park and give those three a piece of mby mbind,” Alastor said, balling his fists and pacing back and forth across his floor, “Eh’KzZhht-chhiew!” 

Alastor’s ears twitched as he waned, rubbing at his eyes and deciding against going out, “I can always just-” he yawned, “-give themb a piece of mby mbind when they get back… snff!” 

Alastor wandered downstairs into the kitchen, forgoing his usual mug of coffee for a cup of tea, deciding that the fragrant vapors and smoother texture would be more helpful against his hopelessly plugged sinuses and the throbbing sensation in the back of his throat. 

‘I am not sick, everyone gets a little… irritated when they’ve just woken up, I’m fine’ 

Alastor picked up his mug of tea, only for his shadow to quietly slide the jar of honey over to him, gesturing towards it. 

“I don’t wandt a’dy hondey- snff!- guhh…The tea is fide by itself,” Alastor argued, turning away to clear his throat. 

Alastor’s shadow looked away, rolling its nonexistent eyes before wrapping its incorporeal fingers around Alastor’s neck, raising its eyebrows and gesturing back to the jar of honey. 

“Mby throat isd’t sore- snff! Snrkk!- euch… hold od-” Alastor said, turning away to blow his nose with a heavy rumble of congestion that eventually devolved into a loud honk, “There, much better.” 

Alastor’s shadow folded its arms, looking at him incredulously. 

“It isn’t!” Alastor yelled, his voice straining until he coughed into his wrist, swallowing harshly and wincing at how dry and tender his throat felt. His shadow snickered at him, smirking. 

Alastor relented, ceding a bit of ground, “I suppose- khff!- it is a bit scratchy,” he said, staring longingly at the jar of honey before grabbing the stirrer and drizzling about a tablespoon’s worth of honey into his tea. 

Alastor sighed when his shadow began to snicker playfully again, staring at him with a knowing smile. 

“This doesn’t mean anything- snff!- I am not sick, I’m not, I’m fine… E-Eh’Kxhht-ChHIEW! EH’KZzs-Sshew!” Alastor argued, running the back of his hand under his nostrils before he took a lengthy sip of his tea, relieved by the smooth sensation cascading down his raw throat, “Mmm…” 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so frazzled, it’s the cat’s pajamas, I’ve gotta say,” 

Alastor blinked, looking around the room, “Who said that? Show yourself!” he demanded, setting down his cup and chewing on his tongue as sweat began to trickle down his forehead. 

“Oh calm down, mes amis, you know me, I’m right here,” 

Alastor looked ahead of him and saw his shadow, still technically attached to his heels, staring at him with a playful smirk. 

“You can’t talk, don’t toy with me, who are you?” Alastor asked, jabbing at his shadow with his microphone, grumbling in frustration when his weapon of choice simply phased through the dark figure’s torso, “You… you can talk?” 

“Of course I can,” the shadow replied, “I just save it for special occasions, like when you’re living in denial, trying to convince yourself that you can change reality if you ignore it hard enough.” 

“What are you going on about?” Alastor asked, “snff-snff! SnFF!” 

“Blow your nose already and stop sniffling!” the shadow said with a frustrated hiss, rolling its eyes when Alastor gave his nose another gurgling blow, wiping hopelessly at his nostrils and frowning at the irritated skin that moved down the bridge of his nose to the tip. 

“Mby ndose is just itchyy-Ye-eh’Ksshhew! Eh’KzZshhew!” Alastor argued, blowing his nose again, “Eehh-EH’KzZSshew! Uch… I’b ndot sick, I dond’t care what you think- snff!- if you even have a braid to think with.” 

The shadow scoffed, “Your nose is only itchy because it’s full of cold,” it said, poking the tip of Alastor’s nose, “Just like the rest of you.” 

“Eh’KzZshew! E-ihh’KsShew!” Alastor sneezed, wiping at his nostrils with his soaked handkerchief, “Keep your hands off mbe!” 

“Or what? You’ll sneeze on me? That ship’s sailed ages ago,” the shadow said, poking Alastor’s nose again. 

“e-ehh…Eh…Eeh’KZzhht-CHEW! Eh’KzZsst-ChiEW! E-ehh’KsSshew!” Alastor sneezed, his sinuses irritated and tingly as a feathery tickle lingered in his nose after the third sneeze, causing his nose to twitch, “snff-snff! E-ehh…Hehh… Wh-wha…ehh” 

Alastor’s shadow grinned as he watched the Radio Demon fanning a desperate hand in front of his face, wrinkling and unwrinkling his nose, “Need a hand?” it asked. 

“N-nuhh… H-huhh… Ndo…snff-snff! SnRKK! Ndo I d-du-huhh… Hehh! E-ehh!” Alastor struggled to reply, still resting perfectly on the precipice of a sneeze, “I just… Ha…ahh…a-Ahh-” 

“Have to sneeze? Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” 

“Ndo…I don’t ne-eed your help…H-heh…Ehh…e-ehh!” 

Alastor scrubbed desperately at his nose with his handkerchief and the back of his hand, desperate to quell the ceaseless itching. 

“Fide… help mbe, ple-ease…I-ihh…hehh- hh-” Alastor begged, his rheumy eyes beginning to water as the ticklish hitching continued. 

“Alright, I’ll help you, but you have to admit it first,” the shadow insisted. 

“A-ahh… admi-ihh… admit what?!” 

“That you’re a vulnerable, pathetic, cold-ridden mess, so desperate you need someone to poke your twitchy little nose for you,” 

“SnfF! Ndever- I-ihh… Ehh…H-heh!” Alastor hitched, sniffling hopelessly and grumbling in frustration at his shadow’s smug smile. 

Alastor’s heartbeat quickened as he watched his shadow teasingly trace a finger down the length of his nose, and then around his nostrils, so close that its presence against the sensitive skin made Alastor’s nose twitch and wiggle like a rabbit’s, but not close enough to grant him the satisfaction of the sneeze he’d been stuck on for nearly twelve minutes. 

“Eh…E-ehh..HEHH-!” Alastor hitched again, “F-fide! I have a cold, I admit it- just he-hehhlp- mbe sdeeze!” 

The shadow smiled, poking Alastor’s nose and reclining in midair to watch the fireworks. 

“He-ehh-EH’KZzTCHEW! EH’KzZhhhiew! EH’KXhht-CHEW! H-hEH’KzZsShiew! EH’KZz-TsShIEW!....E-EHH’KZzSsHHEW!” Alastor exploded into a fit of sneezes, his eyes watering profusely and his nose streaming down his face, the undersides of his eyes hopelessly puffy and red. 

“There we go,” the shadow snickered, “How pathetic, I wish you could see yourself.” 

Alastor’s usual facade of neutral amusement fell, and he leapt at his own shadow in a fit of white hot rage, throwing punches at the intangible figure and attempting to strangle it. 

“I’ve had it with you- KhFF!- you insufferable bastard!” Alastor shouted, rolling across the floor of the kitchen, wringing his shadow by its neck until he became exhausted, collapsing against the kitchen floor as his eyelids began to droop, staring at his shadow as it teased him from a safe distance. 

“Alastor?” 

Alastor turned, rolling over to face the kitchen entryway, and sniffling to shift the congestion that threatened to escape from his sinuses, when he saw the concerned face of a familiar friend. 

“Rosie?” Alastor inquired, blinking as he struggled to sit upright, choking back a cough, “What are you doing here?” 

“Charlie gave me a call and said you weren’t feelin’ well, I figured I’d stop by… didn’t expect to see you down there,” Rosie replied, “Did you fall?” 

“Ndo… I was fighting mby shadow,” Alastor said with an angry hiss, “The bastard has been mbocking mbe for hours- E-ehh’KxXhht-CHEW!” 

“Gesundheit!” Rosie said, helping Alastor to his feet and noticing how his legs struggled under his weight, “Your shadow’s been makin’ fun of you?” 

“Yes,” Alastor replied, leaning almost helplessly against Rosie as she supported him with one arm when he managed to hold steady on his feet. 

Rosie looked away from Alastor briefly and rolled her eyes, turning to look at Alastor’s shadow, who simply shrugged in response to Alastor’s accusation, “Well, I’ll straighten ‘im out for you, he should know better than to antagonize a sick person,” she crooned, scratching behind one of Alastor’s ears. 

“Snff! Snff-snff! I’m not sick,” Alastor said, pouting as he wiped off his irritated nostrils with his handkerchief. 

Rosie turned Alastor around to face her and shot him a skeptical look, leaning her head forward as though waiting for him to tell her the truth. 

Alastor scoffed, turning away from Rosie’s piercing dark eyes, “It’s only a cold… E-Eihh’KzZhht-shhew!” he insisted, blowing his nose and wincing at the heavy congestion that left his sinuses and soaked another handkerchief, “A particularly wet one… but still just a cold.” 

Rosie sighed, pressing a manicured hand up against Alastor’s cheek, “Well, you feel a little warm… how about we get you comfortable and put somethin’ in your stomach so you can take a nap?” she said in an all-too-familiar way that Alastor recognized meant he had no choice in the matter. 

“Fine,” Alastor relented, letting Rosie guide him into the parlor and sit him down on the loveseat adjacent to the sofa. Kicking off his slippers, Alastor curled into a reclined position with his back against the loveseat’s armrest. 

Rosie quietly untied and removed Alastor’s dressing gown before draping a blanket over him in its place, “Comfortable?” she asked, watching Alastor yawn as he settled into his new position, his eyelids drooping. 

“Mmhm,” 

“Good,” Rosie said with a triumphant smile, frowning after shooting a glance at the clock on the wall, “Oh goodness, Alastor I’ve gotta split for an important meeting, are you gonna be alright on your own?” 

“I think so- snff!- I feel much better,” 

“Okay, if you’re sure, but I wanna make sure you have this,” Rosie said, handing Alastor a thermos, “It’s tomato soup… I used a blood broth base like I usually do.” 

“Delicious,” Alastor mumbled sleepily, rubbing his face against the side of the thermos, “Mmm…thank you so much Rosiie- E-EHH’KxZzHTT-CHEW! Eh’kZzSshhhew! Pardon me.” 

“My pleasure, anything for such a dear friend,” Rosie whispered, gently stroking Alastor’s feverish cheek, “Get some rest, okay?” 

“I will,” Alastor replied, punctuating his sentence with a hoarse cough before setting the thermos down on the table beside the loveseat and letting out a yawn, “Goodbye Rosie.” 

“See ya ‘round, Alastor! Feel better!” Rosie said, leaving through the front doors, leaving the Radio Demon alone once again. 

Sniffling into his handkerchief, Alastor rolled onto his side, struggling to keep his eyelids open, “I’m so tired,” he yawned to himself, rubbing his slightly puffy eyes, “I suppose nothing bad would happen if I just took a little nap… I’ll be awake when they get home… E-ehh’kZzShew! Eh’kzZht-chew!” 

Alastor shut his eyes, promising himself that he’d only be asleep for a short while as he drifted off and the world went comfortably dark. 

Hours passed by as Alastor relaxed, lost in a deep and relaxing slumber with no sounds to disturb him other than his own irritated coughing and KeeKee’s relaxed purring whenever she nuzzled up to his sleeping form. 

The front doors of the hotel opened, and Husk, Angel and Niffty walked inside. Niffty was carrying a large stuffed dog, jittering in place after a day of devouring caramel apples, funnel cake, and cotton candy with nothing but soda to wash it down with, getting so excited that Husk eventually had to tether her to his pants with a bungee cord. Angel and Husk walked into the hotel behind Niffty, quietly holding hands while Angel clutched a stuffed pig that Husk won him at a ring toss in one of his arms. 

“Alastor’s probably figured us out by now… fun’s over,” Angel said to Husk as the two watched Niffty race upstairs with speed rivaling a stray bullet, “Alastor? We’re back…” 

“Eh- H-he-ihh’KZzzhht-chhew! Eh’KZzShhew! Eh’Kxhht-CHEW!” 

Angel and Husk exchanged a puzzled look, wandering into the parlor to find Alastor curled up comfortably in his position on the loveseat, blowing his nose into his handkerchief. His nose was flushed an irritated red and his cheeks were still rouged from his slight fever, a relaxed smile on his face as he waved at his friends. 

“Oh, you’re back- E-eihh’Kxhhtshhew! ‘Scuse mbe,” Alastor said softly, shifting the congestion in his sinuses with a few wet sniffles, “Did you have fun?” 

“Mmhm,” Husk replied, testing the waters to see whether or not Alastor was aware of their ruse, “You feelin’ alright?” 

Alastor gestured vaguely with his left hand, “A bit better, but not really- snff snff!- I commend you and Angel for your awareness… ‘Kxhht-shhew! ‘KXxhht-sschiew!... you and Charlie seemed to know I was coming down with something before I did,” he said, wiping his nostrils with his handkerchief, “or at least before I was ready to admit it.”

Angel and Husk silently breathed a massive sigh of relief, practically exchanging a telepathic fist bump before turning back to address Alastor. 

“Niffty won ‘ya a stuffed zebra,” Angel piped up, handing the plush animal to Alastor and watching as the slightly-delirious Radio Demon cuddled up to it with a soft smile, “Need anythin’ else before we hit the sack?” 

Alastor shook his head, “I’mb alright- snff!- I’m going to get some more rest, see you both tomorrow morning,” he said with a scratchy yawn, nestling comfortably into his blankets and falling back asleep. 

Angel and Husk turned out the lights in the parlor, tip-toeing past Alastor’s sleeping form, before quietly shaking hands triumphantly. 

“Guess he must’ve actually been gettin’ a cold,” Angel whispered, “Wanna celebrate?” 

Husk noticed the risque expression on Angel’s face, “If you’re quiet, then yes… don’t wanna wake him up if he’s actually sick,” he replied. 

“Sounds like a plan!” Angel replied, planting a kiss on Husk’s cheek as the two quietly hurried upstairs, leaving the parlor and the hotel’s downstairs completely silent. 

Except of course, for Alastor’s congested snoring… interrupted by an occasional- 

“e-Ehhh’Kxhht-shhew!” 

That. By that. 

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Don't Mention It (M, cold)

Ok so we're heading in the way-back machine today! This story takes place 6 months after the restaurant first opens, and Elijah and Greyson aren't really very close yet. Greyson happens upon a sick Elijah at the drugstore aaand that's basically it lol. It's a lot of unhealed boys being unhealed lmao. This is one of those stories that I finished editing and almost tossed directly in the trash so I hope you guys like it more than I did 🤣 we're calling it good enough, I think maybe I just looked at it for too many hours in a row. Let me know what you guys think 🙂

CW: male cold, coughing, fever, contagion. Split POV. There's also some couple-fighting (Collin and Greyson). 4k words under the cut. Enjoy!

Don't Mention It

Outside the taxicab window, the first snow of the season began to dust the car roofs. It was one of Greyson’s favorite sights; the powdery, light snow that only occurred at the beginning of winter, when the idea of snow itself was magical and festive. As he watched, he fell deeper into the anger well he’d been silently digging for the past thirty minutes.

“I just have a question,” Greyson said suddenly, turning towards Collin in the back of the cab. “What in the ever-living fuck did you think was appropriate about starting a fight at one of the nicest restaurants in town?”

From the other side of the cab, Collin rolled his eyes hard enough to burst a blood vessel. “I hardly started it,” he said simply. Heat built from the top of Greyson’s head down; he was sure that any minute, smoke would begin billowing out his ears like a cartoon character.

“‘Hardly started it’? Collin, are you out of your fucking mind? You ask me if I’m fucking my boss at a two-Michelin restaurant, and that’s not starting something?”

“Well, are you?” Collin asked, turning towards Greyson with infuriating calm. Pressing his hands into a prayer stance and placing them to his lips, Greyson took a deep breath, eyes closed. Up front, the driver kept glancing at them in the rear view mirror, clearly waiting for the moment that Greyson would snap so he could kick them out of his cab. Can’t blame him there, Greyson thought.

“For the last time,” Greyson said, keeping his voice low and steady, “no. Collin, I work so many hours because it’s a brand-new restaurant, I told you that when we first met. Elijah uses his connections to get us a lot of press, so it’s busy, which is good, because if it wasn’t busy then I wouldn’t have a job.” He could feel his voice raising, the pitch inflecting upwards, his cheeks burning in frustration. Collin's face stayed blank, like a smooth river rock ready to be tossed into the lake. Wish I could fucking toss him in the lake, Greyson thought.

Arms and legs crossed, Collin simply shrugged. “Fine,” he said, prompting Greyson’s muscles to loosen a little. “Just know that if I find out I’m right, I will make your life a living hell, Greyson.”

Enough was enough. “Stop the car,” Greyson half-yelled. The cabbie did as he was asked, pulled the car off to the curb and unlocked the doors. Greyson pulled a fifty out of his wallet and tossed it over the seat before kicking the door open.

“Christ, you’re so fucking dramatic,” Collin muttered, stepping out of the car behind his boyfriend. “There’s still like twenty blocks til we get back to my place, genius,” he called to Greyson’s back. Enraged, Greyson whipped around and stomped back towards Collin.

“You treat me like fucking dog shit,” he snarled into Collin’s face. “You embarrass me, you belittle me, you act like I’m some kind of charity case you’re dating to pay off some sort of karmic debt. You ruined a dinner I’ve been looking forward to for months. I’m not fucking going back to your house to fuck you, Collin. You’re an asshole.”

Still reeling, Greyson turned on his heels, not waiting for Collin to respond. “Whatever, Greyson,” Collin called to Greyson’s back. “Take your little prowl – I know you’ll be back.”

Not fucking likely, Greyson thought, before turning the corner and running out of earshot of Collin’s voice.

***

When Elijah decided six month ago that the restaurant would be closed the first weekend in December, a Christmas present to his tiny team to thank them for their hard work in helping him open a new restaurant, this was not how he assumed he’d spend it.

“Ughhh,” Elijah moaned – a little dramatic, don’t you think? he found himself thinking – as he turned over in bed. Fuck, he felt like hell.

The evening previous, he’d attempted to mind-game himself out of getting sick; he told himself the tickle he felt in the back of his throat was in his mind, the post-nasal drip an allergic reaction to the new hand soap he’d put in the bathrooms. That would also, he reasoned, explain -

“Hhh...NTSZCH-uh! GXTSH-uhh!” Elijah’s sinuses throbbed in response to the attempted stifles. Next to him in the office, Mark's eyes darted warily over to his boss. “Ndot a word,” Elijah muttered, not making eye contact with the younger manager.

Somehow, despite the stress, and the new-team germs, and the drinking and the no sleeping and the all-around just not caring for himself, Elijah had managed to keep from getting sick the whole first six months of opening. He was simply too busy to get sick; between photoshoots and events and sold-out evenings, Elijah was riding high on the buzz of attaining his dream. There was no time to take inventory of how he felt, and definitely no time to stop long enough for his body to catch up with him. This was it, this was everything he’d worked towards all thirty-five years of his life. Cancel an interview for a cold? He’d simply rather die.

Of course, the moment his body had an inkling that they’d be taking two days off, of course that was when he finally started to come down with something. And come down was putting it lightly.

He’d made it through the evening previous via sheer force of will, and with the help of a few shots taken behind the bar every time he felt his voice giving out or his nose start to run. As far as he knew, no one was the wiser – well, maybe Mark, but Mark would never admit to seeing Elijah ill, that much he knew.

Now, though, with the restaurant closed and two days spent alone looming before him, Elijah had fully crashed and burned. He’d fallen into bed last night fully clothed, miserable enough to not even brush his teeth or take off his shoes, and hadn’t stirred until the sun was halfway down in the sky. Elijah reached towards his bedside table, downed an old glass of water sitting on it, and immediately fell into a fit of coughing. When it finally subsided, he placed a hand on his own face, an attempt to keep the room from spinning. God, he really needed some medicine.

The thought was washed away as unconsciousness took him again, only loosening its grip when the sky had completely darkened. Christ, had he slept all day? Elijah blinked hard into the dark of his bedroom; he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, he was still in his clothes from work yesterday, and his head and chest pounded and ached in time with each other, begging for the relief of some ibuprofen. It was during these times and only during these times that Elijah allowed himself to wish for a partner – someone who would’ve forced him into the bath this morning, force-fed him soup this afternoon, stole away this evening to the bodega for Nyquil.

Marred by the embarrassing daydream, Elijah pushed himself out of bed. He peeled the sweat-soaked work clothes off and forced himself into some sweats; he didn’t need a girlfriend, he didn’t need anyone. Dizzy and coughing and dressed in an inside-out hoodie, Elijah grabbed his keys and shoved his way out the front door. If anyone could care for themselves, it was him.

***

Ding-ding-ding.

The heat of the drugstore slapped Greyson across the face like a jilted lover, and he nearly collapsed in relief at the sting of it. Post-fight, he hadn’t wanted to face even the possibility of Collin following him, so he’d run nearly fifteen blocks – sprinted them, really – until his lungs felt apt to explode and his teeth chattered from the cold. This store, with its quiet aisles and antiseptic anonymity, was the most welcoming spot he could imagine stopping into.

After a few moments of catching his breath, hands on his knees, Greyson stood up, avoiding the confused look the cashier at the front of the store was giving him. He was sure that Collin wouldn’t be able to follow him, yes, but he certainly wasn’t ready to brace the cold again, find the subway, get home to his apartment where he could stew over the fight for the remainder of the evening. Instead, Greyson slowly marched himself up and down the aisles.

Fucking Collin, Greyson thought as he looked blankly through greeting cards. Fuck him. He wasn’t sure, really, why he stayed with the guy, why he let him treat him the way he did. At first, when Greyson first moved to the city, when he started at Elliot’s, Collin had been beyond kind – buying him dinners and gifts, insisting Greyson stay the night to cuddle on the couch, fucking him on every surface of his apartment – but over the past couple of months, things had begun to sour. It began when Collin finally met Elijah, who he immediately, clearly, was intimidated by. Since that initial meeting, Collin insisted that Greyson was a cheater, that he spent so much time at work because he was fucking his boss in the back, despite the thousand times Greyson had told him that not only was Elijah straight, the man literally didn’t have time to even use the bathroom during the day, let alone carve out time to fuck his Executive Chef.

Nothing would placate Collin, though; not more date nights, not allowing him to track Greyson’s phone, not tears or promises or begging his boyfriend to believe him. He’d grown more distant, more angry, he’d started saying shittier and shittier things to Greyson, things that Greyson would stay up at night and ruminate on. You’re a fucking slut, just like the rest of the guys I’ve been with. An ache formed in the back of Greyson’s throat, and he swallowed around the tears he could feel forming. All he wanted was to go back to the beginning of their relationship, to date the sweet guy he’d met when he was shopping in the fancy grocery store near work for caviar. Was that so much to ask?

Suddenly, a sound from across the store yanked Greyson out of his pity-pool. When he heard it, he cocked his head to the side – that sounded… familiar.

“HHRSTZCHH-uee! Hh -! HhhITSZCHH-uhh!”

Was that…?

Greyson abandoned the greeting card aisle in favor of following the sneezes coming from the cold-and-flu section of the store. There was no way that was -

“Huh-RRSHH-ue! HRTZCH-ue! Hhuh -! Hh – hh..!”

There, in the medicine aisle of this random-ass drugstore, stood Greyson’s boss, his face tipped back in anticipation of another sneeze. Greyson’s eyebrows furrowed at the sight of Elijah – or, rather, the sad amalgamation of what once was Elijah.

“Bless -”

“HUHTSZCH-ue!” The final sneeze tore out of him as Greyson attempted to bless his boss. At the sound of Greyson’s voice, Elijah whipped around, making eye contact.

“Bless you,” Greyson said again, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Elijah was… well, he was certainly a sight. Usually, his boss was the pinnacle of style; crisped button downs, tailored pants, his dark hair slicked back and his sleeves rolled up to reveal the hundreds of perfectly-lined tattoos up and down his arms. Today, though? Today, Elijah looked not like he’d just rolled out of bed, but like he’d just rolled out of the alley out back of the restaurant. His hair, sans-gel, was wet with flop sweat, and his eyes were sunken, his nose bright red to match the high spots of color on his cheeks. Greyson was fairly sure that his boss’s sweatshirt was on inside-out.

A look of horror passed over Elijah’s face. “Greysond,” he said, his voice a thin, mangled mess. “I -” his boss broke away again, this time to cough into his sleeve, the sound barking and painful. Greyson grimaced.

“Christ, boss,” he said, stepping closer to Elijah to thump him on the back. “Who the hell let you out of the house?”

After a moment, Elijah managed to stop the coughing; he stood as well as he could to his full height, taking a step away from Greyson. “I’mb okay,” he said, eyes cast downward. Silence fell over them; after a beat, a laugh bubbled out of Greyson that he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Are you okay?” he snorted. “Because I heard you sneezing from literally across the store.”

Elijah’s face burned bright red. He managed a shrug as Greyson got a hold of himself. “I’ll mbake it,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “What are you doigg here?” he asked before Greyson could say anything else. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a daaay – hh – HRTSZZCH-ue! Fugck.” Elijah swore into the elbow of his sweatshirt; silently, Greyson snagged a box of tissues of the shelf in front of them and tore it open for his boss.

“Here,” he said, handing Elijah the box. Gratefully, begrudgingly, Elijah took a few tissues out, turning around to clean himself up. “Bless.”

“Thangk you,” Elijah muttered, embarrassed. He looked up at Greyson again, sniffling fruitlessly. “Seriously, aren’t you supposed to be at that ndew place in Uptown?” He looked behind Greyson then, his confusion deepening. “Where’s Collind?”

It was Greyson’s turn to feel his face flame. “Yeah,” he said, “I, uh, I was. On a date.” He smiled a sad, defeated smile. Shrugged. “Went a little off the rails. I’m not sure where Collin is.”

Elijah blinked slowly, as if trying to decipher a riddle. “Okay,” he said, coughing into a fist.

“Yeah,” Greyson said again. “But, uh, hey! Let’s make the most of happening upon each other, huh?” He peered into the basket hanging limply off of Elijah’s arm – thus far, it had exactly nothing in it. “I assume you’re here for… medicine?” He pulled a few things off of the shelf – Nyquil, Theraflu, ibuprofen, more tissues, cough drops – and dropped them into Elijah’s basket. “Were you feeling shitty yesterday? You coulda told me, I always have shit in my backpack, just in case.”

Behind him, Elijah said nothing; when Greyson turned around to place a box of Mucinex in the basket, his boss’s eyes were cast downwards. “Y’okay?” Greyson asked, gently taking the basket. “Boss? You gonna like… pass out or something?”

“I’mb ndot sigck,” Elijah croaked, snatching the basket back. Greyson’s eyebrows pressed together, his mouth opening and closing in confusion.

“I, uh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, boss,” Greyson said, slapping a cool palm on Elijah’s forehead. “But you are most definitely sick.”

Elijah shook him off. “I mbean, okay, yes, I’mb under the weather but – it’s ndothing, Greyson, I certainly don’t ndeed your help pickigg medicine, I can handle mbysehh – NGTSZCHH-uh!” An attempt to stifle a sneeze into his fist sent Elijah into a full coughing fit, one that only subsided when Greyson stepped out of the aisle to grab him a water bottle from the coolers. “Thangk you,” Elijah said, begrudgingly adding the bottle to his basket.

Holding his hands up in mock-surrender, Greyson took a step back, surveying his boss. “Hey, listen, boss, I’m not trying to overstep here, I’m just trying to help.” He smiled at Elijah then, a smile of admission. “And if I’m being totally honest, Collin and I had a fight. A big fight. So, if I can at least, like, walk you back to your apartment… to be honest, you’d be saving me from going home and punching my walls or some shit.” Greyson rubbed the back of his own neck, the painful truth like a knife lodged into his shoulder blade. “I mean, I make a mean soup, too, if you’re interested.”

With their two unfortunate situations laid plain, the GM and Executive Chef stood in the cold and flu aisle, looking down at the speckled tile. “Okay,” Elijah said, finally. “You cand walk mbe back just… just please don’t bring it up at work, okay?”

Greyson felt the lump in his throat from earlier rise again at the raw ask from his boss. He nodded, swallowing it down. “Yeah, of course, boss, I… I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Elijah nodded, haphazardly grabbing a few more things off the shelves and throwing them into the basket. “Okay,” he said, trudging towards the front of the store. “Let’s go.”

***

By the time Greyson and Elijah made it through Elijah’s front door, the GM assumed he was going to step inside and keel over then and there.

An angry cough tore from his lungs as he placed his keys in the bowl by the door; a cough that, fortunately, Greyson ignored in lieu of checking out Elijah’s apartment. “Wow,” he whistled. “Nice view, boss.”

“Thangks,” Elijah muttered, dropping his bag of supplies and collapsing onto the couch. As Greyson turned around to acknowledge him again, Elijah ripped to the side – “HNTSZCHH-ue! Hh… hhhETSCHH-ue!” He swallowed around a groan; fuck, this was fucking miserable.

“Bless you,” Greyson, Elijah was finding out, was a prolific blesser; the man couldn’t seem to let one sneeze go without saying it. As if Elijah needed any more reminder that he was a disgusting mess.

“Thangks,” Elijah muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “And thangk you for getting mbe home, you’ve certainly earned your scout badge for the day.”

Greyson laughed, moving towards the kitchen table to unpack the supplies that Elijah had left there. “Perfect, I lost out on my getting-a-little-old-lady-across-the-street one, so I was hoping to make that up somehow.”

Elijah chuckled, leaving the two of them in a silence only broken up by the soft swishhh of Greyson removing medicine from bags. Elijah realized that this was, without a doubt, the longest he and Greyson had ever been alone together. Most of their conversations were about two minutes long – do you think this taste okay? Needs salt. Are we still doing that event on Saturday? No, it got canceled – a fact that Elijah suddenly felt badly about. But the fact was, he was busy. He didn’t have time to be best buds with Greyson, he barely had time to take a shit during the day. It was unfortunate, sure, but wasn’t that what Greyson had Collin for? Companionship?

“Have you texted Collind?” Elijah called from the couch, rubbing his aching throat. Behind him, Greyson bleated out a little laugh. He came around to the couch, handing his boss a bottle of Nyquil and a tissue box. Shook his head.

“Nah,” he said. “Best to wait it out with him. Give him some space to, y’know, breathe before I apologize or anything.”

“Do you ndeed to apologize?” Elijah asked, pushing maybe a little too far past the bounds of employee-employer that he held so tightly to at work. Greyson shrugged, sitting opposite his boss on the couch.

“Probably,” he said. “I said some shitty things.”

“What about himb?”

Greyson paused, tipping his head side to side. “He didn’t say anything he hasn’t before,” he said, finally. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

Silently, Elijah considered this; his fever-adled brain wasn’t exactly parsing things correctly, but that statement didn’t really sound… right. “Greysond,” he said, blinking rheumy eyes at the chef, “there are worse things thand being alone.”

At this, Greyson pressed his lips together, taking his boss in, and Elijah realized how ridiculous he must sound. He’d barely made it to the store to get himself cold supplies, and in fact hadn’t made it back by himself. His one weekend off maybe ever was being spent soaking in his own fever sweat with not even a neighbor to check in to make sure he hadn’t passed away in the night. If ever there was a sign that he should try to work it out with his boyfriend, Elijah was sure that Greyson seeing his lonely boss laid up with no one to even make him soup when he was sick was that sign.

“There are worse things,” Greyson said, finally. “But… I don’t know. I love him. And, I mean… not all of us are so good at being alone.”

They both sat with that, silent, until Elijah wrenched painfully into his elbow again – “HRTTSCHH-uhh!” Greyson chuckled.

“Bless, boss,” he said. “Why don’t you let me make you that soup?”

***

“HUHETSCHHH-ue!”

“Christ, Chef, a little louder next time. Don’t think they heard you in fuckin’ space.”

“Oh, shut up, Mbatt,” Greyson said, yanking another tissue out of the box on the prep station to blow his nose. “A little embpathy would be ndice.”

“Mmm, not in the cards, sorry, Chef,” Matt said, laughing.

Greyson laughed along, his throat aching and head pounding. God, he felt like fucking trash; he wished more than anything he could go home, sleep it off, but - after some admittedly excellent post-fight sex - Collin had stayed the night last night at his place. If there was one thing Collin hated, it was taking care of Greyson. According to him, babying a man when he was sick was the ultimate ‘ick’ – and Greyson knew he was already on thin ice after what he’d said on Saturday. So instead of being allowed to sleep it off in his own bed, Greyson had awoken early that morning, run downstairs to his local bodega and left fresh-cut flowers and a warm bagel on the bedside table for a sleeping Collin. Hopefully, that would keep him from feeling the other man’s wrath when he came home later with a cold.

As the two chefs went back to prepping, the back door to the kitchen creaked open; within moments, Elijah was in the doorway of the back kitchen.

“Morning, Chefs,” he said, his voice almost completely back to its normal timbre. Impressive, Greyson thought, rubbing his throat. Though he wasn’t exactly surprised; Elijah had made it pretty clear he wasn’t about to let his staff know he’d spent the weekend ill.

“Morning, boss,” Matt said, saluting with his knife. Beside him, Greyson smiled a little placidly at Elijah.

“Mborning,” he managed, voice dipping on the word. A quick look of panic passed over Elijah’s face, one only Greyson could see. Greyson shrugged a tiny bit, a what can you do? shrug that he hoped conveyed that he wasn’t upset with his boss.

“Chef’s sporting the plague, don’t get too close,” Matt said, taking a tray and dipping behind Elijah to get to the walk-in cooler. Greyson rolled his eyes as his sous chef walked away.

Once Matt was out of earshot, Elijah addressed Greyson. “You okay?” he asked. The chef coughed out a laugh, nodded.

“I’mb okay,” he said, sniffling. “You okay?”

Elijah nodded as well. “Did, um… is everything okay with Collin?”

Greyson sighed, his chest rattling. “Everything is good,” he said after a moment.

They both stood quietly for a moment, the bubble quickly burst as Greyson’s face collapsed into the sleeve of his chef’s coat. “HRRTSHHH-uee!” From his elbow, he cleared his throat, painfully. He could hear the tissue box he’d been rapidly depleting being pushed across the table by his boss. Greyson took one, sniffling. “Thangks.”

Before Greyson could blow his nose, Elijah blurted out, “Thank you. For helping me.”

From over the tissue, Greyson raised his eyebrows. Matt reentered the back kitchen then, breaking the spell. Greyson quietly blew his nose and tossed the tissue, heading to the sink to wash his hands. Finally, before getting back to his work, Greyson placed a gentle hand on his boss's shoulder. The two of them exchanged a small, understanding smile, and Greyson cleared his throat.

“Don’t mbention it.”

[uhhmmm-moved]

hey! where is my 30+ sneeze kink crowd at? reblog this so we can find each other

it feels hard to find peers when snzblr is so crowded with younger bloggers, but i know we’re out here. if you’re part of the sneeze kink community and you’re 30 or older, please reblog this post!

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

The Gift (M, cold)

Well, I guess this is me officially canonizing snzkink Reed lmao. In this story, Reed asks for a very particular gift for his and Greyson's one year anniversary. Tbh, I loved writing this, it's definitely outside my wheelhouse still to write characters with the kink, but I've really been enjoying doing it. There isn't any sex in this, but there is a lot of foreplay... once we finally get to the sneezing, like 1.5k words in (my bad lol). I promise the lead up is worth it, at least in my opinion. I would love to hear feedback, as always, and if you have anything you want to see with my guys as the holidays near, please feel free to inbox me! I'm always looking for holiday snzfic ideas :)

CW: Male snz, colds, contagion (including intentional contagion), light coughing, M/M relationship foreplay stuff. 4K words, under the cut!

The Gift

“Babe, for the millionth time, I don’t know. Can we just drop it?”

Distraught, Greyson flopped onto the couch behind his boyfriend. “What do you mean you don’t know? C’mon, just give me an idea, you have to have something in mind.”

Reed spun in his computer chair, annoyed. “I really don’t,” he said, exasperated. “I thought we said we weren’t doing gifts? Since we’re going on that trip next month?”

“Yeah, but that’s next month, it’s going to feel like it’s not even about the anniversary at that point” Greyson said, propping his head on his hand, his elbow pressed into the arm of the tiny couch in Reed’s office. “It’s our one year, dude. We have to get each other something.”

Reed groaned; presents weren’t his thing. Big, grand gestures? Those he loved. Presents? Too much pressure. He never knew what he wanted, never knew what to get anyone, felt simultaneously disappointed with anything he received and worried sick that the person on the receiving end of his gift was equally disappointed. What was the point of all that? “Well, what do you want?” he asked, hoping that turning the tide on his boyfriend took the spotlight off of him.

“I want that camera we saw at the Costco by your parents house,” Greyson said, immediately. “I need something more professional to take food pictures with, my phone makes my food look like prison food. Or dog food. Or a disgusting amalgamation of both.”

Reed pressed his lips together, eyes closed. “Of course you know exactly what you want,” he muttered, spinning back to the computer. “Classic. How about I just buy you the camera on my company card, write up an article about the Elliot’s expansion, and we call it a wash. No need for you to get me a gift, since this is a gift from the New Yorker.”

Mouth gaped open like a fish out of water, Greyson scoffed at his boyfriend. “A wash?” he said, in mock aghast. “You want to call our anniversary a wash?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, then, pick a gift.”

Reed pressed his fingers deep into his eye sockets. “I’ll think about it, okay? We have, what, two weeks until the date? I’ll think of something in that time, baby. I promise.”

Greyson pushed to a stand, making to leave. “Alright,” he said, pressing a kiss into Reed’s forehead before he walked out of the office. “I’m holding you to that.”

As Greyson closed the door, Reed sighed through closed lips, a soft pbpbpb sound escaping him. Fucking presents he thought, pulling a hand down his face. He had Greyson, he had a job he loved, an apartment he was proud of, a life he always dreamed of. Truly, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could possibly want.

Reed wiggled his mouse to turn the computer back on. Two weeks until their anniversary. If there was a merciful god, Greyson would forget all about the present by then.

***

“So, you thought of anything yet?”

For the third time that week, Reed pulled the phone away from his face and rolled his eyes at the empty room. Jesus Christ, Greyson, he thought, putting the phone back to his ear. “No, dear, I have not thought of anything,” he said, voice as level as he could handle. “Maybe you could, I don’t know, think of something on your own? Surprise me?”

“You hate surprises,” Greyson said. In the background of the call, Reed could hear Elijah say something, though he couldn’t make out what it was. Greyson laughed into the phone.

“What?” Reed asked.

“Elijah said to get you a personal assistant,” Greyson said. “Give you the gift of time.”

“Cute,” Reed said, huffing out a chuckle. “Yeah,” Greyson agreed. “Unfortunately, Lij, Reed is about as good about delegating as you are, so I fear the assistant would just sit quietly on the floor while he continued to do everything himself.”

At this, Reed laughed in earnest. On the other side of the phone, he heard Elijah laugh as well, before the man in the background fell into a fit of coughing. He couldn’t help it; Reed’s ears pricked up at the noise.

“Is he okay?” Reed asked.

Greyson made a noncommittal noise. “Mmm. Yeah, no, he’s just sick and won’t fucking go home,” Greyson said loudly, a statement clearly not meant for his boyfriend. At this, Reed assumed Elijah had stepped closer to the phone, because now he could hear him fairly clearly.

“You kndow I can hear you,” he said, voice thick with congestion.

“Yup,” Greyson said. “That was the point.”

Suddenly, an idea flashed itself into Reed’s mind. It wasn’t something he chose; in fact, it made him feel a bit like the Grinch from the kid’s book. Reed got an idea. An awful idea. Reed got a wonderful, awful idea.

Without thinking, Reed sat up straighter in his chair. Cutting through Greyson and Elijah bickering on the other end of the line, Reed said, “I know what I want for our anniversary.”

***

Reed would never forget the first time he saw Greyson sick.

That first – or rather, second – time they’d ever seen each other, the dinner that ended up propelling Greyson to his first James Beard award. His pale face, his husky voice that devolved into a whisper throughout the dinner. The kiss he’d given Reed after the dinner. The fit of sneezes Reed had accidentally walked in on when he went to apologize to Greyson in the bathroom – a shiver ran down his spine thinking back on it.

But he hadn’t seen Greyson again after that until he was better, which was fine, it made sense, and Reed wasn’t about to expose himself as the freak his was to this guy he had a crush on the second time they ever met. So he had salivated silently over that moment, that memory, until Greyson got sick again.

The subsequent times Greyson got sick, though, he’d always worked through it. It was their way, the people who worked in restaurants, especially chefs; they never admitted defeat. There were many times in their year of dating that Elijah had called Reed to pick a feverish Greyson up from work at midnight, told him he could keep him home the next day, but when Reed woke at eight or nine a.m., his boyfriend was already gone, back at work whether he felt better or – more likely – whether he didn’t.

And it was fine, really, that Greyson was a workaholic – hell, Reed was one, too. But there had been many times Reed had wondered, silently, what it would be like to see Greyson through an illness. To take care of him, from beginning to end. He’d never said it to his boyfriend, not even after the drunken night he’d admitted to being into sickness, getting off to sneezing, and Greyson had clearly never thought of actually taking a day off to be taken care of. That just wasn’t in his nature.

But, god, what Reed wouldn’t have done to watch Greyson come down with something, up close and personal.

“You’re serious,” Greyson said when he got home that night. He was smiling, pink-faced from the cold and smelling of the kitchen, so perfectly him that Reed couldn’t find it in himself to backtrack. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his own neck. “I, um… that would be, like. The ultimate gift.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow, the smile cracking wider. “That’s all?” he asked, laughing. “Just… you just want me to get sick?”

“I want to take care of you. While you’re sick,” Reed amended, though saying it aloud didn’t make it sound any better. “I want you to call off.”

“Elijah might call 911 if I call off work for a cold,” Greyson said, slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “Just FYI.”

Reed smiled back, then pulled Greyson’s palm to his lips to kiss. “We can tell him that your gift to me is actually taking it easy when you’re sick. For once.”

Greyson tipped his head back and forth then, considering. “Not a bad idea, honestly,” he said.

“So you’ll do it?” Reed’s attempt at sounding coy was for naught; the vibe he was putting off was kid-told-they-could-buy-whatever-they-want-at-the-toy-store, and he knew it. Greyson laughed, one hard, bright sound.

“For you?” he asked, pulling Reed’s face in close. “I’d do anything.”

***

It didn’t take long.

Even if Reed hadn’t requested it, Greyson was bound to catch Elijah’s illness one way or another; rarely did one of them make it out of a cold without the other catching it. Whether it was inevitable or not, though, Greyson did seem to relish in keeping Reed firmly in the loop on how hard he was trying to fulfill his promise to his boyfriend.

11:17AM

grey <3

just got in. went in the office to ask lij a ? and took a big drink of his water while he wasn’t looking

1:42PM

grey <3

def got too close during manager meeting, elijah practically sneezed in my eyeballs lmao

5:21PM

grey <3

just sent him home bc hes literally useless like this, but promise I did everything in my power to catch his disgusting sickness hahaha

With each text, Reed’s face grew redder, and with each one he grew hungrier for what was to come. By the time Greyson got home, Reed practically pounced on him.

“I haven’t even gotten sick yet,” Greyson laughed, post-coitus. “This is about to be the best anniversary I’ve ever had.”

Probably not, Reed thought, snuggling into the crook of Greyson’s arm, but it’s certainly going to be the best one I’ve had.

On the Tuesday before their anniversary, just three days off from the day itself, Greyson woke up with a groan.

“Christ, my head is pounding,” he said, pulling the blanket over his eyes to shield them from the early-morning sun peeking in through their window. At this, Reed’s ears pricked up.

“Y’okay?” he asked, burrowing under the covers next to his boyfriend. “Feeling alright?”

One of Greyson’s eyes, bloodshot already, popped open as he huffed out a laugh. “What, can you smbell it on me already or something?” he asked, clearing his throat. Reed’s heart thumped in his throat; he swallowed, as if pushing it back down to where it belonged.

“You’re sick,” he breathed, unable to make the words louder than a whisper. Greyson hummed in the affirmative as he closed his eye.

“Could be ndothing,” he murmured, congestion already lacing his words. “Could just be hungover.”

Reed couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously?” he said, propping himself up on an elbow. “You spent all week basically licking doorknobs and you’re still going to try to deny it?”

A smile flitted over Greyson’s lips as he slowly peeled both eyes open. “Sorry,” he said, sniffling. “Old habits, and all that.”

For the moment, Reed just allowed himself to stare at his boyfriend. Greyson at the beginning of a cold, rheumy-eyed and flush-faced, was always a sight to him, but today… today, it was special. Today, he had him all to himself. “Hey,” he said after a moment, “I think you have a call to make.”

Greyson groaned again, remembering. “Elijah’s going to thingk I’mb such a pussy,” he muttered, chuckling. He fixed his glassy eyes on Reed, puppy-dog eyes, eyes that knew, in this state, he could get almost anything he wanted. “Wanna call in for mbe?”

Almost being the key word. “If I call you in, Elijah is going to think you fuckin’ passed away,” Reed said, shoving Greyson lightly. “Just tell him what we talked about. It’s almost our anniversary, and your gift to me is taking it easy while you’re sick. For once.”

“Ugghhh,” Greyson moaned, throwing the covers off himself. “Okay, fine. But if he tries to bully his way into coming over to mbake sure I’mb ndot dead, I’mb putting you on the phone.”

Reed nodded, fair enough, while Greyson pulled out his phone to dial Elijah. While the line rang, Reed could see his boyfriend’s face begin to collapse – as Elijah answered the call, Greyson wrenched to the side with a violent, “HRRTSCHH-ue!”

“Oh, fuck,” Reed heard Elijah’s voice from the phone’s tiny speaker. “Shit, Grey, did I get you?”

Incapacitated by another oncoming sneeze, Greyson tossed the phone into Reed’s lap, heading towards the bathroom for tissues. On his way, Reed couldn’t help but watch as he collapsed in on himself again and again, the need to sneeze overtaking him completely. “Hh-ETSZCHH-ue! HUTSCZCH-ue! Huh -! Huhh...ETCHZHH-ue!”

Reed swallowed thickly, feeling as though his tongue was too big for his mouth. While Greyson blew his nose, Reed picked up the phone. “Hey, Elijah,” he said, huskily.

“Reed? Hey, man, is Greyson okay? Sorry if I got him sick, not my intention. Especially since… ah, shit, your anniversary dinner is Friday, isn’t it? Fuck, Reed, sorry dude.”

Reed was hardly listening. His focus was on the open bathroom door, where Greyson was stuck staring at the light, attempting to coax another sneeze out, to no avail. Defeated, his boyfriend pulled a length of toilet paper off the roll and blew his nose, before stepping back into the bedroom, pawing at his nose in annoyance. Before Reed knew it, Greyson had snatched the phone back out of Reed’s hand and put it to his ear.

“You dick,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “And you call mbe a plague rat?”

The sound of Elijah laughing escaped the speaker of the phone, though Reed couldn’t hear whatever else Elijah said after it. Instead, he followed the conversation via Greyson’s side alone.

“Yeah, dude, I obviously feel like shit. You would kndow, you were basically incapacitated for three days… uh-huh… Well, yes, Elijah, I was planning on takigg the day off seeing as it’s a fuckin’ Tuesday in January and literally ndo one is goigg to be theehh… Hh… Huh -! Hnng… oh, fuck you. Yeah. Yeah, okay, if we jump way up just let mbe know, I’ll combe in tonight for a bit if it’s crazy.” A look at Reed then, a shake of his head as if to say no shot I’m actually going in, they can figure it out, prompting Reed to snort out a laugh. Greyson turned back to the phone. “Okay. Yes, Mbama Elijah, I will mbake sure to rest, Jesus Christ. Okay. Okay, yeah – hh -! HhITSZCHH-ue! Snrf. Thangks, prick. Yeah, bye, dude.”

Greyson threw the phone, then himself, down on the bed. “Happy?” he asked Reed, grinning wolfishly. A flush bloomed on Reed’s face.

“Yes,” he admitted, kissing Greyson’s forehead. “Now, let me make you some tea.”

***

The fact that Greyson had rarely ever been taken care of while sick was immediately made obvious.

Upon exiting the kitchen with a bowl of homemade soup – unfrozen from earlier in the week, when Reed had been anxiously anticipating this sick day – Reed found himself looking around a seemingly-empty living room.

“Babe?” Reed called out to the apartment. “Greyson, where the hell did you go?”

It was only noon, but it wasn’t the first time today that Reed had somehow misplaced his boyfriend in the house. After they got off the phone with Elijah, Greyson had hopped into the shower while Reed made tea, which was fine, if not a little weird.

“What are you doing?” he’d asked, entering the bathroom without knocking. Greyson had popped his head out from behind the curtain, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’mb just so used to showering before work, I got in before I thought about it. Then I was already in here, so I figured mbight as well ndot waste water.”

Reed had nodded, placed the cup of tea on the bathroom counter, and said, “I’ll let you finish. I’ll be in the living room, unless you want to go back to bed?”

“Nah,” Greyson said, stifling a cough behind the curtain. “I’d rather hang with you ind the living roomb.”

What Reed wanted to say was I’ll hang out with you in bed all day if you’d like, but instead he’d just nodded. He knew Greyson wasn’t used to taking sick days, to relaxing at all, really, and he didn’t want to make his boyfriend feel claustrophobic or ganged up on, so he figured he’d just give the other man a few hours, let him get used to the idea of being taken care of.

Now, though – hours after the initial for-no-reason shower – Reed wasn’t sure if Greyson had spent even thirty minutes resting. It was as though he was pumping straight adrenaline out of his veins; the second Reed put a blanket over his lap or offered him something to drink, he shot up, remembering suddenly that there was something he needed to do. No wonder Elijah was harping on him to rest on the phone earlier.

“Greyson!” Reed called again, putting the soup down. “Jesus Christ, where the hell did you go?”

From the bedroom, Reed finally heard him. “Hhh-! HNSTZHH-ue! Huh…HuhhESTCHH-ue!”

At this point, with Greyson seemingly unable to rest and be taken care of, Reed was less turned on and more annoyed than anything. This was probably the first time in years Greyson had taken a day off to relax while sick, and instead he was reorganizing their spice cabinet and changing out light bulbs and basically doing anything other than letting Reed take care of him. Some gift, Reed thought, heading into the bedroom.

“Bless you,” Reed said from the doorway, prompting Greyson, who was sitting on the floor with a pile of clothes surrounding him, to jump and place a hand on his chest.

“Jesus, you scared mbe,” he said, turning to cough into the sleeve of his thermal. He looked awful, truly, pale with bags under his eyes, his voice hoarse and nose chapped. It would’ve been the perfect day for Reed, being allowed to watch Greyson come down with something up close and personal, if not for his insatiable need to be constantly doing something. “What’s up? I’ll be right back out, just figured I’d do sombe laundry while I have a mbinute.”

Reed closed his eyes and took a deep breath, an attempt to keep himself level. “Babe,” he said, “what is the point of you taking the day off if you’re not going to rest?”

“What do you mbean?” Greyson asked, folding a shirt. “I am resting.”

“Greyson,” Reed said, pulling a hand down his face, “in what universe is this resting?”

Greyson pressed his eyebrows together, genuine confusion on his face. “Wh…? I mbean, I’mb home, I’mb ndot working, I feel like that counts as rehh –” His eyes fluttered closed then, an arm lifted in anticipation. God, this would be everything if the man could just lay his ass down for five fucking minutes, Reed thought, watching hungrily. “HhRRSHH-ue! Hh...HITSZCCHH-ue! Snrf.” Greyson wiped his nose on the back of his hand, smiling a little apologetically. “That coundts as resting, right?”

In that moment, a memory flooded Reed’s mind: their first night together. Reed was recovering from an awful cold, one that he thought was on its way out, and had decided to brave a night out for one of his friend’s bachelor parties. When Greyson approached him, he couldn’t help but ask him back to his place, despite the obvious illness he was carrying around. What was it Greyson had said when Reed lost his nerve on entering his apartment, embarrassed at the state of himself? Oh, yeah, Reed thought, remembering.

Emboldened, Reed pushed into the room and pulled the laundry out of his boyfriend’s hands. He cupped Greyson’s warm face in his hand, turned him to look Reed in the eyes. “This,” he said quietly, “is not resting.”

Greyson coughed out a little laugh. “I thingk this is as good as I can do, baby, I’mb sorry -”

“No,” Reed said, placing his thumb on Greyson’s lips. “That’s not what we’re doing today. This is my present, and I’m not letting it slip away. Get in the bed, right now,” he kissed the side of Greyson’s mouth, then his neck, then his fever-warm lips, “and let me take care of you.”

It was as though he’d suddenly put Greyson under a spell; his boyfriend nodded, pupils blown, and pushed himself up off the floor, onto their bed. Don’t lose your nerve now, Reed thought to himself, taking off his shirt, this is the closest thing to resting he’s done all day.

“You,” Reed said, pulling Greyson’s thermal off and kissing his way down his torso, “are sick.” He pulled Greyson’s sweatpants off, took the length of him into his mouth. A congested moan escaped his boyfriend’s lips, and Reed smiled, lifting his head to look into Greyson’s rheumy eyes. “You need,” he slipped his own pants off then, settling himself on top of Greyson and pushing his long, sandy waves out of his face, “to rest.”

Reed leaned down and pressed his mouth into Greyson’s, his tongue slipping through the other man’s lips. Greyson coursed his hands through Reed’s short hair, pulled him closer until the need to breathe overtook him. “Sorry,” he muttered, lifting Reed off to gasp for breath. “Mbaking out is a big ask when you cand’t breehh – HRTSZCHH-ue!” Greyson turned to the side, an attempt to direct the sneeze away from Reed’s face.

Reed bit his cheek to keep from moaning. “Bless you,” he said, voice low. From below him, Greyson attempted a nod, clearly wrestling with a second, stuck sneeze.

“Hhh-! Hhh… Hnngg,” Greyson sniffled, pitifully, and turned to Reed, eyes watering. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Fuckigg stuck.”

Reed nodded, mouth dry, and leaned over his boyfriend again. “Can I…?” he asked, motioning to Greyson’s face. Throatily, his boyfriend chuckled.

“Be mby guest,” he murmured, swallowing painfully. Reed pulled himself closer, kissed Greyson’s cheek, then his forehead, then, finally, the tip of his nose.

That seemed to do it.

“RRRTSCHHH-ue!” Before he could even turn his head, a sneeze ripped out of Greyson, dusting the side of Reed’s face with warm droplets. Reed saw stars; he pulled away, gasping in ecstasy, as Greyson succumbed again – this time, into his elbow, leaned over the side of the bed.

“Sorrybabe – HRTSZCHH-uhh! Hhuh - ! Hh… ITSZCHH-ue! HUSCHH-ue!” After the fourth one, Greyson coughed into his elbow, a throaty, congested sound, while Reed sat above him, unable to move.

“Sorry, sorry,” Greyson said, sniffling. “Gross.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand again, then looked up at Reed, obviously remembering. “Oh,” he said, taking in Reed’s wide eyes, his mouth agape, his throbbing erection. “Ndever mind,” Greyson laughed. “Ndot sorry at all, actually.”

Reed laughed a little, too. “Bless you,” he said, prompting a smirk from Greyson.

“Thangk you,” Greyson said. “Can’t prombise it won’t happen again. I’mb, uh… a little under the weather.”

Swallowing hard, Reed closed his eyes; Christ, this man.

“You,” he said, leaning down to kiss Greyson again, “are a terrible patient.”

“Mmmb,” Greyson hummed, pulling away to breathe again. “Good thing you’re such a good doctor.” He grinned then, sniffling again. If he weren’t so far gone, Reed may have taken in his boyfriend’s pallor, his red, glistening nose, his compulsive, painful swallowing, and pushed himself off, forced Greyson into a nap then and there. As it was, though, he couldn’t quite make himself do it.

“You are going to lay in this bed and rest for the rest of the day,” Reed said, gently biting Greyson’s ear lobe. “But first… I’m going to be thoroughly enjoying my present.”

***

“Jesus, Greyson, two call outs in one week? Should I call an ambulance?”

Greyson laughed into the phone receiver. “Fuck off, Lij, I’m not calling out for me.” He looked over to the couch, where Reed sat, wrapped in a blanket and coughing like it was his job. “Reed’s down bad, so we’re going to have to cancel our reservation for tomorrow. Figured I’d take tonight instead, make sure he’s not going to fuckin’ pass away. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“Ahh,” Elijah said. “So that’s how you got better so fast. The doting boyfriend doted a little too close to the sun.”

A smile spread over Greyson’s lips, small and secretive. “Something like that,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Yessir,” Elijah said. “Tell Reed I said ‘feel better’. And also, ‘sorry your boyfriend can’t keep his germs to himself’.”

“I’ll tell him,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes. “Later, Lij.”

Greyson put his phone down on the counter, grabbed the cup of tea he’d made, and pressed his body up against Reed’s on the couch. “Tea?” he asked, handing the cup over. Reed took it, gratefully.

“Elijah say anythigg about you calli’g out againd?” Reed asked, voice rough and sticky. Greyson bit his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Just for you to feel better,” he said, kissing Reed’s forehead. “I left out the part where he shouldn’t feel bad for you, since this whole thing was your idea in the first place.”

“Ha, ha,” Reed rolled his eyes, coughing again. Greyson tapped the steaming cup, an invitation to drink that Reed accepted. “Thangk you, baby,” he said, when he got control of his spasming lungs. “For everything. This… it was exactly what I wandted.”

“Minus the part where I almost ruined your present by being the world’s worst patient, and the part where now you’re suffocating on your own phlegm, I assume,” Greyson joked, elbowing his boyfriend.

Eyes closed, Reed let a small smile ghost over his lips. “Ndah,” he murmured, close to sleep. “Those parts were worth the rest.”

A laugh escaped Greyson before he could help himself. “I’m glad to hear it, baby,” he said, pulling Reed’s head into his chest to rest. “Happy anniversary.”

This time, Reed laughed. “Happy anndiversary Greysohhh – hhITSZZCH-ue!”

[grayskies2525]

A Week of Falling | Ben and Arlo | M/M | Part 3

Word Count: 7,700

Link to all parts: A Week of Falling

* * *

Chapter 2

October 6th, Monday

As Arlo sneezes for the sixth time in as many minutes, he remembers his conversation with Ben from that morning and comes to an unfortunate realization — he is a hypocrite. 

He should not be here. Everything in his body is signaling the need for rest. Thankfully, he’s somehow managed to make it to his planning period. He tosses his crumpled tissue into the wastebasket next to him. It’s the newest addition to the close to over-flowing pile filling the can.

All day. All day, he’s had to tend to his nose in some way or another. Right now, it’s stuck in the stage of running like a tap. Teaching with a cold has always been one of the more annoying parts of life for Arlo, which is why he usually avoids it. Every other minute, he’s had to excuse himself in order to turn away from students to wipe his nose. He hadn’t dared blow it, not wanting to subject his students to the sounds, but more importantly, not wanting to subject himself to that embarrassment.

He takes another drink from his fourth bottle of water of the day. Despite changing his lesson around to incorporate more group work, as opposed to the previous lecture-based plans, the cold is still taking a toll on his voice and throat. 

There’s a knock at the door and he stares at it for a moment, that child-like hope taking over that maybe now is the time for his latent telekinetic powers to kick in. But, no. The door remains closed. There’s another knock. 

He groans as he gets up, but does manage to make it to the door. There’s an odd sense of pride that he feels about being able to turn the door handle with only a minimal amount of struggle; the Ibuprofen must be working. 

“Hey, Felix,” Arlo says before clearing his throat.

“Hey, mind if I plan in here?” Felix asks.

Arlo’s lip twitches, but he nods, letting Felix in. After nearly three months of sharing a planning period with Felix, Arlo knows no lesson planning will be occurring. He is fortunate his lessons for next week are ready since they’re mostly the same as last year’s.

Felix takes a seat at one of the student desks. He opens up his teacher’s edition of the Biology textbook for the new curriculum the school’s implementing this year. Arlo opens his own Powerpoints from last year to check if he needs to modify anything.

The sniffle that interrupts the silence between them is more audible than Arlo had expected it to be. He had just blown his nose. Scrunching his nose up against the tickle, he reaches for a tissue. He spins in his chair so as not to face Felix. Once the tissue reaches his nose, he jerks forward.

“HUH’ngt!”

The sneeze may have been silent if not for the wildly audible hitch of his breath. Heat creeps up his neck as his mind replays how loud and desperate it had sounded. 

“Ah, the hazards of dating Ben, right?” Felix’s question distracts Arlo from the throb in the center of his forehead.

“What do you mean?” Arlo asks, squinting at Felix through irritated eyes. He’ll have to switch over to glasses soon; contacts never pair well with head colds. 

“You’re, uh —” Felix gestures vaguely at his own face. “You sound a little nasally. And with how sick Ben was Saturday —  well, with how sick Ben always is,” he adds with a chuckle. “It wouldn’t be surprising if you’re coming down with some kind of bug.”

“He’s not always sick,” Arlo says, not exactly sure why he feels compelled to defend Ben on this matter.

Felix’s brow lifts. “Okay,” he says, elongating the word. “Maybe not always. But he definitely was Saturday. How’s he doing, by the way?” he asks, his tone softening. “October can be rough for him.”

With this entrance into slightly more comfortable territory, Arlo’s shoulders relax. Just a little. Talking about Ben’s mental health isn’t the easiest of topics, but at least they’re no longer talking about Arlo’s voice. “He’s a little down, but it’s hard to tell what’s from his cold and what’s depression. He spent all of yesterday in bed.”

“Probably the depression, I’d say. Ben’s not usually one to stay in bed over a cold.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Arlo says. 

“He’ll be okay.” Felix closes his textbook, meeting Arlo’s gaze. “He’s on meds now, has a stable job, and most importantly, I’d say, he has you.”

Arlo swallows hard and drops his gaze to the floor. “I can’t fix someone’s mental health, or their grief.”

“Oh my god, of course you can’t. But, listen, Arlo, around this time last year, I found him on his couch, shivering and hacking up a lung alone in a dark and freezing apartment. Look, I don’t know how much he told you about that night or how much he was going through at that time I know that, uh… that he’d been avoiding you. So maybe you don’t know all the details. But, it was bad.  And, now…. Well, now he’s picking apples and making pie.”

Arlo doesn’t actually know much about that time period because at the beginning of their relationship, Ben had refused to share anything meaningful about himself. But Ben has mentioned that night in passing. Just little things here and there like, “I have to go help out Felix because if I don’t, he’ll mention how he saved my life last year.” Arlo has been able to infer that Ben had been sick and without electricity when Felix came in and, apparently, saved the day. The details, though, are lost on him, and Ben certainly didn’t seem eager about sharing them. He’s shown so much improvement when it comes to opening up about his emotions that Arlo isn’t going to fault him for keeping the details of one night to himself. That can stay between him and Felix.

Forcing himself back into the present moment, Arlo says,“That’s because of the anti-depressant and the job. I’m just —”

“Hush with that. You’re not just anything. I’ve seen Ben with boyfriends before. And quite honestly, Arlo, he didn’t care about a single one of them. I mean, he tried.” Felix breathes out a laugh. “Oh my god. One time he asked me if it was normal to not want to kiss a partner, so I was like ‘yeah, sure, it’s normal for some people.’ Then he followed it up by saying, ‘Is it also normal to not want to listen to them when they speak?’” Felix laughs again, and Arlo feels his own smile tugging at his lips. “Now he texts me all the time about how ‘Arlo said this’ and ‘Arlo said that.’ He loves you so much, it’s absolutely ridiculous.”

This time, the heat reaches the tips of his ears. Yes, it’s true that Ben does exhibit all the signs of someone being in love, and if that wasn’t enough, he tells Arlo several times a day how much he loves him. Somehow, though, it’s nearly impossible to conceive. It’s like how, logically, he knows that it can take thousands of years for a star’s light to reach Earth, and that by the time it does, that star is likely dead. So, when he’s looking at a star in the nightsky, he could be looking at something that doesn’t exist anymore. He understands the reasons for this, but something inside him still rejects the notion because how? How can something shine so brightly and be so visible when it died thousands of years ago? The idea of someone loving him is equally as puzzling. 

As he’s lost in these thoughts, he feels another budding tickle that quickly blossoms into an unbearable itch. He brings a tissue up to his face in time for a sharp, “Hngg’tCHH!” 

“Yeah, you’re sick. Oh! What about your birthday this Saturday? Arlo! You can’t be sick on your birthday!”

Face still obscured by his tissue, Arlo frowns. “I didn’t exactly seek out the sickness.”

“Ben will be so disappointed. Oh my god, go home now. Stay in bed and don’t move. You have to get better by — oh.” Felix’s eyes grow wide. “You’re out this Friday, right? For your sister’s wedding? Arlo, you can’t be sick on her wedding!”

As if in disagreement with that statement, Arlo’s nose chooses that moment to release another, “HEHmkpt’chh!”

“Arlo!” Felix exclaims, his eyes now comically wide.

Despite all the attention, Arlo’s mouth still curves into a smile. “You are so much like Ben. You both have the same flair for the dramatic. Are you sure you’re not actually related?”

Jaw open, Felix stares for several seconds. “You can’t actually think I’m as dramatic as Ben?” 

A memory flashes through his mind of when the pull tab of Classy’s canned food broke off and Ben had come running into the living room, exclaiming that their cat was going to ‘waste away to nothing’ if they couldn’t find another way to open the can.

“Maybe not quite as much,” Arlo concedes.

“I’m by far less dramatic,” Felix says, his eyes narrowed. “Anyway, you really should take the rest of the week off.”

“I can’t do that… I have to be careful about using sick days. Because of, the um.” He pauses, fixing his gaze on his keyboard. “Because of my autoimmune thing.” 

“Speaking of,” Felix says, shifting in his seat. “You keep flexing your fingers. Are they hurting?”

Brows knitted, Arlo looks down and sees that he is, indeed, stretching out his fingers.“Oh, yeah, they’ll get stiff if I keep them still for too long, so — oh, h-h-hold on.” He spins in his chair to avoid Felix’s view before ducking into his tissue. “HEHshmmf’t!”

“Okay, listen, you need tea. I keep some in my room. Tea won’t cure the cold; only rest and time will do that. But you’ll feel better with the tea. Oh, and what kind of tissues do you keep in here?” Felix reaches for the box on the edge of Arlo’s desk. “Nope, these will not do. You need lotion infused. Hold on, I’ll go grab some from my —”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Arlo says, quickly. “I’m okay. Only two hours to go.”

“A person can fall completely apart in two hours, you know.”

“It’s okay,” Arlo says again, desperately needing attention off of him. He forces himself to meet Felix’s gaze, forcing his mouth to curve into a vague approximation of a smile. “I meant to ask about Reggie and Edna. Ben mentioned something about Edna escaping again, or something, right?”

And with that, Felix’s face lights up as he proceeds to describe the various antics of his pets all while Arlo tries his best to sniffle and sneeze discreetly.

* * * 

It’s after six when Arlo makes it home. He’d forgotten about the senseless committee meeting he had directly after school. Each teacher is required by the district to be part of a committee. Nobody understands why or the purpose of any of the committees they are a part of. Nevertheless, each and every one of them are forced to meet every two weeks. During today’s meeting, he’d done nothing but sit and stare blankly as his colleague, the assigned committee leader, fumbled with his words as he’d tried to make it seem like he’d actually prepared something instead of showing up five minutes late due to clearly forgetting about the meeting entirely.  

He’d also managed to forget that academic team practice started today. The extracurricular was something else he’d been forced into. It’s not the worst thing to lead, as far as extracurriculars go, and he gets paid a small stipend for it, but as he’d sat with a budding sinus headache and a sore throat approaching razorblade territory, these facts were small consolations. 

As he opens the front door, Classy saunters to him, then lies down, exposing her belly. Intending to give her the clearly desired belly rubs, he bends forward — only to have to jerk his head to the side to let out a painful, “HEHshmmft’shhhh!”

He winces as large droplets land on the hardwood floor. Classy, of course, rescinds her offer of belly rubs and meows loudly at him before turning and strutting off, likely to wherever Ben is. Arlo was the one who rescued the cat, yet it’s Ben she’s always seemed to prefer. She’s surely already preparing a speech to adequately express the mistreatment she’s been subjected to. 

The sound of his rumbling stomach reminds him he’s only had a small amount of oatmeal and an apple to eat. It’s Ben’s night to make dinner; they have designated days for cooking ever since they’d realized if they didn’t take some kind of deliberate action, they’d order Chinese takeout every night. They’re lenient about whose turn it is, of course. There’s been many nights where Ben’s taken over when it really should have been Arlo’s night. He never says a word about it, doesn’t make a big deal of it, just simply smiles at Arlo when Arlo comes in from work — on the days he works later than Ben — then mentions how he’d gotten the urge to cook and how he hopes Arlo “won’t mind.” These spontaneous “urges” just so happen to coincide with Arlo’s flare-ups. 

There’s no scent of pasta or soup to greet him tonight, though. 

After going to the bathroom to do his business and to exchange his contacts for glasses, he starts his mission to find Ben. Each step he takes is an effort and once he makes it to the bedroom, he only has the energy to feel slightly shocked at Ben’s questionable state. He doesn’t appear especially ill; in fact, there’s a bit more color in his cheeks than normal and there’s an alertness present in his eyes that’s been dulled the past few days. But what has Arlo’s brows raising in confusion is the complete chaotic mess their bed has become. Arlo’s exhausted, aching body tenses at the realization that the entirety of his side of the bed is covered in… well, seemingly everything. 

“Arlo!” Ben’s grin is huge when his gaze meets Arlo’s. “How was school?”

“HET’mpt’shh!” Arlo blinks hard as he lowers his arm from his face. “A little, umb, it was — hh’mpktxxt’SHH!”

And with those two sneezes, Ben’s expression shifts from enthusiastic to crestfallen. “Have you been doing that a lot?”

“HUHMpt’shh!” Arlo sniffs thickly, which sends a sharp sting through his inflamed sinuses. “It’s gotten worse in the last —” He trails off, staring at the ceiling, his eyelids fluttering as a tear slips free. “HEHgn’t! Sorry. It’s gotten worse in the last hour. Whatever thing this is seems to be hitting hard and fast.”

“Yeah, it was the same for me,” Ben says, patting the space in bed next to him, as if gesturing for Arlo to get in. He frowns as he seems to only now realize the problem. He quickly scoops up what looks to be various photographs and deposits them on the nightstand. There’s also other items still cluttering the space — possibly yarn? — that Ben’s quick to shove aside. “Here, join me in convalescing. It’s boring as fuck, I’ll go ahead and warn you.”

The bed is soft and welcoming when Arlo sinks into it. He rests his head against the headboard, letting his eyes shut for a moment as he asks, “What exactly have you been doing all day?” 

“Okay, so, I tried the whole ‘resting’ thing out and that was nice for about two hours. Then my brain died from lack of stimulation, so I almost called Mike to tell him I was coming in, after all.” Eyes now open, Arlo shoots him a glare he hopes isn’t too diminished by his exhaustion and sickness. Laughing, Ben continues. “Don’t worry. I fed the cat, made some blueberry pancakes, then sneezed twelve thousand times and coughed for approximately five hours straight, and felt so fucking drained that I gave up and crashed in here.”

“Good,” Arlo says, tugging the covers up over his lap. He’s still dressed in his khakis and button-up, but the energy for a task as arduous as undressing is simply not there. “So you stayed home. Like a sensible person. But, what’s with all the stuff?”

“Oh! I am making a picture collage of us. That space on the wall you’ve been talking about wanting to fill? I think we should use actual pictures. And not just shitty mass produced wall art we find at Walmart, you know?”

Arlo blinks, letting that sink in. “But what's the yarn for?”

“Because I tried knitting,” Ben says, huffing out a breath. “But you have to be an astrophysicist to understand how to do that, apparently.”

Despite his sinuses feeling like they're packed with cement, Arlo still manages a smile. “I’m not sure astrophysicists are the demographic for knitting,” he says before coughing lightly into his fist.

“I’m not so sure. You can not convince me that knitters aren’t actually geniuses disguised as grandmas. Because seriously, Arlo, how the fuck do they do that?”

“I don’t know. My wrists and fingers would never let me do something like knit — heh. Knitting. Uhmb, huh’mkpt! Excuse me.”

“I would like for you to stop being sick now,” Ben says, and when Arlo forces his exhausted eyes to meet his, the expression there is ten kinds of grumpy.

“It’s just a little cold. I promise I’m fine,” Arlo says.

“It should be fucking illegal for you to catch colds.” Ben stops to frown. “Like, not illegal for you  to catch one, but like… illegal for the germs to infect you. You know what I mean? Like, you wouldn’t be the one getting arrested for the crime. It’d be the, uh… germs, I guess.” Ben’s brow furrows, and Arlo finds himself laughing again unexpectedly. 

“Did you take DayQuil? Because I thought we talked about how that’s never a good idea for you. I mean… the last time you took it….” He breaks off, wincing. “Do you remember the pancakes?”

“Nope, no DayQuil. This is pure, unadulterated Ben Williams right now. And, uh, yes, I remember the pancakes. And they were perfect.”

“Okay, so I see you still won’t admit that strawberry, blueberry, and pumpkin do not go together. Okay, that’s fine,” Arlo says, rolling his eyes. He brings his attention to the photos that Ben is arranging. “You really are making a collage,” he says, his voice softening.

“Yes, I’ve been bored as fuck. Look, this one’s my favorite,” he says, pointing to the picture from their trip to the Smokey Mountains over the summer. 

Arlo studies the picture, his brows knitting. “This is your favorite?” he asks.

“Yes, you are adorable.”

He continues looking at the picture, taking in how he looked on that hot, summer day. Sweaty curls are pasted to his forehead and his cheeks are absurdly flushed. Then there’s his expression, which looks more like a pained grimace than a smile. Because it was. He enjoys walking and jogging, and his doctor even recommends this kind of  low-impact exercise — but the hike they’d gone on that day had been much too ambitious of an endeavor. For both of them. 

“We were both stuck in bed for the rest of the day because of that hike. Ben, you had to go to the hospital. We had to pay a thousand dollars for the ambulance bill. Why did you even have this one printed — heh’gnt! — Sorry. Why did you have this onde prindted out?”

“Blow your nose, baby,” Ben says, reaching for his bedside drawer, then pulling out a handkerchief. “It’s clean,” he adds, and even after all this time, Arlo blushes slightly as he blows his nose into the hankie. “And I had this one printed because the mountains look beautiful and your curls are so fucking cute and I want to look at them like this every day for the rest of my life.”

Chest aching with the onslaught of emotion, Arlo clears his throat. “That’s sweet, but you do remember the asthma attack you had five minutes later, right? That can’t be a good memory for you.”

It’s certainly not a good memory for Arlo. Even on a dose of antihistamines, Ben had a severe allergic reaction to the pollen. After thirty minutes of continuous sneezing, then the development of hives, and eventually what would become the single, most terrifying moment of Arlo’s life when Ben could barely take in a single breath and Arlo could do nothing to help. Except call 911. Once the ambulance arrived and they’d started him on medication, he’d improved quickly, but the panic had stuck with Arlo for days. The only good thing that came from that trip was Ben finally agreeing to accept he did, indeed, have asthma and not just “episodes where it gets a little hard to breathe.” Just thinking about it causes him to look over at Ben’s nightstand — and there it is. A little inhaler he’s promised Arlo to never leave without.

“It wasn’t the best time,” Ben admits, his cheeks looking slightly pinker than usual. “But it was our first vacation together, so it deserves to be immortalized in all its glory — or lack thereof —  on our wall.”

“Okay,” Arlo concedes, looking at the other pictures scattered on the board. The others are pretty typical — various selfies and pictures of them with Classy. There is another one that catches his eye, though. He picks it up, inspecting it. “I don’t think this one is necessary,” he says, his cheeks flushing.

“No, I disagree. It is so necessary. That was the day we put up the porch swing. Arlo, I spent, like, seven hours putting that together. Look how happy we look finally sitting on it,” he says, gesturing to their expressions. The problem, though, has nothing to do with their appearances. Finally, awareness seems to hit Ben and he frowns. “Is it the bottle cap opener? Arlo, we’ve talked about how that isn’t something you should be ashamed of.”

“I’m not,” he mumbles, still staring at the image of the two of them smiling. Ben’s arm is wrapped around Arlo and he’s wearing a beaming smile. It’d be a sweet picture, except for the very visible plastic water bottle in Arlo’s hands — a  bottle with a bright orange plastic opener attached to the lid. The website’s product description of “multifunctional bottle opener for the elderly” hadn’t done much to lessen Arlo’s insecurity over buying it.

“Arlo,” Ben says, his still raspy voice laden with what sounds like disappointment. It makes Arlo’s heart twinge. 

“I’m not ashamed to use one. Around you. Anymore. But, I don’t… I just don’t like looking at it,” he admits, gaze dropping to the covers.

After a long sigh, Ben says, “I’m not so much of an asshole that I’d put something on the wall that makes you uncomfortable. I just wish that I could — that I could reach inside your brain or something and flip off that switch. The ‘I hate myself for having inflamed joints’ switch.”

“I don’t hate myself. I just don’t like being noticed by people and being a thirty-two year old with mobility aids makes it pretty hard not to notice me. I have to… I have to use a cane sometimes, Ben, and —”

“You hardly ever have to use a cane. And, anyway, so the fuck what? Sometimes people have to use — have to use — huhh —”  Ben gives a quick shake of his head before folding forward into a huge, seemingly all-consuming sneeze. “HUH’RRRRshooo!!”

“Bless you,” Arlo murmurs softly, gently rubbing Ben’s back, thankful the Ibuprofen reduced some of the stiffness in his fingers.

“Nope, I’m not letting that distract us from the subject,” Ben says, sniffling. “Arlo, you literally have a student who has to use a cane. And she’s fifteen. I’m not even going to ask if you judge her for that because of course you don’t.”

He doesn’t respond because Ben’s right. Of course he doesn’t judge a fifteen year old girl for needing a cane. Instead he continues staring at the pictures until his eyelids force themselves shut. A prickle in his sinuses causes them to snap open, though, as he releases two, three, four, five sneezes into Ben’s hanky. The exhaustion kept him from stifling, and right now he’s with Ben, so it doesn’t matter as much as it would if he were around someone else. At this point, he mostly only stifles his sneezes around Ben out of habit more than anything. 

“Those are really revving up, huh?”

“What?” Arlo asks as he blows his nose as discreetly as possible.

“Your sneezes. They’re coming out in bunches. When this morning there was just one here and there.”

There was a time when Ben making such a comment would cause Arlo’s heart to beat fast and for his skin to flush. He truly doesn’t like attention drawn to him, so having an involuntary sound explode from him isn’t exactly something he welcomes. And somehow people talking about something he can’t control, like sneezing, makes him even more uncomfortable. But after moving in with Ben, he’d found himself worrying less and less about these things.

Although, there’d been a time when he’d felt that way about Jeremy, too — when his natural inclination to keep things to himself and to be as unseen as possible began to lessen. And that’s exactly when he’d started to tell Arlo things like, “if you’re going to walk that loudly, you need to make sure you wear quieter shoes. And, “Don’t you think a jacket in a more subtle color would suit you? Do you really need to wear such a bold pattern?” And, of course, “If you have to sneeze that many times in a row, do you think you can try to make them a little quieter? Like you used to when we started dating?”

It’s not that his ex had been entirely wrong. Arlo had deceived him. When they’d started dating, he had been quieter and more subdued. It was his own fault for pretending to be different. And it had made sense for Arlo to stifle his sneezes and to wear clothing in neutral colors because why should he bring attention to himself? Especially when he was out in public with Jeremy. Jeremy was the charismatic one — the one who shone everywhere he went. Of course he wouldn't want Arlo to dim that light.

“HUHTSHOOO! AH AHTSHOO!”

“Bless you,” Arlo says again as Ben’s sneezes break through his thoughts. 

“Fuck, I’m so done with being sick,” Ben says with a dramatic groan. 

“You’ll feel better soon. Staying home today was a good idea.”

“I guess, but I’m definitely going in tomorrow. Staying home makes me feel more miserable, I swear to god. I’m just stuck here with nothing to do but focus on my symptoms, you know?”

“You could try napping,” Arlo suggests.

“That’s the thing, though. I’m not sick enough to nap.”

“Something I can’t relate to in the least,” Arlo says, giving a small laugh.

“Aw, yeah, I know.” Ben’s tone is laced with sympathy. “Sorry. I know you need a lot more sleep than most people. Especially when you’re sick."

“A fact I hate.”

“I know. But, if it’s any consolation, seeing you all snuggled up in our bed or our couch is probably my favorite thing in the entire world to see. I mean, no need to see the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls when I get to see that.”

For a moment, Arlo can only stare at his boyfriend before finally saying, “That may be the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said to me. And also, the most ridiculous.”

“Being sick brings out my sappy, I think,” Ben says, flashing a smile. “And, anyway, it’s true. And when Classy’s with you? Oh my god, my heart nearly bursts.”

As if summoned, the orange furball makes her presence known by shaking her head, causing the tag on her collar to jingle. She stops at Ben’s side of the bed, then with dilated pupils, she begins wiggling her butt.

“Classy, don’t —” Arlo begins.

“Aww, come here, baby!” Ben says at the same time.

“Ben, the pictures… you don’t want her up here right now. She’ll step on them and —”

But it’s too late because the cat gives another quick butt wiggle before launching herself directly onto Ben’s legs right where the pictures are resting. 

Classy meows several times, her tail sticking straight in the air, the tip of it wagging slightly, showing she’s content and has no clue of the havoc she just wreaked. Or that she simply doesn’t care. Sighing, Arlo reaches over and picks the large cat off Ben’s project. 

“Be gentle! She didn’t mean to mess up the pictures!” Ben exclaims, as he gathers the photos that have fallen from the edge of the bed.

“Be gentle? Do you honestly think I’d hurt an animal?” Arlo asks as Classy settles onto his lap as though nothing ever happened.

“Hurt? No. But you’ll say mean things to her.” At Arlo’s expression, Ben continues. “You’ll say things to her that will make her feel like she’s not a good girl when she’s the best girl. And I can’t have you doing that kind of emotional damage to our daughter, Arlo!”

Arlo blinks several times. “Sometimes I can’t tell when you’re joking.”

“I would never joke about our darling girl,” Ben says, bending forward and resting his head on the cat’s back. Arlo feels his brows knit together as he watches his boyfriend shove his face into cat fur.

“I don’t know if she likes that….”

“Trust me, she does. She’s purring,” Ben says, his voice muffled from the fur.

“You really do spoil her, you know.”

Head rising, Ben huffs out a breath. “Do I need to give you another speech on how spoiling a cat doesn’t have the same real world implications that spoiling a child has, and therefore, there is no reason for me to deprive our baby of love, joy, or anything in the world she could possibly want?”

Arlo has to bite his cheek to keep a smile from spreading across his face. “She’s kind of a menace, though….”

With eyes narrowed into slits, Ben says, “Hush. She’s just a baby.”

“The vet thinks she’s six years old,” Arlo says, unable to keep the humor out of his tone. 

“So? A six year old baby, then.” Ben proceeds to nuzzle his face further into Classy’s thick fur.  Judging by the vibrations Arlo feels on his lap, she really does like it. 

He closes his eyes and after a few moments, the weight on his lap disappears. He listens to Ben baby talk to their cat, the nonsense words soothing Arlo despite Ben’s voice still being raspy and slightly congested. 

He must doze off because the next thing he’s aware of is a hand on his forehead. He cracks open one eye to see Ben frowning down at him. “I’m okay,” Arlo says, but ruins the effect by coughing. 

“I’m getting the thermometer. I’ll be right back.”

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s because he feels a cold object placed against his lips. He sees Ben and the thermometer, so he opens his mouth, complying. There’s not a chance he’s pulling his arm away from the warmth of the blanket, so he lets Ben hold the thermometer steady until there’s a beep. 

“It’s 101. Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling that bad?” Ben asks, sounding frustrated. “I haven’t had a fever with this. You must have caught something else.”

“No,” Arlo mutters. “I’ve told you before. I get fevers with colds. Even during a flare-up, I’ll get a fever sometimes. This is normal. Believe me, if it were something worse than a cold, that number would be way higher.”

Ben does not look reassured, but the exhaustion hanging over Arlo is too heavy; there’s no energy to spend calming down his boyfriend. He needs sleep. A lot of sleep.

“You need food, first,” Ben says. Arlo frowns because he didn’t realize he’d said that out loud. Suddenly, Ben jerks to the side. “HURrrrSHHooo! EH’SHHOO!”

“Bless you,” Arlo mumbles. “You should be in bed, too.”

“You haven’t eaten yet. And, fuck, neither have I. I’ll make some… shit, we don’t have any canned soup, do we? HH HUHTshooo — fuck! Okay, I’ll go search for sombe cands in the kitched.” Ben sniffles thickly before unleashing another loud sneeze.

Through Arlo’s murky thoughts, he’s still be able to recall that last week he’d made a commitment to no longer buy highly processed foods with high levels of sodium. The few cans he’d had left, he’d given to his sister, Addy, when she’d been over. In this moment, he can recognize that wasn’t one of his finer decisions. 

“Don’t bother. We don’t have anything. Get back in bed. You’re not sounding good.” Feeling his own sinuses buzzing, Arlo brings a hand up to smother a sneeze. “HHmpshhh!”

“Well, you’re dnot souding great either. Ad you have a fever. I’mb already several days into this thidng — HedtSHOOO! HEH’SHOOO! Oh my god, my throat.” Arlo watches in sympathy as Ben runs a hand along his neck.

“Just order in,” Arlo says. 

“Then I’d have to drive to pick it up.”

“Not if you get it delivered.”

“Fuck, that’s so expedsive,” Ben says, running a hand through his hair. He walks over to the nightstand and pulls out another hankie from the drawer, this time using it on his own nose. Arlo nearly falls asleep in the minute it takes for Ben to blow his nose.

“I guess we can afford takeout just this once. What would you be willing to eat?”

Arlo groans because his interest in eating vanished hours ago. 

“Panera bread? Broccoli and cheddar soup?”

“They make it with chicken broth,” Arlo mumbles into his pillow. “And, remember, I’ve been trying to eat more plant-based options. So, no cheese.”

“Can you eat cheese just this once?”

“No,” Arlo mumbles, again.

“Tomato soup?” Ben asks, his tone desperate. 

“Cream.”

“What?”

“Tomato soup has cream, Ben. I don’t want to eat something an animal was harmed for.”

“You ate pizza last week.”

“That was last week. And I told you I’m trying. I’m not always perfect.”

Through half-lidded eyes, Arlo watches Ben pinch the bridge of his nose. “Well, can you be imperfect tonight? Since we both feel like shit, and I don’t think there’s anything vegan around here unless you want to eat a salad.”

The thought alone of chewing raw vegetables hurts his sinuses. He shakes his head. “No salad. And no animal products.”

“Hehtshooo! HEHTSHOO!” Ben sneezes into the air, which Arlo can’t blame him for because the point of covering has long since passed. “God, I feel terrible all of a sudden.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re standing. You need to rest.” 

“I would rest if someone hadn’t gotten rid of our canned food. Or decided to suddenly turn vegan. At the worst possible moment.”

“I didn’t suddenly decide!” Arlo says, raising his voice in a way that’s very uncharacteristic of him. The words scratch his throat and he starts coughing into his pillow.

“Okay, okay,” Ben says in a soothing voice as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He rubs Arlo’s back as the coughing continues. “There’s no need for anyone to be upset. This is a small problem that we can solve, I think. Probably. I mean we’re two grown men. Surely, we can figure out how to eat.”

Arlo agrees that it’s a small problem. In fact, it’s not a problem at all. Because he doesn’t even want food. All he wants is to sleep. 

So, he does.

* * * 

The kitchen light’s on, which means Ben must be there. Arlo sniffles and tries blinking away the daze he’s been stuck in since waking up twenty minutes ago. He has a thick blanket wrapped around himself because it’s absolutely freezing in this house. 

Ben’s leaning against the counter when Arlo finds him. When he hears Arlo’s footsteps, his eyes snap open. “You’re awake,” he says in greeting.

“I’m sorry,” Arlo says, wrapping the blanket more tightly around him. His fingers ache in protest, but they’ll have to just deal with it for the moment. 

One of Ben’s brows lifts as he makes his way toward Arlo. “What are you sorry for?” he asks, resting his hand on Arlo’s forehead for the second time that night.

“For being unreasonable. About the food,” Arlo mumbles, leaning into the touch. 

“You weren’t being unreasonable. You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to eat. I just wasn't feeling good, so I said stupid shit. But, anyway, none of that matters. I decided to toughen up. I made some soy curl soup,” he says gesturing to the stove where a large, steaming pot sits. 

Oddly, tears begin welling up in Arlo’s eyes.

“Oh,” Ben says, his expression contorting into one of pure concern. “Are you — are you crying?”

“No,” Arlo says, wiping away a tear sliding down his cheek.

“Please don’t cry. You never cry. Why are you crying, baby?” Ben asks as he pulls Arlo toward him in an embrace. Arlo rests his head on Ben’s shoulder as he continues to definitely not cry. 

“You made me soup,” Arlo says, sniffling hard into Ben’s shoulders, hoping fiercely he’s not making a mess. “Even though you’re sick, too.”

Arlo raises his head when Ben starts laughing. “What? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing. It’s just — you realize this is the second time someone’s cried in this house over soy curl soup, right?”

Arlo’s brows furrow until he’s hit with the memory of Ben incredibly sick in bed, crying when Arlo brought him the same soup.

“Okay, I guess it is improbable for two people to cry over such an obscure type of soup,” Arlo admits, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist.

“It is,” Ben agrees, laughing. “I know you’re just feeling overwhelmed. You’ve been working so hard lately. With everything at work and your grad courses. And now you’re sick…. You deserve soy curl soup, okay? So, sit down,” he says, feigning a severe, commanding tone.

Sitting down, Arlo pulls out the hankie from his pocket and starts coughing into it. He hears Ben doing his own hacking from his spot at the stove. When Ben returns to the table with two bowls of soup, their coughing has finally died down.

Without Arlo asking, Ben puts one of Arlo’s special spoons into the bowl. His eyes sting again at the thoughtful gesture. He’d tried using one in public once when he’d still been dating Jeremy. His ex had less than kind things to say about it. After that, he’d started to only use his spoons, or any of his other mobility aids, in private. 

The two eat in a comfortable silence with the sounds of their cold symptoms being the only interruptions. Various thoughts swim through Arlo’s murky mind as he eats spoonfuls of the soup. He thinks about how he’ll have no choice but to call into work tomorrow because he needs a serious amount of sleep if he wants to have any chance at all to fight off this thing before Friday. Logically, he knows there’s no way to kick it fully, but if he wants to be even slightly functional for Becca’s wedding, then he will need a serious amount of rest. So, he’ll need to get sub plans ready tonight so he can send them tomorrow morning. His 10th grade Creative Writing class will be fine; he can just have them continue working on writing improv stories. His other English classes, though, will need major changes, since he doesn’t trust most of his students to work in groups when there’s a sub. His head throbs at the thought of figuring out how to finagle his schedule so he doesn’t disrupt his plans too much while still letting the sub get something more manageable.

He also, of course, thinks about his sister’s wedding and how his stomach sinks each and every time he remembers it. He’s thrilled for Becca, but a wedding is, essentially, a party. And a party is the last place he has any desire to be. Then there’s his actual party — the party Ben is throwing for him — which makes him want to crawl and hide under his covers every time he thinks of it.

He pushes the bowl of soup away and pulls up the blanket spooled in his lap to, once again, cover his shoulders. He pulls it tightly around himself, then lets his head rest on the table. His eyes feel hot, but his arms are covered in goosebumps.  

Ben mumbles something, but Arlo doesn’t quite catch it, so he remains in his pathetic position, hoping the fog clouding his brain eases up soon. He hears a light laugh come from Ben, but Arlo’s current strength is limited to keeping the blanket wrapped around himself. He can’t waste any of it on moving his mouth muscles to ask questions.

In the midst of thoughts of work and weddings and parties, there’s also the memory of Ben carefully arranging photos showing the life they’ve been making together. For all Ben lacks in the sexual department, he more than makes up for it in romance. Arlo still desires his boyfriend in a sexual way. He is, unlike Ben, allosexual, after all. So, yes, the desire is there. At night when Ben’s naked all but for his boxers, Arlo frequently thinks about… things. Things he often feels ashamed to think about his ace partner. 

But being with Ben is like…

Like moving to Alaska.

Even thinking about that state with its harsh, long winters makes Arlo clutch his blanket more tightly. 

He’d spent two weeks there with his aunt once — when he’d been thirteen. He hadn’t understood how people could willingly live somewhere with barely any sunlight for most of the year. Until he’d seen the Northern Lights. A realization had struck him as he’d stood under the shimmering, twisting sky. 

I’m alive.

Life wasn’t just about going to school. Or making his bed. Or waiting in line for the bathroom he’d shared with four sisters. He’d already learned in science class that the circumstances needed for human life can’t exist anywhere but on Earth. Existing at all was incredibly improbable — almost impossible . Yet he’d been there, as much a part of the earth as the grass, the trees, and the lights dancing in the sky.

So giving up a little bit of sunlight in exchange for that experience? It was nothing. Not to mention he’d seen a bald eagle, a moose, and a pod of orcas all in the same week. 

Images of the animals flash through his mind as he recalls the enthusiasm thirteen year old Arlo had felt about seeing such a variety of life. Their images become hazy and distorted in that way that happens right before slipping into sleep. But he holds onto them because… because — because of Alaska.

But, why is he thinking of Alaska?

Hadn’t he been thinking of sex?

“Oh, dear, I am pretty sure you’re drooling on the table.”

The voice startles him and he raises his head slightly. “So cold,” he mutters, his teeth starting to chatter.

“Because you have a fever, silly, and you’re not even wearing socks. You’re sick; You should be wearing socks. C’mon let’s get you bundled in bed. I’ve already started up the heating pads. And everything’s ready for you on the nightstand. Tissues, hankies, water, and Ibuprofen if you need it. ”

Oh.

“You’re Alaska.”

Ben looks concerned, which was not Arlo’s intent. “Are you —”

“It’s a good thing,” Arlo says, quickly.

“Alaska is, um…cold. And dark. And I saw a movie about vampires taking over one of the cities there, and —”

“It’s a good thing,” he repeats, his head falling back onto the table, sleep and fever both wanting to take over his body.

“I think maybe I should get the thermometer….”

The voice sounds far off in the distance. 

“I’m saying I’d give up the sun for you. Because… you’re a different kind of light. The kind that dances across the sky — het’chuh! HHsshhew! Ey’shhew!”

“And you’re sick. The kind that should be in bed.”

“Only a little sick,” Arlo mumbles into the table.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles. “You’ve not been sleeping enough. I’m worried you’re running yourself into the ground.” Ben’s voice is a soft, almost whisper. 

“HUHh’IGGshew!”

That was not a dignified sneeze and the haze Arlo had been trapped in fades a little as he stares at his now damp lap.

“Jesus. Bless you,” Ben says.

“You never say that.” 

“You never sneeze like that,” Ben says, handing Arlo a desperately needed tissue.

After blowing his nose, Arlo rubs the center of his forehead. “I can’t think clearly,” he says after a moment.

“I kind of caught on to that when you called me Alaska,” Ben says, laughing.

Feeling his cheeks blush, Arlo murmurs sheepishly, “I was half-dreaming.”

“You better have been. I was about to call 911, you know.”

“So dramatic,” Arlo says, rolling his eyes. He stands up, pushing his chair in.

“And, anyways, I’m much better than Alaska.”

Arlo grabs his glasses from the table, shoving them onto his face. He listens as Ben lists off the states that are, apparently, much more representative of his personality. He glances back at the table, realizing Ben must have taken Arlo’s bowl while he’d been dozing. He must have really been out of it because he’d never noticed. As out of it as he’d been, though, he’d meant it.

Nothing is a sacrifice when Ben is what he gets to have in return.

[thedevillionaire]

An Outside Chance

For #2 (unexpected allergies) of @moonlitkit's Snztember. ≈2,500 words; Cerberus, Kia, Aera, and several problematic trees.

—

“Bless you, Lord DeVille.”

The words come shyly, and without eye contact. Which one of the many attendees at the day’s festivities has offered it this time, Cerberus isn’t sure, but it’s far from the first – and judging by the ridiculous way things are going, it’s unlikely to be the last. He gives a short, curt nod in a general acknowledgement, sniffles sharply, and continues on his way. It’s not, overall, important.

But what at first had seemed to be a mildly annoying intermittency was starting to become an actively bothersome constant. He’s prepared for only so much unsolicited social interaction, for a start, and he certainly hasn’t counted on so much of…

*snf!*

His breath catches, a staccato staggered serration, but he doesn’t succumb, and exhales with slow caution.

…so much of it so soon.

Dear gods.

And he still hasn’t managed to find Kia, somewhere in this multi-staged conglomeration of bands and spruikers, exhibits, demonstrations and games, one of the...truly worst attempts at manifested oneiromancy he could ever remember seeing, and of course this godsforsaken endless crowd. He recognises Aera in the midst of it, and it occurs to him that she may well know Kia's whereabouts, but any intended greeting is swiftly abandoned in surrender to a sudden, desperate—

“Ahh–HEHTSSHhuu!”

Its unexpected power leaves him slightly dazed, and he sniffles wetly in its wake, flicks some dishevelled hair from his eyes.

Damn it, what in all the hells is going on?

He frowns slightly and presses a firm hand against his nose with another sniffle, also firm, and barely manages to not roll his eyes at the latest scattered chorus of blessings. To top things off, the irritation hasn’t been at all relieved.

Though he has managed to get Aera's attention, in any case.

She stares at Cerberus with undisguised curiosity, says some distracted farewells to the stallholder she’s been chatting with, and wanders across to join him.

"Well, well! Wonders will never cease," she says, smiling openly. "Didn't expect to see you here." Her expression shifts into mild suspicion as he sniffles with force. "You got the plague or something?"

"I’m fine, other than this damn…" The sensation, unyielding, demanding, rises anew; he pardons himself quickly and turns away. "Ah-TSSCH-uu! *SNF!*" Cerberus sighs in brief but acute exasperation. "This damn sneezing," he concludes with bitterclear annoyance, as if the irritation itself were a personal betrayal. Indeed, he’s not sure what’s worse: the sneezing itself, or the accompanying – and escalating, godsdamnit – excessive public attention that it continues to bring. "Pardon me."

And as much as Aera knows his tendency to deny oncoming illness, it’s true that he doesn’t look sick – none of the lethargy and haziness that comes with illness, instead rather more of the irritation that marks…

“So, just hayfever, then.”

“What? *snf!*” Cerberus gives a dismissive scoff even as he presses the heel of his hand under his nose, blinks against the prickling behind his eyes. “I don’t get hayfever.”

Aera smirks wryly. Naturally. "Well, for someone who doesn't get hayfever, you're doing a pretty great impression of someone who does." Past that, though, she's not inclined to argue the point. "Anyway, whatever," she says, and instead draws his attention to a small but richly verdant birchgrove off to their left, the branches, foliage and abundance of catkins dancing in the wind. “But just so you know, it’s probably that.”

His revisited What? is full of the quiet horror of recognition, and he murmurs a sotto voce that can't be right – as if by saying so, he can make it a truth.

But not even the Demon king’s formidable strength of will can do a thing to change the wind's brisk insistence, the stirred-up motes of pollen flurries flickering in the sunlight, the faint, maddening itch blooming deep in the bridge of his nose and curling down the back of his throat.

“For fuck’s sake, Cerbie, you know that birch is—”

“Yes of course I’m well aware of that, damn it, but that’s not the tree, not the…the pollen – that’s just the damn bark, the smoke, when you and your *snf!* superstitious Sorcery cohorts burn it in those ridiculous…" The vibrant buzzsaw itch rises again, relentless, and he capitulates posthaste to an unstoppable double. "Huh-TSCHH-uu! Huh-AHSSCHuu! ”

A snort of laughter. “You know, that’s probably why you’re allergic," Aera posits. "It’s all the eeevil.” She wiggles her fingers at him in a deliberately over-the-top mimicry of stylised spellcasting. “You do remember it’s used for cleansing, right?”

“Are you calling me unclean? I ha…" A forceful hand pressed against his nose does nothing to stave off the inevitable, his sentence wholly abandoned to rapidgasped surrender. "Ah-HEHTSHhuu!”

“Okay, Captain Pureheart.”

He gives her a withering glare through watering eyes, sniffles damply, and mutters, “You really do get away with murder sometimes, Megaera.”

Aera folds her arms and fixes Cerberus with direct and deadpan gaze. “Me,” she states flatly. “I get away with murder.” She pauses a significant moment more, just in case her point isn’t already clear, and prods him sharply in the arm. “Me.”

“Figuratively speaking,” he says, his tone roughened but edged with dry amusement, "of course."

:And don’t you ‘Megaera’ me just because I’m right: she Mindsends.

He draws breath to retort, only to be overtaken by another powerful, possessing sneeze. “Ah-HEHTSHhuu!”

The entirely unexpected, softvelvet :Bless you, sweetheart: that slides into his mind startles him enough that he turns abruptly, eyes scanning the crowd with suddenly focused intent.

Aera tilts her head in query. “What?”

“I just…" He frowns in mild confusion. "Kia Sent me a blessing,” he murmurs, distracted, as he rapidly assesses the multitude of faces, finding no sign of her. “I don't see… She's not…” Another frown as he checks a final time. "She's not here. But how would she…"

Aera chuckles. “You’re a distinctive man, DeVille.”

He sniffles, straightens his coat, and tries to look perhaps a little less like a man being slowly undone by airborne plant matter. "Hm."

“Look, I guarantee she's on her way, alright? But anyway, listen, I gotta go." Aera places a hand on his arm – brief, casual, friendly. "I’ll see you later. Actually, in two days. You’re overseeing the Guild’s ceremonial nonsense for me. Oh, and here.” She Creates a neatly folded handkerchief, handing it to him as she turns away, before he has any chance whatsoever to counter her assertion. “Maybe try not to breathe so much.”

“I hardly thi…” He pauses, raises an eyebrow at the elegantly fine, looping embroidery of his initials in one fine cotton corner. “You monogrammed it?” The cruelty of those consonants add unmissable insult to his injury; Aera, however, this time lets it slide.

“Eh. I do what I can.” She blows him a kiss as she vanishes.

—

“Babe?”

For a moment, he can only stare, his senses overwhelmed in a new, equally unexpected way. Another determined sniffle, and Cerberus presses the handkerchief underneath his nose as he regards Kia, always so beautiful, but here today… here today like nothing he's remotely prepared for. Like sin dressed in silk, like seduction incarnate, heat itself. Her dress exquisitely contoured, flowing and fitted interweavings of scarlet, crimson, ruby, vermilion embodying flame and fire, cut to flatter the curve of her waist and the line of her legs, the neckline just daring enough to make his breath catch. Her hair’s swept up in a loose twist, a few strands tumbling artfully around her face, and the sunlight catches on the gloss of her lips like a promise, timestilled, glorious.

“Sneezed your brains out, hon?”

It takes him another moment before he manages to respond.

“I…” Cerberus sniffles again, the world narrowed to no more than his stunning bonded, the sound of her voice, the scent of her perfume. “I honestly can’t be sure.” He inhales and exhales slowly, carefully, steadying himself as best he can – a tenuousness he's well aware of. "Entirely possible. I’d not bet against it. Gods, love, you’re an absolute vision.” A small, appreciative smile tugs at his mouth. “You should warn a man.”

Kia laughs and Mindsends a warm, genuine :Aw, thank you, sweetheart: “Just keeping some tiny powers to myself," she adds playfully, standing on tiptoe and touching an appreciative kiss to his cheek. "Anyway, I just figured you’d, you know, see me at home later. I didn’t think you’d actually show up here.”

“Why would I not?”

She laughs again, gently incredulous – she'd thought he hadn't been serious when he'd said that he'd attend, that his words had been nothing more than a distracted courtesy. After all… “Uh, maybe because you never come to these things?”

“Really?” Cerberus frowns, muttering a quiet, mildly perplexed, “I feel like I’m always coming to these things,” notably more to himself than to her, just seconds before his attention is rapidly, needfully redirected. "Sorry, I'm g…" he almost manages, his words a blurred rush of necessity as his breath is directed to more pressing matters, hurried and desperate; he covers with hastily retrieved handkerchief, and with scimitar gasp succumbs again, absolute and all-consuming, twice over.

"Huh-TSSCHH-uu! Huh-AAHTSSCHHuu!”

"Ble…" Kia begins, but abandons her words as Cerberus raises an index finger in a pause of captive anticipation. A quavering moment, and another, then with sharpgasped urgency he gives over entirely. “Hh-hhAAHTSSCHHUU!!"

“Bless you,” she murmurs over his apology, transfixed and just a little softwanton…but not without curiosity. "What's getting to you, babe?"

He clarifies the situation, not a small dose of impotent bitter fury alongside it. "…received enough blessings that it practically counts as consecration, and honestly it's an utter insult I can’t burn every last one of the damn things to ash!" He sighs heavily, affronted indignance fading somewhat into resignation. "Anyway," he concludes, wiping his nose again, “it seems I’m allergic to it." He runs the edge of the handkerchief under his nose, folds it neatly between his fingers, and adds, “In, um… in general.”

“Well, yeah, babe, course you are,” Kia remarks, nonchalant, as she smiles broadly and waves to Riviera and Calico in a friendly greeting before returning her full attention to her magnificently disarrayed, apparently oblivious bonded.

“Of course I am?” Cerberus echoes, genuinely beginning to feel as if he’s in some kind of alternate reality.

Kia briefly considers saying all sorts of things – things of the kind that would make him roll his eyes, or laugh despite himself, or something leaning heavily into how is this a surprise to you? especially after the icestrike? and how there sure are a whole lot of different kinds of intelligences out there and how he's kind of being an outstanding example of that sort of thing right now – but instead lets the moment hang, her gaze lingering on him with a slow, knowing warmth.

“You know, if you like,” she says at last, voice sultry with invitation, “we could always get out of here, and I get to be the thing you can’t resist, instead of…” She stands on tiptoe, leans in and kisses the tip of his nose.

“Huh-hhAHTSSCHhuu!"

“…that,” she finishes with a wink and a flash of a teasing smile. Her finger to his lips steals any attempt at a light chastisement, and the kiss that follows steals everything else – breath, thought, the last thread of his composure.

“Mmm, bless you.” Her voice is honeypurred as she runs a fingernail down the contours of his face, brushes some strands of stray ebony behind his ear, and presses nearer to him still. The faintest shift of her hips against his leaves no doubt she knows exactly what she’s doing. “You’re trying your best to not just rip this off me right now, huh.”

A wry chuckle of concession from Cerberus, called back to himself; he concedes entirely. “You have no idea how difficult it is, love.”

Kia curls her arms around his neck, her fingers through his hair, and Mindsends a decadent, heat-suffused :Stop trying: – molten, inexorable, and the Demon king forgets the press of the crowd, the insistence of the pollen, the entire world beyond her. One hand trails down from the nape of his neck to rest over his heart, her thumb brushing once, slow, as if to mark the beat. Possessive. Certain. The look she gives him is all heat and intent, and she lifts her hand now to trail languidly down the line of his nose, a fingernail curling sensual, lascivious, along the elegant curve of his nostril. He doesn't resist, allows her to trace the shape of his surrender.

:Let’s see how long you last:

 ---

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Glutton for Punishment (M, cold)

Nothing makes me happier than when a story just falls out of my mind lmao. Hi guys, long time no talk, I have a sick Elijah story for you that was supposed to be a drabble and ended up being almost 3000 words (classic)! It takes place a little further in the future in my OC timeline, and in it Elijah has started dating Emily from The Way You Care For Me. It's based on a prompt sent by @ghostlychill (THANK YOU!!) where someone pushes themselves until they collapse. Hope you like it!! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, good, bad, or otherwise.

CW: Male illness, male snz, coughing, fever, passing out, cold denial, possibility of contagion. M/F pairing but nothing outside light dating-talk happens.

Enjoy! :)

Glutton for Punishment

The room shifted.

No, Elijah thought as he placed a hand over one eye, the other carefully balancing a salad bowl filled to the brim. No, you are fine. Get it together.

“Elijah?” Emily’s voice drifted in, a faraway, dreamlike sound that barely came in over the whooshing in his ears. “Everything alright in there?”

No, Elijah allowed himself to think. The room continued to turn; he knew he wouldn’t have time to set the bowl down, so instead he fell to his knees in preparation, the thump of his body suddenly dropping to a kneel enough to send Emily running from the dining table into the kitchen. She appeared over him hazy, like an angel descending the heavens. Elijah glanced up, his hand still covering half his face, and smiled loopily at the beautiful woman above him.

“’M sorry,” he managed, before the spinning room closed in, leaving nothing but darkness and the sharp, sudden pain of collapsing completely.

“Elijah!”

***

Greyson had been the one who’d insisted that Elijah needed to invite Emily to a date at his place.

“Uh, no,” Elijah said, eyes not leaving his computer screen. “We’ve literally been out like three times Grey, I’m not making her come to my house. That’s giving serial killer.”

From his spot leaned on the door, Greyson guffawed. “It is not giving serial killer, you fucking freak, it’s literally what everyone on planet earth does when they first start seeing someone. You don’t think she’d like you to make her dinner? See your place? If anything is ‘giving serial killer’, it’s you staunchly refusing to invite her over.”

Elijah rolled his eyes. “How is that giving serial killer? Don’t girls always talk about how you should never go to someone’s house if you barely know them? Stranger danger, and all that?”

“First of all,” Greyson said, holding out one finger, “how in the hell would you know what girls talk about, this place is a fucking sausage fest and you literally never go anywhere else.”

“Whatever,” Elijah said, turning back to the computer.

“Second of all,” Greyson continued, turning Elijah’s chair so it faced him, “If you refuse to invite her over, it insinuates you have something to hide. Like, oh, I don’t know… bodies stored in a basement freezer, for example.” The chef raised his hands in front of him, a display that was clearly meant to say, But what do I know? Elijah continued to deadpan his friend.

“I live in a tenth-floor apartment,” he said, blinking slowly. “There is no basement for bodies.”

Greyson kicked the wheels of Elijah’s chair, prompting the GM to flip him off. “You know what I mean,” he said.

Elijah sighed; unfortunately, he did know what Greyson meant. Truth be told, he didn’t want to invite Emily over because he wanted to avoid rejection – Emily was beautiful, she was so smart and funny and just all-around likable, and Elijah knew that he… well, he wasn’t. He was a bachelor, a workaholic and a forty-something man who’d never lived with a woman. The idea of inviting someone he really wanted to impress over to his minimalist, even slightly cold apartment didn’t sound like a way to make her stick around. It sounded like a way to make her run for the hills.

“Can’t I just take her to Le Bernadin or something?” he asked his friend, the desperation in his voice making him cringe. “Wouldn’t she like that more than some hastily-thrown-together meal at my stupid apartment?”

Greyson smiled, eyes closed, and shook his head. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You and I both know,” he said, kindly, “this isn’t about the meal.” He shrugged then, patting Elijah’s shoulder. “It’s about her envisioning a future with you.”

At this, Elijah bit down hard on the inside of his own cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. A future, he thought, feeling sick. Oh, fuck.

***

The date at Elijah’s apartment was set for a Sunday, Emily’s one day off that week from the urgent care, and the only day he could sneak out early by making Mark work the dinner shift while he handled brunch.

Unfortunately, Elijah had woken up with something of a… situation.

“HTSCHH! Hh-! NGTXCH-ue! HRTSCH-uh!”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding.”

Elijah, who thought he’d been alone at the host stand, whipped around, one hand rubbing under his nose. There stood Greyson, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. Elijah sniffled.

“What?” he asked, his voice low and congested. Of course he knew what Greyson meant; that didn’t mean he couldn’t pretend everything was fine.

As if reading his mind in that moment, Greyson slapped a hand on his friend’s forehead. Senses dulled by congestion and head foggy with fever, Elijah didn’t even think to pull away; he simply closed his eyes at the respite that was Greyson’s walk-in-cool hand.

“Wow,” Greyson said, not moving the hand. “Not sure I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

At that, Elijah’s eyes snapped back open and he jerked away. “Fuck,” he said, pulling a hand down his face. “Sorry.” He coughed into his open palm then, a crunchy, painful sound that prompted Greyson to take two steps back.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, wiping the palm that had been on Elijah’s forehead on his apron. “Apologize to your girlfriend. I sincerely doubt she’s going to want to contend with whatever-the-fuck you picked up after her day of swabbing throats.”

Elijah’s first instinct was to protest. “I’mb not – hh-! HRRESTCHH-ue!” The first sneeze all day he’d allowed to be unstifled seemed to have unlocked the floodgates. “Huh..! Hh’NGTXCH-ue! NGXTCH-uhh! HRTXCHH-uhh! Hhuh! Hh…hnng.” Elijah swallowed hard as the final sneeze evaded him, while Greyson reached around the host stand to place a box of tissues in front of him.

“Bless you,” he said. “You know, that probably wouldn’t be such a production every time if you just let yourself sneeze for real.”

If he weren’t in so much pain, Elijah would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he just took a tissue and attempted to blow his nose. “Okay,” he said, brilliantly. Greyson’s eyebrows shot up.

“You must really be down and out. I’ve never heard you respond to something like that with anything other than a ‘fuck you’.”

There wasn’t another way to put it; Elijah was down and out. His whole body ached, he could barely breathe… and yet.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to text Emily and cancel their date. All week, he’d been siking himself up for this, cleaning furiously and prepping a perfect multi-course dinner, making sure everything was perfect for her visit to his home. She had been so excited when he proposed the date at his house, and he’d been so shocked that she was even interested in coming over, that he knew he needed to make it perfect. Elijah had worked through illness before, he’d done events and weddings and three-hundred-cover services with fevers high enough to boil an egg – if he could suck it up for work, he could certainly suck it up for her. He had to.

“I’mb alright,” Elijah said, throwing the tissue away. “Just ndeed my second wind.”

“Elijah,” Greyson said, furrowing his brow. “It’s eight in the morning. If you need a second wind two hours after you woke up, what wind are you going to be on tonight? Your twentieth?”

Elijah shrugged; if need be, he’d catch his hundredth wind to make the evening with Emily perfect. His thousandth. “I’mb ndot canceling on her,” he said, voice straining. “So go ahead and drop it.”

Greyson’s lips pressed into a single, worried line. “Elijah…” he started, but Elijah held up one hand to stop him in his tracks.

“As soon as Mbark gets here,” he said, sniffling through a wall of congestion, “I’mb leaving. I have to mbake tonight perfect.”

Again, Greyson opened his mouth to try and convince Elijah to rethink this, but Elijah turned and walked toward the office before his friend could say anything. This would work. Everything would be fine.

***

“Wow,” Emily said, “this is quite the place.”

Beaming with pride, Elijah placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her inside. The sundress she was wearing swished around her thighs like the strings of a maypole, and her ponytail bounced happily as she stepped inside. Elijah was sure no one had ever been so beautiful. “Thangk you,” he said, voice low. “Combe in, sit down.”

His attempt to quell the symptoms of the rapidly-worsening cold before Emily arrived had yielded little result; Elijah’s voice was nearly gone, and the cement in his sinuses refused to be moved, even after a wild amount of nose spray. He hoped silently that Emily was too distracted by his apartment’s view to notice.

His hope was quickly dashed. Emily cocked her head at the sound of his voice and turned to face him, her eyebrows pressed together in concern. “You’re sick,” she said simply. Elijah’s already-flushed face morphed into a ruddy, embarrassed blush.

“I’mb alright,” he said, his easy smile outplayed by a liquid sniffle. Emily crossed her arms, too smart to be lied to. Elijah cleared his throat and said, “Mbaybe a cold.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, taking in his pallor, the high marks of color on his cheeks. “Looks like more than a cold to me.”

Well, she would know, Elijah thought, not letting the smile fizzle. “Just… mbaybe ndo kissing tonight,” he joked, to no laughter. “I didn’t want a perfectly good dinner to go to waayy… hh – ’scusembe –”

Elijah turned away from her then, the volley of sneezes he’d attempted to hold back since she walked in overtaking him. He crushed his face into his sleeve, again and again attempting to stifle. “HRTXSCHH-uhh! Hhuh-! Hhh’GTXCHH-ue! NGXTSH! HRTSHH! Hhh – hhuhhETSCHHH-ue!” Elijah allowed himself one real release, one sneeze that he hoped would clear some of the congestion, allow him to think about anything other than the buzzing deep behind his eyes. Instead, it just made him dizzy; when he opened his eyes, the room made one slow, sickening spin. Swallowing hard and blinking even harder, Elijah forced himself to stand to his full height.

“Sorry,” he muttered, just as Emily said, “Bless you.” Elijah flashed her a quick smile, trying to no avail to keep himself from coughing – after a few failed swallows, he turned away again, this time to cough angrily into his sleeve, a cough so deep and painful that it brought tears to his eyes. When he turned back around, the look of concern on Emily’s face only deepened.

“We could have rescheduled,” she said, gently placing a hand on Elijah’s cheek. At the warmth there, she amended her statement. “We should have rescheduled.”

Tears pricked at the back of Elijah’s throat, misery washing over him like a tsunami, sudden and overwhelming. She was right, of course she was right. Elijah was ill, feverish and obviously contagious, and he felt self-conscious then, as though he’d opened the door unwashed and fully nude, allowed her into a house with dirt-caked floors and mold on the walls. He thought back to the first time they met, to how awful he’d looked and felt, and he wished she’d never seen him like that, that they’d met on the street or in a restaurant, not at the urgent care where she worked, not searing into her memory him at his lowest, giving her a reference point to be splattered across the walls of her mind as she looked at him now.

Unable to give in, unable to let himself be seen in that way again, Elijah swallowed and pulled her close to him, an attempt at being suave, even in this state. “I wanted you here,” he said, voice quiet to keep from sounding as congested as he was. “Please. I really wanted to have you here tondight.”

Despite what was obviously her better judgment, Emily nodded, eyebrows still furrowed a bit in concern. “Alright,” she said. “But you’ll tell me if you feel really poorly, right? You’ll let me know if I need to go?”

The room behind her swirled in his peripherals. Behind his eyes, the fever burned hot enough to make him question whether the color of her eyes was changing right before his own. Elijah nodded.

“Of course I will.”

***

The first thing he felt as he came to was pain – not in his head, though, and not on his shoulder where he’d fallen, but a pain deep in his sternum, a pain that demanded he open his eyes to contend with it. He heard her voice, too, as he peeled back his eyelids.

“Elijah, c’mon, honey, wake up.”

I’m awake, I’m awake, he thought, forcing his eyes open. Stop doing whatever you’re doing, I’m awake. When he locked eyes with Emily, hers were wet with tears, pupils blown with worry. Before he could say anything, she wrapped her arms around him, sobs shaking her frame.

“Hey,” Elijah croaked, pushing himself to a seat while holding on to her body. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, you fucking passed out!” Emily’s voice shook as she pulled away from him, mascara smudged under her eyes. Elijah realized, then, that he’d never heard her swear before. “You told me you’d let me know if you felt really bad,” she whispered, hurt.

A lump formed in the back of Elijah’s throat then. He wasn’t used to this, wasn’t prepared for her to be so upset. There had been countless times, with Greyson and the team, or on his own that he’d been sick, really sick, sick enough to faint, sick enough to go to the hospital, even, where he’d simply pushed through and dragged himself to the very edge of what his body could handle, and no one had been upset with him. Worried about him. Annoyed? Maybe. Exasperated? Sure. But certainly not worried.

“I’mb sorry,” Elijah whispered back, taking Emily’s face in his hands to look at him. “Hey – I’mb really, really sorry. I… I’mb ndot, uh… used to this. To someone, umb… worrying. About mbe.” The admission felt raw, like he’d cracked his chest open and revealed to her his wildly-beating heart. Emily wiped her eyes, taking him in.

“Well, I am,” she said. “Worried, I mean. You can’t do that to me, Elijah, I… if you need something, or you’re sick or whatever, just tell me. I don’t need the show. I don’t want the show. I just want you. Okay?”

It was such an honest statement, so poignant and perfectly articulated, so true and kind, unmarred by jokes or a need to be something she wasn’t, that Elijah didn’t know how to respond. His mouth opened and closed a few times, words evading him, until the buzz in his sinuses, blessedly, took over.

“Hh’ETSCHHH-ue!” he sneezed unrestrained this time, away from Emily and into his palm. “HRRSCHH-ue! Hh...HUTSCHH-ue!” Elijah attempted to sniff back the congestion that had finally loosened with the unstifled sneezes, then settled for wiping his nose on his hand, and wiping his hand on his pants. “Sorry,” he said, grimacing. “Gross.”

Emily closed her eyes and shook her head, a small what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you smile dancing across her lips. “It’s okay,” she said, opening her eyes. “This I’m used to. Bless, by the way.”

“Thangk you.”

Silence pooled around them, then, until finally, Emily placed a gentle, cool hand on Elijah’s forehead. As he had this morning with Greyson, though this time without embarrassment, Elijah closed his eyes and leaned in.

“You’re burning up,” Emily said, concern laced between the words.

“Mmmb,” Elijah mumbled, not moving. “Yeah.” He popped one bloodshot eye open, then. “I’mb, uh… I think I’mb sick.”

Emily laughed then, a relieved tinkling like marbles falling onto a glass table. “Yeah,” she said. “I could tell.”

“Kndow any good nurses in the area?” Elijah asked, a goofy smile painting itself across his lips. Amused, Emily gave him a look, then a little shove.

“I could ask around,” she said, kissing Elijah’s forehead. He laughed too, then, a throaty, soupy noise, and they locked eyes, unwilling to breathe, hoping not to chase away the moment.

“Hey,” Elijah said finally, “what was that thing you did? To wake mbe up?”

Emily laughed through her nose, shaking her head in disbelief at what had just transpired. “Sternum rubs,” she said, pushing Elijah’s sweaty hair out of his face. “It’s how you wake unconscious patients up.”

“Is there, uh… any way you could ndever do that again?” Elijah asked. This time, Emily laughed in earnest, shook with it, laughed so hard that new tears fell down her face.

“We’ll see,” she said, finally, wiping her face again. “You’re a bit of a glutton for punishment, so no promises.”

Elijah smiled, too tired to laugh in earnest again, and placed his face into Emily’s hair. Maybe I am, he thought, feeling his nervous system calm, but hopefully not for much longer.

[cozy-snzhc]

Noses full of cold.

Noses that gurgle and drip when not attended to. Noses that snort and whistle when blown or meant to forward a tiny inhale of air. Noses that burble and expel gobs of snot. Noses packed to the brim with contagion and slime. Noses rubbed raw by make-shift tissues or just too much attending from this unyielding virus. Noses that are somehow both desert dry but still packed tight with congestion.

Noses full of cold.

[snottysnz]

a nose so stuffed, that no matter how many times they sneeze, their nose is immediately filled right back up.

a nose so blocked, that they can't even sniffle properly, just a pathetic squeaky sound out of their nostrils, failing to let any air in or out.

a nose so clogged, that every attempt at a blow is met by a thick wall of congestion that tickles their nose and throat, making them cough and sneeze.

a nose so bunged up, that even their voice is stuffy, consonants rounded, making words difficult to understand.

a nose so plugged up, that they have to breathe through their mouth, making their already dry scratchy throat, even worse.

a nose so congested, that they make little congested noises and moans, like "guh" after every sneeze, sniffle, and blow.

[snzysocks-deactivated20251222]

Someone shivery, sick and bundled up in bed suddenly sneezing so hard that their whole body curls in on itself.,..wahh >\\\\<

[sfyristwrites]

Try Part 1

Terry Pratchett's "Night Watch"

Carrot/Angua

Carrot always claims he's just like other men - er, dwarves -- but Angua dares him to prove it by trying to come down with something very human. Unfortunately they are taken hostage before anything happens. Aren't they?

PG but Part 2 is NOT

Very old fic, but I hope you'll like it.

“Try.”

“Angua, this is ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on. You’re built like the statues of your better class of god, half the city thinks you’re a king in hiding, most of the trolls will hesitate before grabbing at you – you’re pretty much impervious.”

“I’m very aware that my life’s been privileged, but not by any of that. I had wonderful adoptive parents who taught me how to live, and when l came to the city I met people I could learn from. I’m happy here, and I have a good life. But I work and – well, work, and buy my food and write home and talk to people and try to make my boots last just like everybody else.”

She hadn’t been listed, but since they were still in bed, she knew Carrot would just assume she’d take that as read. “That’s just it. You talk to everybody . You went into the Shades every day during that outbreak of Ankh fever. You play with dribbly kids all the time. I’ve seen you pet Gaspode, and you even grabbed Nobby by the breeches to keep him from falling off Misbegot Bridge last week. I’ve seen every bit of you, and not so much as a patch of yellow, or pink cheeks, or flakes or rashes.”

“I’ve been very fortunate. I’ve always wondered if the clean living back home -“

“Even dwarves get scabies and the croup, Carrot. Face it. You have royal blood, whatever you may say about the rest of you. No submission to all those little inconveniences that plague the rest of us.”

“Angua. I don’t know if you belong in that “us.” If you’re determined to exclude me from groups, wouldn’t it make more sense for it to be “bi-morphs” or “those who can get shot in the chest and be fine a day later?””

She rubbed her breastbone and he wrapped his arm farther around her. “Still hurts, though.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have -“

She dropped a kiss on his shoulder. “That makes me feel better . But, see. That’s what I mean. I’m different and I know it. I’m an outsider, and an outsider sees things other people don’t. You see the differences . It lets you – I don’t know. Yes I do know. It lets you understand the ways you’ll never understand them. That helps – it’s easier to sympathize or help or whatever if you know when someone’s a product of their culture and when they’re being utter morons on their own account.”

“I prefer to look at how similar we all are, deep down -“

“Then get similar! Get something deep down in you that’s similar. If you really are just like the rest of us, it shouldn’t be hard.”

“It seems rather a serious risk to take, just to prove a point.”

“I don’t mean something like Ankh fever or Nobby’s skin whatever. Just- something little.”

“If I had to take off work- “

“Sergeant Colon says you have over a month of time off due. Come on. If you really believe you’re just like everyone else, give it a try. “

“Oh – I still think it’s ridiculous – all right. I’ll think about it.”

She grinned and rolled over and kissed him. “You’ll see. You won’t be able to. You’re an outsider, just like me.”

Carrot was still troubled by what she’d said as he was proceeding down the last cobbles before Sator Square. He’d never thought of himself as being anything other than one of the common people, occasional uncommon events to the side. Angua said she enjoyed her outsider status, but he’d always taken that for making the best of a bitter pill.

But if he wasn’t as common as he thought, was her approach more honest and useful than his own?

He was certain that he was. He would verify it for himself while showing Angua. Sator Square would he a good place to start.

It only took him minutes to find what he needed. He’d seen Mr. Sobol’s son playing badly at football the day before. One look at the apple seller confirmed Carrot’s guess.

Mr. Sobol was a little over thirty, of medium height and a hard, light build. He worked all week gathering his product from his uncle’s orchards before bringing his bushels into town. He was a serious, honest man, and only survived in Ankh-Morpork even the length of market day by having sharp eyes and no compunctions about swinging the heavy, supple stick he kept behind his stall when provoked. His reserved expression lightened when Carrot greeted him.

”Oh. Hello, Captain Carrot. Would you like some of our red Quirms? Free of charge, of course.” His face was tanned, but he looked a bit pale underneath, and his “t’s” were sounding a bit like “d’s”. As Carrot haggled over what he would be allowed to pay for the tasty fruit, he watched the man’s nose. It was faintly red around the tip, and every few seconds he would flare his nostrils several times, then sniff.

Finally Carrot asked, “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Sobol?”

“Ahh, sorry. Just a bit under the weather.” With it acknowledged, he pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket and dabbed lightly at his nose. “My son’s always bringing these things home.”

His nose twitched again as he was rubbing it, and his eyes suddenly narrowed. He rubbed harder, then hastily ducked his head away from his display. He sucked air through his mouth in three little sibilant “hit” sounds before giving a quick “hit-eschtshuh!!” He sniffled apologetically and wiped his nose.

Before he could wipe his hands on his cleaning rag, Carrot paid him, touching his hands and making sure to give a coin that would require change.

He put them in his front pocket as he walked away. Taking out an apple, he kept switching it from hand to hand as he walked, making sure to finger the coins between every bite.

He thought he was off to a good start.

The eaves under the opera house provided another opportunity. It was a damp, drizzly day, and several street vendors had backed there from the road, desultorily calling out to the hurrying pedestrians.

Carrot walked along greeting them and refusing free merchandise (he hadn’t brought much money) until he came to Ferez Abol. The tall Klatchian smiled when Carrot greeted him, but he was otherwise occupied.

He had his hands cupped around his prominent nose and was sneezing fiercely through them. Carrot stopped as close as he could without intimidating the poor man and took slow, deep breaths through his nose. He thought he felt a slight tingle, but it might just be the chill.

When Abol had caught his breath, he shook his head and sniffled wetly, then proffered Carrot his right hand. Klatchian ideas about hygiene were different (the man wouldn’t have offered his left hand even if it were freshly boiled.)

He’d sneezed between his hands and toward the ground, and the Klatchians had no habit of hand-clasping, so it simply wasn’t an area where the man had any guidelines. “Captain Carrot, hello! Would you care for a fig? Very fresh, my brother brought the boat in yesterday morning.”

“You always have the best figs,” Carrot acknowledged, holding onto the hand as long as politely possible. “Will tuppence do for a bundle?”

“That’s much too generous! Here, for one-pence (since you will not accept a gift!), let me find a hand of the plumpest. Here, hee– hyee-! eeehyhh-!”

The sound was sudden and loud, sharp with irritation. He tugged his hand from Carrot and turned slightly away, the muscles around his eyes tightening as he seemed to will his nose still, his hands hovering before him, at the ready.

“A moment, Cap- Hhhyeeehh – ” His lips tightened to a line. “-ain Carrot – hhyehht’hhyehht’hhyehht – ” For another moment he held his face frozen, then Carrot saw a faint trembling at the arched bridge begin easing its way down. The reddened nostrils flared slightly, then again.

They gave a sudden, fierce twitch and Abol raised his hands to his face, cupping them loosely on either side. “Hyehtch!! Heeyehhtch!! Snnffehtchuh!! Snfhetch!! Snfhetch!!Hehhtchuh!! Hyehhtch – hyehhhtch!! Hyehhhuhehhtch -!-ehhtch -tshtch -tshtchtch!!! Snnffff -ahh! Huh.” The fierce, barely successful stifling had to be making his ears ring.

He shook his head and politely excused himself as Carrot blessed him. Carrot tried to hide his excitement. Even in the damp air the mist from the fierce expulsions had been visible, just at a height where he could bow his head and sniff deeply, and actually feel the moist droplets settling along and up and into his nose.

As Abol shook his head again, Carrot could see that his nose was still moving slightly, subtle flexes around the nostrils that were now an angry red.

He also noted the man hadn’t wiped his hands before reaching for the figs. As soon as the produce was passed over Carrot popped one into his month and began chewing very slowly.

Mr. Abol smiled at him through what was obviously an increasingly perilous discomfort and said, “Ah, it’s nice to see someone so enjoy the bounty of the homeland.”

Instantly guilty that his haste had been misinterpreted, Carrot repeated, swallowing, “You really do always have the best figs. Could I get another clutch for the fellows at the Watch house?”

“Of course! Let me – ah – a moment – ah hyih– devils take this itch – ehhhtchoo!!” His nostrils had been flaring wildly through the last half of that sentence, and Carrot silently complimented his self-control even as he bowed his head slightly in preparation to breathe in the cloud that was soon escaping from the cupped hands.

They were harsher this time, as if angry at having been prevented from escaping with their earlier siblings, and Abol’s attempts to minimize them were soundly unsuccessful.

“Hyehehhtshoo!! HyehtchTSHOO!! HhyehhhtchTSHOO – hyehtch!! Hih- heh- HyehhhtchTSHtssh – tchTSHH!! TshhtchTSHOO!!! Heh. Eh- heh- ” he panted for a moment, and Carrot breathed in deeply and rapidly, exhilarated that his attempt was going so well. He could feel the condensing vapor all through his nose, up into his sinuses.

He found himself glad he was getting so much exposure to Abol’s more sneezy cold, hoping the germs from this one would settle in deeply and overwhelm Mr. Sobol’s contribution, and didn’t notice what a strange thought it was.

Abol raised his head slightly, gasped a breath and gave a final, “Ah! Heh! Hehehheh- Hyehh! … Heh- hyeushhtshhuhhtshhtshhh!!HYEUTSHuh!!” He straightened, sniffling wetly, and Carrot quickly pressed the extra penny into his hand, with as much skin contact as possible. Abol smiled and began choosing figs.

Carrot noted the first one he touched, and took it for his sample.

Abol smiled, gratified, and wished him health as Carrot shook his hand again and proceeded on, sniffling carefully to avoid the loss of the most valuable thing the vendor had offered, a bit ashamedly hoping Abol’s gods weren’t listening.

In bed that morning, Angua didn’t ask any questions. He finally asked her, “How long does it take before you know if you’ve caught a cold?”

She stretched and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m not sure. A day or two, I think. Why? Have you decided to try to catch one?”

“It seems the easiest and least harmful thing, that would mean the least time away from my duties.”

“So you’re already decided?”

“I’m already trying.”

She gave him her slow, enigmatic grin again and kissed him before they settled down to sleep.

Angua had been increasingly curious about whether there really was something slightly more than human about Carrot. About a week ago she’d decided on what to put him up to that would satisfy that question with no way for her to lose.

They’d been in a granary down by the docks, and he’d suddenly stopped dead in front of her, darted a confused look around him, and given a single, quiet sneeze. And in the next moment-

She’d never seen him sneeze before. The effect had been unexpected and intense. She really, really, wanted to see him sneeze again, to watch and listen while he did it longer and harder and louder, and hopefully over and over again.

She’d dreamed about it, her imagination providing details, and woken up almost wild for his body. There was just something about his face, his expression, the way the muscles moved. There were places she wanted to put her hands while he sneezed. And if he couldn’t manage it, at least she’d know, and he might stop denying that he was something other than a perfectly ordinary human-shaped dwarf.

She’d noticed that he’d been touching his nose a lot ever since she’d broached the subject, as if he were trying to coax some proof from it on the spot. That time in the granary had been the one and only time she’d ever heard him sneeze.

She wondered if it might be the first time he ever had. It would definitely be the first time he’d had a cold. Somehow, her imagination could do even more with that bit of information. She took all those imaginings into sleep, and had very interesting dreams.

The next morning wasn’t so pleasant. For one thing, she was waking up. For another, she was much less pleasantly naked, with a stone wall at her back instead of Carrot’s warmth. There were also manacles involved.

~~tbc

[ladygallatea]

Omg I have been looking for this fic FOREVER!!