cold whump scenario where the caretaker has to save and quit out from a draft/project/piece of software to get their overworked sickie to get some rest. carefully finding their way through unfamiliar technology to save the work while the other protests, uncharacteristically emotional, highly symptomatic. googling how if they have to
my oc again, sick with a cold and reading a poem aloud about being sick with a cold. a bit about caretaking too.
cw: light mess | 800k words | pt III & IV on here, all parts on the forum
-
~New recording 171~
The recording starts with a soft shift. A heater hums in the background. He slouches over the desk, weary and warm, his brow shining with sweat. Next to the open book is a steaming mug of ginger tea.
His gaze falls over the selected text, and he straightens a little, clearing his throat. “*ak’hrrem! grmm!* Hi.” The word comes out flat, and he chuckles dryly, weakly. “I… *grmm!* I dod’t eved kdow, *sddrFh!* if… if by voice is loud edough, *kof, KOF!*” He breaks into an itchy, phlegmy cough, turning his head away from the desk. “…Gosh,” he mutters, his voice cracking. “Sorry. I, uh… *sddrff!* I have a bit of a cold. *hsdrffh!* Oh by goodness, *sDDRFF!*”
He hastily lifts the hanky clutched in his right hand, and folds it over his dripping nose for a long, liquid blow. Afterward, he’s still left sniffling, his voice very nasal but a touch clearer.
“A’d, ub… I thought I’d read a text that has beed… requested, mbultiple tibes… a’d I’b godda- euUGH’CHIEWW!!! heihh! hAED’SSCHIEWWwh!!! Ohh… Excuse be.” He rubs his nose with the hanky, breathing through the soreness aggravated by each desperate sneeze. “Ub… It’s called ‘The Apartbedt Id The Sky,” by Ebily Caroll. *sdrff*”
The dight after your plade took off
I lay alode id the empty loft.
The city below id e’dless *sddrff*… fehhst...tivities…”
The word becomes a breathy whisper, the vibrations of his speech teasing at his sensitive nose. The centre of his face is heavy with congestion. Sniffling adds to the precarious sensation, thick mucus shifting in his itchy, swollen nasal passages.
“…hih? *s-snnrffh* h-heih?? Ehh-“
His chest swells with a huge gasp as the urge to sneeze consumes him, and a wet, bursting expulsion soaks the damp handkerchief. “yYY’AASSCHHIUHHh!!!” Another gasp, and- “AAASSCHHIEWWw!!! -’AAASSCHhiew-!!” He groans softly, snuffling and gently wiping his face. His raw, chapped nostrils twinge against the drenched cloth. With one hand, he lowers the soiled hanky, and reaches for another on the side of the desk.
He sits there for a moment. Breathing carefully, letting a dazed feeling linger and slowly recede. The cloth is soaked through already, and he lowers it, drawing thick, soupy sniffles. The sneezy feeling lingers. Sniffling seems to interrupt it a bit, but his sinuses are aching. He absolutely needs to blow his nose. “Excuse be,” he exhales.
His hand moves toward the last handkerchief. With a sigh, he drops the soiled one in the hamper and folds the fresh one. Again, he blows his swollen, aching nose, making congested honks. He gently wipes his deeply flushed nose and sucks in a few sharp sniffles.
“So sorry,” he pants, a hoarse utterance. He lifts the corner of the hanky to dry his eyes. “*sngk*…*g’hmb…grmm!~* Where was I…”
“The city below id e’dless festivity, *ahemm!*
Up here I’d brood, a’d thigk of whed you’d visit be.”
He lifts a curled index finger and pushes his knuckle against his right nostril, as they both flared wide.
“Back whed by deadlides hu’g over- hD’JSCHIEWw-!! *snnnrk!* …by head…
…iehhh… HAAAESSCHHIUHhh!!! … oh…”
The ear-splitting sneeze shreds his throat, dropping his voice by a few decibels.
"Your voice warb id by ear, *ahem!* a’d the thi’gs that you’d said.
By head ablaze, mby speech udsou’d
Each ragged breath dryi’g mby mbouth
A’d id the hours of peace we’d fou’d
I’d sdeeze so hard I’d shake the grou’d.
But eved whed the hour was late
Sat up id bed, you’d touch by face
… *sdrff!*
A’d all the while, *koF!* I shook with- ESSCHHiuh!! -with ndoise, hihh?? huH’ESSCHHIUE-!! *sddrffh*
Your steady ha’d a’d tender voice…”
The heater hums in the back. A soft pause lingers, and he lifts the damp cloth to blow his nose. He emerges, eyes drooping, his pink nostrils still flexing with thick sniffles.
“*grm!* … *snnff*
A bag of ice to soothe by crowd
A pill and drigk to lay be dowd.”
A wet, phlegmy cough rises in his throat. He winces as a more violent, barking cough does the job of clearing it.
“The apartbedt sobewhere id the sky
Above the streets, us scrapi’g by.”
His shoulders rise and fall, laboured, as if he’d been journeying uphill on foot. The edges of the wet hanky pinched between his fingers. Still visibly clammy, feeling tempted to forget the text and zone out. Lay his head down on the cool surface of the desk. But only a little bit remained. He could finish it.
“*ah-he-hem!* *sdrfh!*
A bligki’g light to grace the dark
I’d thigk of days lo’g past the spark
A voice like yours to conjure whed
I lay udwell, alode id bed.”
There’s another quiet break at the end of it. He sniffles lightly, soft on the recording. Finally, he gently clears his throat and reaches toward his phone, lying face up on the desk.
happy pride to my fellow queer snzfuckers! i hope you all know that you’re sooo beautiful and sexy and loved, and that the world is a better place with you in it!
A bringing B along to the mall to try on and buy some new lingerie. going home and showing it off for B. ripping the plastic tag off, using it to induce wet, desperate sneezes. being dramatic and pathetic about it, loving how riled up B gets and their inability to hide it.
Guy who hasn't encountered any/very limited plant life due to living in some form of post-apocalyptic type circumstances (or something to that effect idk).
Eventually though the environment changes, and suddenly he's encountering plants of all kinds. It's a welcome change, except with plants comes pollen he's also never encountered, and he's about to find out what it feels like to be allergic the hard way.
Cue the most sudden, itchy, and violent sneezing fit he's ever had.
me at work: they just sneezed it’s a very regular occurrence. bless em.
my brain: dude someone sneezed at work today dude? hell yeah. my snutuals told me if i wait for things, like, good things will happen to me dude and fucking i waited for some things and someone sneezed at work today dude? hell yeah. so it just goes to show that waiting for things is, like, worth it. but there’s a lot of bad things in this world, dude. like fucking skunks dude? hell no. Scratching your eye, but it’s STILL fucking ITCHY dude?! HELL no 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞. The fucking CUBS, DUDE? HELL NO!! LIKE GETTING PAID NOT A LOT OF MONEY, DUDE?! FOR FUCKING WORKING?! HELL NO!!!! BUT OBSERVING A SNEEZE?! AT FUCKING WORK, DUDE?! HELL YEAH!!!!!! HELL YEAH, BRO!!!! HELL YEAH!! SNZ, BRO, AT FUCKING WORK, DUDE!!!! HELL YEAH!!
lol, so I usually have music on my earbuds when going to and from places so there’s softer details I miss out on with background noise. rn I’m in bed listening and it’s quiet and I finally made out this one lyric in a song that was always unclear (the artist took a while to post the lyrics for this album) and so the verse goes like this:
“she smiles and then hands me a mug
saying take this on the house and good luck to you now
but for christ sake will you bin that cologne,
cheap aftershave getting to my nose!”
hey! so a while ago I posted two chapters of a new post-apocalyptic story where Thomas, a scavenger from the quarantine zone, goes off route in a storm and finds Eve, a well known survivor sick and alone in a cathedral. there’s more lore behind the characters and world revealed here.
in this next chapter, the scavenger finds out that the leaders of the quarantine zones are looking to expand operations into the area where her cathedral is. meanwhile, she sits unaware, dealing with her worsening cold after having sent him away.
2.8k words
content: loud/messy snz, handkerchiefs, fever
cw: refs to alcoholism, religious themes
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Something didn’t feel right. No, it hadn’t for a while. The survivor, ill and sweating, sat up against the altar. Strands of her hair stuck to her clammy forehead. The flicker of the candles made the dim hall seem like it was shaking. Each breath felt heavy, dragging through the tightness in her chest. Her face shone with perspiration when the dim light hit it.
About three feet away from her was the sealed plastic bottle of water that the scavenger had left. A dull pain had been sharpening, carving away inside her skull. She cried out in frustration - in the only way a person as sick and weak as her could. Barely any voice there, the noise fraying with a wheeze that hurt her throat. Still somehow finding a way to echo slightly inside the empty church.
She drew a liquid, whistly sniffle, and exhaled through parted lips. Stuffed in the left pocket of her big black hoodie was the rag that the Danton scavenger had tossed her. Soiled now. Too exhausted and bogged down by headache to move, she’d resorted to snorting, sniffling, and wiping her nose on her sleeve. It was sore and chapped around the rims of her nostrils, running endlessly. As red as the choir gown she’d draped over her shoulders for warmth. There were more pieces of cloth in the bag, which was still where he’d left it - opposite the single bottle of water, unzipped and gaping like a cornucopia.
Despite the large choir gown cloaked over her hoodie, she was trembling. How, she didn’t understand. She was so warm. But freezing, at the same time. Her nose ached. All the touching and wiping, all the damned sneezing. Each drippy sniffle drew in cold, icy air, and slashed at her sore nasal membranes, triggering a reflex that she was all too fatigued to resist.
She heaved some panting breaths, her mouth dry. Grimy. Her eyelids fluttered as a- “-yY’AASCHH!!iuhh-“ -ticklish third hit her, and following a chest-swelling inhale- “hihhH?? ieEEY’AASSCHHIUHhh!!! .. *hsnnrk!* … g’uhh….”
Near her on the ground was the empty bottle of wine on its side. She closed her eyes and drew some thick snuffles, then some longer breaths. When her eyes opened again, they slowly fixed on the sealed bottle of water.
⟣⟣᛭⟢⟢
The pointiest building that the scavenger had seen was the museum in Hellenville, about two hours southwest of Danton. It was at the end of a strip of what were once high end shops, near the university named for the city. He was originally stationed there, until he heard that they were seeking people who could teach reading and writing. The professors that he’d met in the downtown area weren’t keen on moving if they didn’t have to. There was something morbid to him about remaining somewhere he’d moved to for its riches and individuality, only to watch it crumble at the end of the world. In the Danton suburbs, there were ghosts, but he hadn’t known them or dreamed about them.
He hadn’t taught in a few months, on account of an influx of capable young educators and aging leaders who insisted he was scavenger material. Day to day, it was one purpose after another. There was a certain satisfaction to it. There were rules. When they were lucky, he was given a share, and when they weren’t, it gave him more reason to move and put his body to use.
The museum was a combination of contrasting architectural styles. The eastern facade was built from red brick and concrete. There was a staircase that spanned most of the side facing the street. On the north side of the building was a jagged protrusion that stuck out in an abstract crystal-shaped formation, its window panes in odd quadrilaterals and triangles. Thomas had seen it in all its sun-catching glory pre-virus. When he left to go further north, it was a rigid spiderweb of steel. The building was repurposed for storage. The artifacts - a mixed bag of fates, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
He parked the van outside the canteen across the street. He noted that he’d need more than just the layer of his canvas jacket in the next few days, as the temperature continued to drop. The canteen was emptier than he’d remembered it being when he’d last been there. It was too early for lunch. Becca still worked the counter. She was scraping biscuits from a tray into a metal vat, as other savoury-smelling dishes cooked in the ovens.
“Hey there, stranger,” she smiled as he came up to the counter. She had new tattoos added to the patchwork along her left arm, flowers and insects and a two-headed calf. “What brings you back to Hell-ville?”
“Delivering goods,” he leaned on the counter and eyed the freshly baked biscuits. “How have things been around here?”
“Oh, you know,” she sighed, straightening. She grabbed a pair of tongs and put two biscuits on a plate for him. “It’s like before times. Construction everywhere. New ways to get around,” She pushed the scratched dish across the counter to him. “New eye sores to avoid on the way to work for the rest of our lives.”
“Ah, the new cross town,” the scavenger smirked bitterly. “Thank you very much.”
As he lifted a biscuit, Becca leaned her folded arms on the counter. “And not just eye sores. Music, my love. Steel drums to attract the masses, every hour of the day.”
“Oh?” He frowned, chewing a salty mouthful of flour, butter, and milk. It was a sad, homecoming taste. “What happened to walkable cities?”
“Turns out the end of the world is boring.”
The notion of transit being built within quarantine zones was interesting, a bit difficult to believe. Entirely plausible though, given Hellenville’s reputation for a constantly developing transit, but satirically funny to be doing at this point, with the presence of noise-drawn infected. Thomas put the last bite of the first biscuit in his mouth and brushed the crumbs off his hands.
“So,” Becca exhaled, straightening and leaning her hands on the counter’s edge. “You really just here on business?”
He connected her gaze, taking a slow breath. “I, uh, *ahem!*…” He leaned one forearm on the counter. “I hear the city’s expanding the routes?”
“Ah, Mr. Nomad,” Becca’s fingers folded onto her palm, still fanciful without the acrylic nails. “Yeah. They’re saying West York. Northbound as far as Bay… Mackenzie.”
Thomas searched her expression. Becca used to wear a full face of makeup. Today she only wore eyeliner, maybe some smudged grey shadow.
“Do they have any maps? Or, did they show any?”
“Well,” she frowned thoughtfully. “Nothing posted, but- here.” She pulled a brown bag from under the counter, and the marker attached to the whiteboard on the wall. She uncapped it and started to sketch lines, roadways. “They want to find out who still lives in the area. They’re scouting areas to plant more crops, maybe find possible places to create more residences.” Becca drew lines that were familiar. Thomas narrowed his eyes at them.
“When was this announced?”
“Uhh, around this time last week? Why?”
Thomas picked up the paper bag sketch, and paused, blinking. He let out a breath. “I’ve just been missing out, it seems. Thank you, Becca, it’s always a pleasure seeing you. Cool tattoos,” he started to make his way to the exit.
“Hey wait!” He stopped. She grabbed another paper bag, and threw his uneaten biscuit and a few more into it. She folded it closed and made a toss motion. “Catch.”
He made the Hail Mary. “Thank you. Take care, alright?”
-
Despite the precautions and mandates rolled out during the beginning of the outbreak, Mackenzie was said to have some hot zones. Devastating, quiet in the years after. That was why it had remained more or less untouched. The scavenger had heard of a rebel group called the Roots that took the lives of two Hellenville city workers while they were trying to relocate people for virus precautions. That was years ago. Mackenzie had been left off the routes for all of his time as a scavenger for the city, and he’d had no particular interest in trespassing on Roots’ land.
At the rate the city developments were being made, he wondered how much time he had before they started expanding north. First, they had to scope out the area. They’d take the clusters of chain stores, whether or not they were occupied. They’d take the schools, the churches.
“It’s a new day, Tom,” Charles Baker, his supervisor, sighed, turning in his office chair. “You know how people are dying to find an ounce of control- of normal.”
“Normal?”
“They say it’s about time we pick back up and start mass producing where we can. Crops. Livestock. The space is all there. We can better provide for our people.”
“What about the Roots?”
“Roots?” Charles repeated.
“And the locals. Don’t they still live there, outside of Hellenville? They own the farms.”
“That’s why we’re scouting there next,” Charles’ icy blue eyes stared at Thomas with intent. “We’ve been ordered to find them, ask them if they need help.”
“Right.” As always. “And if they don’t?”
“Thomas,” the older man began lightly. “You sound concerned. I was worried something had happened when you got separated from us on the freeway.”
The scavenger shook his head, suddenly aware of how stiff he felt. “It’s - been a long week.” He met the eyes of his supervisor. “I should go lay down or something,” he said, starting to turn and leave.
“Hey Tom,” Charles called to him casually, making him stop. “Don’t be late tomorrow morning, eh? Work to be done.”
The scavenger nodded. “Right.”
He headed down the hall and down a flight of steps, his feet rushing. The office of his supervisor was located in a large repurposed community centre, which housed a good number of scavengers and defensemen, many of them partnered with children. They’d told him all about Danton before the virus outbreak, treated him like a twenty-something away from home at college.
He’d still have enough gas in his bike. Perhaps he could nab more supplies. He had to get moving.
The ill survivor sat a few feet in front of the altar, crosslegged, shoulders hunched and heaving with slow, weak breaths. Her ashy brown hair fell before her eyes, which were bleary and unfocused. Again, she drew a thick sniffle, and slowly lifted her chin.
“….hehhh? eih’- hihh! hh’EH’-!?” Her whole body tensed, her brow furrowing with desperation, then finally came the exhale before the punching release that- “-ohhh… *snnnrff*” Didn’t come.
The pinch in her brow released again, and she lowered her chin, sniffling thickly. She lifted the cuff of her hoodie, drawing more drippy sniffles, rubbing at her sore, raw nostrils. She rubbed harder, letting the friction sting, letting it add to the pressure and irritation of her fiery hot nose. She stopped, her breath pausing, eyelids fluttering shut.
“ha… ah? h-hehhHh?? HaAH’YESSCHHIUHHhh!!!”
Pain, and echoing ripples of sound. Moisture oozing, trickling down her lips, her chin, and quick efforts to sniffle back the mess. Pounding in her head, a new rawness in her throat. More sniffling. Oh god.
“*sddrff* … *snddrfff~*”
She turned her body, hands balancing beneath her on the floor. Wincing, she gathered the effort to move towards the duffel bag on the other side of the sanctuary. Slowly. “*hsnnnrff* *koF, sndrff*” Pathetically.
Her fingers grabbed at a warm blanket peeking from one side of the open bag, and dragged it out. She hastily laid it over her lap, coughing as her throat itched with phlegm. She then reached for the pile of various cloths- face towels, dish towels, and retrieved a couple. One made of faded blue terry cloth, the other a yellow dish cloth.
She folded the blue face towel and lifted it to blow her nose. In the middle of it, she winced, and- “aaAAESSCHHIOO-!!!” sneezed violently, so forcefully that it left her sore sinuses aching. A soft groan was muffled by the cloth, followed by some slow breaths as she massaged it against her nose.
The blanket was nice. She stuffed her hoodie pockets with the yellow dish cloth and three other soft rags from the bag. Then, she took a water bottle and slipped it into a pocket on her dress. She gathered the warm blanket with her other hand and carried it as she rose uneasily to her feet. Her free hand came up to rest heavily on the edge of the pulpit. Slowly, she shuffled over behind the altar, and sank to her knees. Shifting, she sat on the floor, on the nest of choir gowns. Her weakened body slumped against the carved wood of the altar. She began to unfold the blanket, spreading it over her legs.
The edges of the water bottle cap were rough under her fingertips. The curved plastic of the bottle was cool to the touch. Her eyelids fell shut, and she sighed. Damn it. Her chest expanded with a wheezy breath, and she glanced down - her brow crumpling. Then glanced up.
Above the Eucharist and the dusty, weathered chairs were the great stained glass windows. At the top, a pointed arch, within the curves in an aster-like arrangement. In the middle of the tall rectangular window sections was a cross with one on either side. Untouched, unlike the other intricate stained glass windows that used to line the cathedral hall, now boarded-up holes. Sharp pieces of the art were now attached to the chandeliers, collected and set aside for practical use.
The structure had potential for better security. To an escape artist, it seemed to matter less. And that had kept on a steady decline as she’d fallen more ill. A place that was once sacred, and an arrogant, reckless drunk to sharpen everything.
She touched the dragonfly brooch pinned to her dress, the pocket at her stomach. Some of the rhinestones on its wings were missing. ‘That wasn’t very smart of you’, she could hear Diana’s voice in her head, flat and stern. ‘Go ahead. You’ve done it before. The least you can do is not let these items go to waste.’ A pain seared in her forehead. ‘So be it. Do what you like.’
Eve yanked the bottled water from her pocket. The seal cracked as she twisted the cap, droplets spilling on her hands. She tilted the bottle up, drank thirstily, urgently - and lowered it with a huff. She sniffled thickly, and set the bottle down on the floor. Moisture glinted in her eyes. A tight grimace, and release. The heaviness in her head was slowly lightening.
She lay down beneath the multicoloured stained glass, in the nest of choir gowns, her fingers pulling the warm blanket over her body.
Outside, there was a wooden clatter. A clumsy banging. She groaned and shut her eyes, burying her face into rumpled polyester. Bare bones security, but enough, as far as bumbling infected were concerned. Doors and windows boarded up. Ropes and shards. Sharp objects.
Strength determines how powerful your sneeze is. Not necessarily how loud it is, but how strong; how intense; how desperate your sneezes are.
Dexterity is how quickly you can react to a sneeze, obviously--how quickly you cover, stick a finger under your nose, get a tissue or cloth out, whatever. Also determines how well you can do things while sneezing (like getting a tissue out).
Constitution is how well you can hold back a sneeze. Determines how sensitive you are to different potential irritants, and obviously how good your immune system is. Also how well you can handle illness, of course.
Intelligence is understanding how sneezing works, on terms of mechanical action. It's also a measure of your proficiency for inducing--how much you know about making somebody sneeze (whether yourself or someone else). Understanding how the immune system works, and knowing ways to strengthen and weaken it. Intelligence is knowing that sneezing into your hand spreads disease. Intelligence is knowing that holding a sneeze in is bad for you.
Wisdom is knowing that sneezing into your hand is gross, and that holding in a sneeze sucks. Wisdom is putting two and two together that that facial expression means they have to sneeze. Wisdom is clueing into the fact that one of your companions is sick before they do. Wisdom is hearing somebody sneeze and noticing something unusual about it, like that they're sneezing with more intensity when they get near a certain flower, or that they're especially desperate today. As much as intelligence is know-how for inducing, wisdom is intuition. Wisdom guides you, informs you what areas tickle more and gives you a feel for making someone sneeze.
Charisma is the ability to play off a sneeze; to explain your symptoms away as nothing; to convince others you are fine when you are not. To intimidate your companions into not daring to make light of your illness. To make your sneeze sound cuter, or louder, more obnoxious, quieter, etc. To convince others to take care of you while sick.
stepping out for fresh air on the back porch at dusk, crowded with burnt smells of exhaust and tobacco and barbecue. sugary perfume under my jawline, and the pungent scent of cut grass, earth and flora, spread far and wide by the wind. a fruity bubbly drink in a plastic goblet that makes your nose crinkle whenever you take a sip.
not yet or ever running out of bless yous, offering you the hem of my long skirt where wet spots will totally show up darker. all convention aside, it is much softer than napkin or paper towel.
hey 😎 so I started this some months back and now the snow is gone, but. someone on here posted a prompt about snow shovelling and I've finally gotten around to finishing it. featuring my guys Jonah and Lily. xx
2.2k words / light mess
-
It was dark when Lily found Jonah in the upstairs office, asleep in his desk chair. The screensaver casted bright shades of blue and green over his hunched form. Mountains, he interpreted them to be. Lily thought they looked like waves. When he awoke, still blinking in liminal grogginess at the screen, he was starting to think she might have had the closer guess.
“The driveway’s still not shovelled,” she was saying. “Mrs. Townsend said her son hasn’t been able to drive up from work.” Jonah turned in the chair, yawning. “Look at her car,” Lily was picking up papers she’d left on her desk, lining them up by letting the bottom edges fall on the desktop.
The air smelled of Lily’s cooking. The office window looked upon the snowy neighbourhood. The royal blue Honda had drawn parallel lines in the thick blank white canvas, covered in a thin shawl of powdery snow. Next to it, was the shape of their neighbours’ sedan, which looked like a minimalist cake with a lazily spread generous dollop of white frosting.
Jonah rose, groaning softly as he stretched. “I’ll go down,” he said in a low rasp, and kissed Lily on the forehead.
“Have some dinner first,” she called, as he made his way to the stairs.
Jonah coughed to clear his throat. It was longer and rougher than he’d planned. He paused at the top of the stairs, gently thumping his chest with a fist. “When I come in, I will.”
“Sweetheart,” Lily went to the banister as Jonah’s heavy footsteps descended the stairs. “Wear more than that, okay?” As he stepped into his boots, he glanced up at her from the foyer. “Wear a scarf.”
Jonah stooped to pull his boots on properly. “Not a scarf fan,” he breathed.
“I know, but,” Lily came down and sat on the third step. “It’s minus six. And you’re,”
“Yeah?”
“You’re catching something. I can tell.”
Jonah peeked over at her, then let his gaze fall. He put his arms through the sleeves of his black winter jacket. In the mirror, his hair was falling out of the bun he’d done up earlier. He reached up to fix it. Half facing away from her, doing up the zipper, his gaze flickered in her direction. Her fidgeting hands. The crease in her forehead.
“I won’t be long,” he said gently, and came over to the stairs, reaching a hand to touch her face. He kissed the top of her head, and gently mussed her hair.
“Hey!” she giggled, catching the smile he flashed over his shoulder. “A scarf, Jonah.”
“I don’t-“ he began, and sighed. “I don’t like how they feel.” Before she could interject, he popped up his hood, the faux fur forming a lion’s mane around his face. “Look,” he said, doing the Velcro at his chin.
“Back in a jiff, alright?”
Lily tilted her head, still staring with the same care in her eyes. Jonah opened the door to the garage. He still felt her eyes on him as he stepped through the door and into the garage, the frigid chamber between the house’s warmth and the bitter cold.
With the door shut, he cleared his throat again, allowing himself to sniffle as he took the sturdiest of three snow shovels down from the wall. Its metal scoop clattered gently as he rested it on the ground.
“*snnrff!* *’hem!*” He pulled his hood down. It didn’t feel that cold to him, but that could’ve been the harbour of the garage. “*snf!*” He felt his pockets for tissue. There was a thin, clean handkerchief he’d left in his jacket pocket. No tissues on him, though. "...*snrf*"
Well. He’d make sure to not be too long.
With the push of a button, the garage door began to lift open, the mechanism groaning through the slow process. The truth was, that evening he’d planned to work on his current project for a couple of hours and then shovel before Lily finished making dinner. He began pushing the soft snow from the edge of the garage opening towards the snowbank on their lawn. His voice had been partly absent as well, and he’d told her he’d been giving his all at rehearsals. A louder song, that could ease the deep set anger in his body towards powers in the world, things he couldn’t directly change but indeed could write and sing about.
He chipped away at ice buildup on the driveway, pausing at a hard, stubborn patch. A bout of coughs burst from him. The frigid air was unforgiving. He rested one hand on the shovel, snuffling thickly, ungloving one hand to search his pockets. He turned his back to the street, coughing and sniffling.
“*grmmm… sndrff! ah-hem…*”
He fished the handkerchief out of his pocket, and used it to wipe under his runny nose. A sudden frigid wind swept by, causing an involuntary shudder in his shoulders. He snuffled and pocketed the hanky, then put his gloves back on.
He took up the shovel with both hands and started to continue past the icy patch. The wind blew again. He drew a sharp, liquid sniffle, and coughed. As he drove the shovel through more snow, a combination of icy cold and pressure spread in his runny nose. He kept sniffling, stopping as he felt the moisture run down to his lips.
He stood there with a narrow-eyed frown, pulling off his gloves again. Before he could, the cold pressure in his nose transformed into a ticklish twinge, and his face scrunched up. His head gave a small shake as he ducked into his elbow.
“hhih-! huUd’EISSCHHh!!-ohh, *snnrk! snnrff*….”
One of his gloves fell from under his other arm onto the asphalt as he pulled out the thin handkerchief again. The air was damn cold, every sniffle was a risk to his sensitive nose.
“hheh… hrr’ISSCHIUE-!!” he muffled a ticklish second into the hanky, and blew his nose. The cloth was already damp against his fingers, and his nose still felt ticklish, endlessly runny. “*snff*…”
Jonah bent to pick up his glove - ouch, which he shouldn’t have - and went back to pushing snow, revealing the black asphalt beneath the white pillowy covering. He’d resorted to drawing noisy, liquid sniffles, the damp hanky tucked in his jacket pocket. He could feel his nose really running now, his upper lip actually starting to sting with the saltiness. But he was almost finished. The snowfall hadn’t been too heavy, and he’d managed to clear most of their driveway and Mrs Townsend’s, too.
“*hsnnrff*…” All the sniffling was beginning to tickle. “*snrff*” The cold air was sharp, aggravating the soreness in his nose and throat. He paused and leaned his hands on the shovel, sniffling again, having no time to pull out the hanky before the irritation overwhelmed him. “yY’AAESSCHHIUHh!!!” Ouch. That was loud, he thought to himself, sniffling gently, removing his glove to retrieve the handkerchief. Which was still damp as he- “haAASSCHHIEW!!” -messily sneezed into it, wincing a little as the wet fibres touched his sensitive nose.
Jonah sighed softly and drew a thick sniffle. He folded and unfolded the cloth, trying not to sneeze before he blew his nose. He buried it in the cloth and gave a brief, soaking blow.
Oh gosh, he thought, sighing inwardly. The urge to sneeze was still lingering, the chilly air freezing his pink nose, the congestion setting in like a proper cold.
“nghh…” Jonah felt his nose growing stuffy again, and a reflective hitch in his breath. “*sDDRFF!*” Not yet. He wasn’t finished yet.
Jonah tossed another scoopful of snow onto the snowbank, and walked back to the start of his shovelling tracks. A few metres behind Mrs Townsend’s car, next to a young tree planted near the street. Panting, he began pushing the next line of snow towards the snowbank. Second to last, he thought.
“*snnrff!**ak’hmm!*-*h’koFf-!!*”
Jonah’s panting, wheezing breaths tangled into a fit of coughing, which hurt his throat and let his ailing nose stream. He leaned on the shovel, gasping for breath. The coughing slowed, but the freezing air made his throat itch, triggering smaller bouts of coughs. When it was over, he stood there for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He drew a marshy sniffle- slowly, his nose still easily irritated by the cold. Breathing slowly, he glanced around at the driveway, at the small pile of snow at his feet. He repositioned the shovel, picked up the pile, and launched it onto the snowbank.
When the last bit of snow was moved, Jonah trekked back up the driveway. He took weary breaths through his mouth, eager to slip into the bathroom, to blow his nose. It was warmer inside the garage.
“*snnrk!* hehh… hih-!” Jonah pressed the button on the wall, and the garage door mechanism hummed loudly as it closed, drowning out three violent, spraying sneezes that he hardly had the strength to hold back any longer.
The humming of the machinery ended as the garage door fully closed. Jonah’s hands were on his knees. His nose dripped onto the dusty floor, his eyes as well. He fumbled dizzily in his jacket for the handkerchief, which was already sopping wet. His eyelids fluttered, his nasal membranes itching with the amount of mucus flooding the sensitive passages. God’s sakes… He lifted the wet handkerchief.
“heEigh’TCHIEWWh!!! *sddrf, sdrf*” Jonah straightened, wiping his nose, and started towards the door to the foyer. He sniffled hard and tried his best to clean his face before entering, in case Lily was there.
When he opened the door, the foyer was empty. The door closed with a thump, as it always did, no matter the force. Jonah stopped for a quiet beat, then began to remove his jacket.
“Jo?” Lily called from the living room.
“Hey,” he responded weakly.
“Come eat,” she said.
“Okay. *sdf* Just- give mbe a sec.”
Lily was rewatching an old Netflix series they’d binged at the end of their university days, a cheesy sexy drama about the devil and his residence among humans on earth. She heard Jonah shuffling around in the foyer, hanging his coat, removing his winter boots. All with a notable haste, she might have thought. She heard the bathroom door squeak shut. The faucet turned on. Faintly, she could hear him blowing his nose. Long and wet, until it became a honking sound. The faucet turned off, and he cleared his throat, the battered and congested sound a bare marker of illness.
The light was on in the dining room, and in the middle of the table was a covered red ceramic pot. He turned to see Lily in the doorway of the living room. She came nearer and rubbed his back, then brought his attention to a mug on his placemat.
"I made you tea,” she said with a gentle grin.
“Thagk- *hsdf, grmm!* Thagk you,” he breathed, his gaze flitting away timidly.
“Here, sit down,” Lily pulled out his usual chair at the table. As he did, she whisked into the kitchen. She came back with a glass and the half-full blister pack of cold and flu pills that had been sitting in their cupboard. “Have two of these, okay?”
“Thagk you,” Jonah said again, staring at her softly as she found the water pitcher and filled the glass.
“You‘re welcome,” she mumbled and leaned nearer to kiss the top of his head.
As Jonah popped out the pills and downed them with the water, Lily removed the lid of the ceramic pot. Steam and delicious smells billowed into the air. She began ladling chicken noodle soup into bowls, sliding one onto Jonah’s placemat and another onto the one next to his.
“Thank you for shovelling,” Lily started to say, picking up her spoon.
Jonah drew a wet sniffle, a hot wisp of steam swirling at his ticklish nose. He turned his chin and wrinkled his nose.
“Whenever I see that woman, she’s always stressed,” Lily went on. She paused. “Oh. Here-“
“uUH’TDSCHHh!!! -nguhh…” He’d tried to smother it against the back of his hand, and raised his head slowly, sniffling back the mess.
“Bless.” Lily produced a clean handkerchief, a thicker, softer fabric than the one in his jacket.
“Thadks,” Jonah lifted it and blew his nose. He gave firm rub under his flushed nostrils as he emerged. “Yeah, it's ndothing. *sdrf!* I dod’t thigk Patrick’s able to drop thi’gs at the mbomedt, with…" His brow pinched, and he turned. "hehH-! hUH’dt’-!! -ohh… by gosh. *sddrff!* Sorry, I, *sdrff!*” Jonah rubbed his squirming nostrils with the folded cloth, sniffling hard. “Lost it.”
“It’s okay,” Lily laughed softly, and reached out to touch his shoulder.
His expression started to crumple again, and he turned his chin again, breath shivering. “h-hihh… hih!! HeEEISSCHHIEWWw!!! -Jesus, fidally, *snnrk!*”
“God bless you,” Lily cooed, giving his shoulder a small stroke before giving him space.
Jonah sighed and turned away to blow his nose again. Still gurgly and wet, heavy. “Pardod mbe. Wow.”
Slowly, Lily reached out her hand. The back of her fingers brushed his temple, and there was warmth - ambiguous as far as fevers were concerned, but enough that she knew she had further orders for him.
“The holidays have probably got hib swabped,” Jonah croaked. He lifted a spoonful of soup and blew on it gently.
Lily stared a second longer, then let out the breath she’d been holding in a quiet sigh. She turned to her own steaming bowl of soup, cut up carrots and shredded chicken and bow tie pasta. As Jonah slurped the broth, she began collecting pieces of veggies with her spoon.
They were originally headed towards the back, in the direction of the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall, but something unspoken and exciting had them stumbling into the storage room. A was curling with another wrenching, allergic pair of sneezes, while B was gently moving back their hair, kissing along their neck up to the ear. A leaned their head back and chuckled breathlessly, putting out their hands to stop things from being shaken off the shelves.
“—haAAT’SCHIUH-!! huh-! hUTsz’CHIEWWh!! Oh mby gosh-“ A box of wooden utensils fell from the shelf, rattling onto the floor. B laughs and pauses. “You are not real,” A whispers. They put a hand on the side of B’s face. “A thing for sneezes?”
B smiles wide, going red in the face. Their head bows and they press their forehead into A’s shoulder. They feel the expanding of A’s chest as they draw a deep gasp, and the shudder of a sneeze more monstrous than the ones before, “—hhED’zZZSCHHIEWWw!!!” -aimed freely off to the side.
B’s fingers gripped the shelf as A’s back jerked against it, and a package of paper takeout containers tumbled to the floor.
“Jesus, bless you…”
“This caddot be saditary, *hsnff*” A muttered.
“Here,” B reached over A’s shoulder to retrieve a white cube from the shelf, plastic crinkling in their ear. “Napkins.”
