Soap

27 // they/them // 18+ please and thanks - DO NOT REBLOG TO NON KINK ACCOUNTS // new to snzblr // i write! // nsfw possible

[sniffly-soap]

Hello! Call me Soap.

Cold/flu, mess, contagion, buildup is my bread and butter

I like making fictional characters miserable! A few things I've written for - M/P100, H/aikyuu, A/ce A/ttorney, S/tar T/rek, D/CU, Y/uri on Ice.

I am very happy to take writing requests!

I'm a bit shy, but happy to meet you all!

Please, please, if you are a minor - DNI. Engaging with adults in kink spaces isn't safe or appropriate. I will block accounts that I suspect are not run by adults.

Tag shortcuts - #my writing

[bestwhumpist]

covenant of salt

witch hat atelier ✧ 6.5k words

series tags: canon-compliant, no explicit spoilers but be careful if you aren’t caught up to chapter 93 sf tags: character with kink, common cold, fever, handkerchiefs, bless you complex other tags: voyeurism, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, desperate pining, doctor stuff, in-universe sociopolitical issues mentioned, unreliable narrator lol notes: shout out to all the horny people saying qifrey seems like he’d have some crossed wires aka giving me permission to bestow my fetish upon him <3

✵☆✧✵✧☆✵

Word spreads fast among witch society, especially in the Great Hall. The isolation and strict rules make them all bored and restless, which in turn makes them eager to exchange new information with disproportionate immediacy. The more mundane, the better.

This week’s symposium should be rich with opportunities for gossip, given the volume of attendees from across several continents eager to chatter about their collaborative efforts and innovations, not unlike a worse, restrictive version of Silver Eve held entirely underwater. But rather than anything relevant or consequential to the world of magic and all of its ongoing, upcoming changes, the hottest news gripping every witch under the sea is that Olruggio has caught a cold. 

Which is really none of their business.

All it takes is an offhand mention at the start of the welcome banquet, an offhanded apology to one of his patrons and a warning not to get too close, and everyone he’s ever met is suddenly very interested in how Olruggio is feeling and how hard he must be working and whether they can get him anything for his throat or sinuses. They’d love that, wouldn’t they, thinks Qifrey each time Olruggio declines. Residents of the Hall are always trying their damndest to take a bite out of him.

It’s hard to watch even on a good day. Olruggio can’t seem to help engaging patiently, which means his trips and conversations take forever unless someone gives him an out. He’s lucky to take a few steps before some client or admirer approaches him to talk about some non-urgent personal trivia. Qifrey would go insane. He’s already going insane from his spot on the periphery, extenuating circumstances aside. 

“Just a few days,” Olruggio is telling somebody who asks how long he’s been sick. He bows his head to cough into his fist, looking tired from so much of everyone patting and pulling and making him shout against his sore throat just to hear him shrink from their compliments and make small talk. “Somethin’ going around, I think. Assumed I could fight it off ’til after all this, but…”

Olruggio pauses. From too far away, Qifrey braces himself and watches Olruggio squint against the most devastating symptom of all. 

“RGXZSHHHhuh…”

Because despite all of his suffering, Olruggio sounds so, so lovely when he does that.

As the stranger at the table begins to dote on Olruggio with concern and commentary, Qifrey struggles with forbidden arousal and the sad sympathetic fondness he’s used to feeling whenever Olruggio has to work through a cold. It’s all too much for him to feel at once, in public, out of his element when he can’t do a thing to help either of them.

“HGZTSHU!”

While Qifrey has contended with knowing he wouldn’t be able to interact with Olruggio’s sneezing every time, he’s still taken by the sight of him nearby: Olruggio with his arm bent and posture twisted, bashfully unable to control the means of which his cold displays itself. Nobody around him seems to mind at all; in fact, the person he’s talking to only moves closer to touch his arm and bless him again.

“You poor thing,” they’re saying as Olruggio, still bent away to the side, sniffles against his wrist. Did he even bring a handkerchief? Or has he already run out of clean ones? “Sounds like you could do with a good night’s sleep. And a hot drink made with… with, oh, what’s it called? The medical spire has those little herbs on hand sometimes, the white and green ones…?”

It’s millflower, and Qifrey has been serving its tea to Olruggio all week.

“Dunno. I’ll give it a mention if I stop by,” is Olruggio’s hoarse response, comparatively mellow and polite. “You’d do well to pick some up for yourself.”

“Oh, no, I have plenty! You know, we wouldn’t mind bringing some down to your rooms. You’re staying at the castle with your apprentices tonight, aren’t you?”

“They aren’t technically my apprentices. My friend, Qifrey…”

Qifrey takes his cue to tune the conversation out. He can’t handle hearing Olruggio talk about him while sounding stuffy and sweet like that, especially not to one of the many witches in the vicinity who would just love to devour him whole. It’s too much for Qifrey to think about, even privately, so it’s best he hears as little as possible.

He surfs through the blurry clusters of his peers standing in his path to the nearest open doorway, placidly excusing himself with an occasional modest wave at those he does remember. Only a moment goes by before he’s nearly escaped, and Qifrey is one step away before he receives an irresistible summons.

“Oi! Qifrey!” Olruggio is using what must be the last of his voice, just to call out to him. “Quit avoiding us, will you?”

How ridiculous to think he’d ever be able to sneak away from Olruggio.

Once Qifrey makes eye contact and smiles to confirm he’ll make his way back, Olruggio returns a satisfied nod and then bends down to cough. Even drained and subdued, his commanding friendliness manages to soar right into Qifrey’s center.

Olruggio is still getting his voice back when Qifrey gets there, not because it’s gone on for long but because he’d only been a couple tables away. Strange how even a pinch of despair can make such little space seem like treacherous expanses of land.

“Here, Olly.” The handkerchief Qifrey pulls from his pocket is still warm from his own body heat. He passes it to Olruggio before greeting his not-companion. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, but I’ve heard plenty about you!” Unlike Olruggio, this person’s friendliness is shrill. Qifrey is careful not to wince as he takes a seat. “You live somewhere in the countryside, don’t you? You’re a teacher?”

An easy question that prompts a natural smile. “For a few years now. I’ve got four apprentices at the moment.”

“Yes, yes, Olruggio was telling me you’re very good with them.”

It’s not easy to concentrate with Olruggio making these little squeaky snuffling sounds and breathing through his mouth between them. Qifrey is about to fluster him in return with a comment about his kind words, but he devolves from distracted to speechless when Olruggio turns his way and sneezes clumsily beneath his sleeve.

“HAH’GZSHHiU!”

“Bless you,” Qifrey says with an immediate hand on Olruggio’s shoulder, steadying and reassuring, smoothing out a shiver as he recovers. “My goodness, Olly, your poor throat.”

The handkerchief is belatedly put to use as a shield and then as a mop, with Olruggio only straightening up once the thing has nearly gone translucent.

“I know, I know,” he mutters with a gruff swipe of cloth against the skin under his nose. “’S fine. Scuse me.”

“Cold’s got you good, hasn’t it, dear?” says his acquaintance, as though they’re stuck on the topic. How embarrassing, how sexy, how awful, terrible, delightful. Against Qifrey’s recommendation, Olruggio evades having to keep talking about it by calling over a server to top off his chalice with wine.

As the evening continues, Qifrey watches Olruggio’s symptoms progress upward in an inevitable quest to settle right in the middle of his face. That’s how it always goes for him, with chills and a sore throat leading to the congestion setting in for a day or so, and then all of the sneezing starts and compromises them both.

It looks like he’ll be in the thick of it tomorrow, when everything overlaps miserably. Qifrey won’t have a choice but to ride through it with him, collapsing within himself over and over, unable to desensitise himself to Olruggio no matter how much of him he experiences. He’s not sure if it’s worse that they’re together this time, or if he’d be better off not having to watch the swarm of strangers putting their hands all over Olruggio and asking him for a dance.

At Olruggio’s request, the two of them leave early. He never finishes his second glass of wine, complaining about it being a waste when he’s unable to taste it, but Qifrey sees it already starting to make his bright eyes heavy and his clever mind slow. It still takes quite a while for the two of them to escape the ballroom as he apologetically says his hellos and goodbyes.

They take the long way through the corridors to their rooms, and the comparatively fresh air, humid and salty as it is, perks Olruggio up enough to keep pace as he sobers up.

His company helps, but Qifrey can’t keep the dread from building in his chest as the reality of the week starts to set. He’d rather spend the night anywhere but the Great Hall, but there’s no getting around the schedule this time. Dust will gather and chores will pile up at home while he grits through the loneliness and lack of privacy that comes with an unpredictable environment full of people he vaguely knows and doesn’t particularly care for. From the first step through the windowway, he itches to turn right back around to the quiet of his own home, where he’s not surrounded by things that don’t make sense.

At least the girls don’t mind it here, so long as they’re together. Solace finds him when he and Olruggio step into the far end of the guest wing and pass by the set of rooms they’d dropped them off in earlier that afternoon.

“Pretty sure this is me,” Olruggio says with his thumb jutting toward the door just across from Coco and Agott’s. He points at the corner room next to it, then tosses a smooth, heavy key for Qifrey to catch. “And that one’s you, if you’d like it.”

“Oh.” Usually they keep those suites reserved, even when nobody’s staying in them. “Did you arrange this?”

“Yup. Nice ’n private.”

I love you, thinks Qifrey, but out loud he says, “That’s very thoughtful, Olly, thank you.”

“Yeah well,” replies Olruggio in a hurry, bristling, hand on his neck, “figured it’d be easier to sync up if we shared a wall.”

Qifrey doesn’t ask him how he managed it. More than likely, he had some sort of connection through work.

“The girls have a key too, just in case.” Olruggio busies himself with unlocking his own door, then freezes in place just before he turns the key. Qifrey tenses along with him, watching as Olruggio twists and leans away from him with a tremendous shudder. “HAHDTSHHiU!”

His body language is so urgent that it reads as protective, like he’s trying with all his might to keep his suffering to himself. But Olruggio’s heart radiates from his sleeve, always earnest whether he likes it or not.

“haAH’YZSHHHhhuh…! Ah, geez…”

How?

How on earth could anyone not fall in love with him?

“Bless you,” Qifrey says with a tempered smile, voice hushed, touching Olruggio only though his robes to guide him inside. “I’d like to get a look at your room, too, if you don’t mind.”

Qifrey finishes up with the lock and opens the door. Heat branches from his ear in a diagonal line downward toward his middle as he listens to Olruggio sniffling behind him.

Someone has already brought their things in for them. A bag of miscellaneous supplies, likely for demonstration, has been set up near the desk by Olruggio’s window, across from the wardrobe and bed. Qifrey notices a petite, rounded gift box sitting atop the bedside table, displayed neatly without its top to showcase the assortment of sweets and remedies inside.

“How nice,” says Qifrey as he picks up a bottle and turns it over in his hand. “Someone’s left you a get-well basket, Olly.”

“Hm?” Even the little hum sounds sore as it resonates through his nose. Olruggio hangs up his cloak and looks to see what’s the matter. “Ah. No use lyin’ to me, Qifrey, I know it creeps you out.” 

“You say that as though I’m the one reacting strangely.”

“Just leave everything where it is. I’ll donate it or somethin’ when I get a chance.”

“Are you sure? This one is meant to help with sleep.” Qifrey sets another tincture aside, just herbs and water, nothing medicinal in a way that could get someone in trouble. “Could be worth a try, don’t you think?”

“Sounds more like you could use it, then. I’ve got a couple of things to touch up before tomorrow, so…”

“You’re joking.”

“Besides,” Olruggio adds, “the guy who sent it will probably ask how I liked his gifts, and it’s best if he thinks I was too busy working to take a look through them.”

Jealousy prickles in Qifrey’s hands as they search through the basket for any sort of card or label. “How do you know who it came from?”

“There’s this one guy who always sends stuff like that. Tries to personalise it by askin’ around.” Olruggio begins to unpack the nightclothes he’s brought, voice weary and sighing with the effort of moving about. “He sends things up to get me to thank him and then talks my ear off ’til I volunteer some advice, then he tries to put my name on his work like we collaborated. Rather he’d just send a letter, to be honest.”

“I see.” Qifrey only witnesses parts of Olruggio’s job from home, the parts that make sense for someone being paid to use his hands and mind to solve puzzles. He forgets how much of Olruggio’s work is social, figuring out games and having to dodge them without causing offense. “That sounds a bit sinister, trying to trick you like that.”

“Nah, just got a bit of a head on him is all. He means well.” Olruggio hangs up his cloak, then unloads a couple of handkerchiefs into the miniature washing barrel by the door. “Works mostly for a noble family up north, but he was an apprentice himself barely two years ago. Hey, I’m keepin’ this, by the way. I’ll wash it again after.”

“Oh. Right.” Qifrey sees Olruggio holding the handkerchief he lent him earlier. It strikes him at the core, numb and hot, pleasant and paralysing, reminding him to stay on his toes and hold his mask in place. “I’d assumed you would. You’re going to need it much more than I will.”

Heavens forbid Olruggio runs out of them and ends up a mess, inadvertently inviting someone else to help him out so intimately in a way that they wouldn’t even appreciate.

“For now, maybe.” He folds up Qifrey’s handkerchief and sets it on the table next to the manipulator’s set of gifts. “None of you lot’ve got any inkling of self-preservation.”

“No need for you to worry about me,” Qifrey says as a reminder to them both, then he sets the tincture back after all. “Please do get some sleep if you can, though. I’d feel a lot better seeing to it that you won’t be up at your desk all night.”

“What’s that?” Olruggio grins. “Gonna tuck me in, Qifrey?”

“Yes,” Qifrey answers, satisfied by the pink in Olruggio’s cheeks, “if I must.”

“Go,” grumbles Olruggio. “Get to your own quarters already, costin’ me a fortune…”

I love you, thinks Qifrey again, and he says nothing else this time. Like a tendril of smoke escaping the vent of a furnace, he peacefully waves himself out.

✵☆✧ ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚  ᯓ★

The first thing Qifrey learns when he finds Olruggio the next morning is that the walls had been soundproofed. He really does despise the Great Hall.

“Oh, Olly…” he says when they meet at the staircase near their breakfast spot, unable to sound anything but dismal as he soaks up the sight of his friend. “Did you even make it to bed at all?”

Olruggio hangs his head and rubs at the spot above his eyes, letting Qifrey stare at him as though he deserves to. The signs are all there; one glance at him would tell anyone he’s unwell, but the most miserable part is how put-together he looks otherwise. Neat hair, crisp clothes, clean skin, smelling like fancy soap and leather. It means he’s had to sacrifice even more rest for appearances alone. It also means he looks very classically and immediately handsome and sounds very terribly sick.

“I did try,” Olruggio promises, and then he says something unbelievable. “I even took out that sleep dropper you found, but it had me sneezing up a storm for a good hour afterward. You try to lie down properly after that.”

It takes all Qifrey has in him to keep from tumbling down the stairs. “It what?”

“I think it was some sort of aromatherapy,” complains Olruggio. “Point is, I had to give up eventually and take a head start on gettin’ ready instead. Good thing, too. Started up again when I was in the baths, but it was so early, nobody else’d even come down yet.”

What is Qifrey supposed to say to that? Where has his bloody head gone? That’s right, down south is where, and he needs to pick it back up fast.

Olruggio sighs because the conversation is normal to him, and then he gestures at his own face. “One to ten, Qifrey, how bad is it?”

Oh, don’t make me answer that…

They stop at a landing between floors. It’ll be a while before they have this much quiet, empty space again. 

“You look like you’ve been working very hard,” Qifrey answers automatically, numbly, as he comes back to himself. He feels his mouth smiling gently and decides it’s fine. This would be easier if Olruggio wasn’t so cute. “And like you might have a fever coming on.”

Olruggio grabs Qifrey’s wrist when he’s halfway to checking his forehead. Qifrey feels Olruggio’s grip tighten as he wrenches to the side without letting go. “hhAH’EZSHuh!”

At least there’s nobody else around to hear him out in the open like this.

“And there’s…” Olruggio relaxes his grip, takes his own hand back and bends deeper at the waist as he turns away fully. “GZZXSHhhuh! …haATZSHHhhuh! …And there’s that, still. Doubt it’ll be stopping soon.”

“I know.” Qifrey pours the intensity of arousal into the natural sympathy in his voice as he watches Olruggio tend to himself with a handkerchief. “You sound awful, Olly, bless you.”

“Damn it. Maybe it’ll give some of the others more incentive to go easy on me,” says Olruggio quickly. Apparently he’s reached his sincerity threshold for the time being. That, or Qifrey’s attention is already making him shy. “I’m sure it’ll be fine after some tea. Think the girls’re up yet?”

They certainly are, and all four of them are waiting in the cafeteria with breakfast already gathered and arranged at a table large enough for six. No; a grouping of three smaller, circular tables pushed together into a triangle so they can all sit facing each other, just like at home. They’ve even arranged the tableware in their usual spots.

Meetings and classes start soon, so they rush through an exchange of plans and commentary. Qifrey’s dear apprentices embarrass Olruggio by setting his place at the table with an entire pot of tea made only for him, and he thanks them before drinking most of it while it's still too hot. Tetia insults him compassionately, comparing the parts of him that look particularly terrible to the parts that are polished for the event. According to Richeh, it’s worse than if he’d let himself go entirely, and according to Coco, that isn’t a very nice thing to say to a sick person. Agott asks to borrow whatever product he’s used in his hair.

Some of them share food, or they trade based on how they feel about the new recipes on their plates. Qifrey focused on cataloguing their preferences as they discover them, and the commotion of traveling witches bustling around them doesn’t seem so noisy.

The meal ends too soon because it ends at all, and then it’s off to meeting number one.

Only witches who have passed test number four and reached a high volume of public service acts were called to attend. The reasoning behind its qualifiers could be anything from proof that one could be trusted with confidential information to a focus on high achievement and good standing. The room is small and in a high tower, lined with multi-seated desks all facing a drawing board up front. 

Of course, someone calls to Olruggio as soon as he steps through the door, eager to invite him to sit at their table. Olruggio gets to decline because of his cold, promising that this person will thank him for it when they wake up tomorrow still able to breathe through their nose. Hearing that from him is so erotic that it borders on overstimulating, and Qifrey follows him to a section in the back, where he can sit with the wall on his right side and Olruggio on his left.

“I’m his Watchful Eye,” Olruggio tells whoever it was, as soon as they ask why he’s not as concerned about passing any illness onto Qifrey. “Dunno if he’s got a choice in avoidin’ it like you do. Consider yourself lucky.”

Not everyone is so deterred by Olruggio’s warnings, unfortunately, or perhaps those who choose the seats surrounding him anyway have got perversions similar to Qifrey’s. It’s not so implausible when the state of him is so obvious and obscene.

Stop looking at him like that, Qifrey demands of the other guests silently, ridiculously, just as much as he demands it of himself despite finding it impossible not to stare. He doubts he’ll retain a thing from this morning’s session. Something about volcanic towns he’ll never get to see, and the types of contraptions their villagers are requesting to keep one another comfortable and safe in the case of eruption. It’s the kind of assignment Olruggio could design on his own, likely after talking to the villagers themselves as opposed to a third party team of witches with rewards on their minds.

But instead Olruggio is here, playing nice with them anyway, breathing through his mouth and making cute little clicking sounds by accident when he tries to swallow or clear his throat. His eyelids droop as he tries to stay awake, and every once in a while, he blinks particularly hard like something’s startled him. Soon enough he’s got a half-opened handkerchief in his lap, waiting as he squints forward with his expression vacant.

Like last night at the banquet, he doesn’t have anywhere safe to turn. Unlike last night at the banquet, there’s no real ambiance to decenter any of the noise he’s about to make. All he can do with the sneeze is try his best to smother it.

“MMPXTgh…!” Back up for air, then down again. “AAH’MMPTshhih!”

“Bless you,” murmurs Qifrey amidst the others doing the same. Olruggio doesn’t look at any of them, just ducks his head and waves a hand up to dismiss the attention.

He presses on his septum with the handkerchief, nostrils twitching dampness onto the fabric each time he sniffles, then he pinches and tugs downward as though he’s trying to drain out the irritation instead of blowing his nose in a quiet, well-mannered room.

It would make sense if it worked, but all of his fussing with it is only making the situation harder on him. Olruggio isn’t usually so careful about tempering himself.

“ha’EHZSHhhiu!”

He’s no good at it, either.

Just about everyone in the room is excited to say bless you to him this time, so Qifrey waits for them to have their fun before passing a new handkerchief over and receiving Olruggio’s thanks in the form of a brief, twitchy smile. 

Olruggio waits until the moment has passed and the presenter has recaptured the spotlight, then slides an empty page from his notebook to the space on the table between them. He uses his left hand to write while keeping his eyes centered forward.

Let’s leave early

Qifrey makes eye contact to communicate his understanding, then writes his own message.

Would you prefer to step out first, or shall I take the lead? he writes back. As soon as Qifrey withdraws his hand, Olruggio hastily jots his response.

Me

They share another look to confirm. It’s brief; pressure builds behind Olruggio’s eyes before they snap shut for another sneeze.

“EHJZSHhhu!”

Even the speaker up front interrupts their own presentation to throw a prompt, pleasant bless you to him all the way in the back.

bless you! :) writes Qifrey as he watches Olruggio go pink. Beneath it, Olruggio doodles a caricature of himself, looks Qifrey in the eye once more, then scribbles on top of the middle of its face and writes Thanks

When he excuses himself from the room, Olruggio doesn’t bother making a show of it. He leaves all of his things on the table for an impression that he’s planning on coming back, and he holds off on making any significant noise on the other side of the door. Qifrey gathers Olruggio’s pen and notebook as the presentation shifts to a new section, holds still until a guest begins asking a question, then slips away on his own.

They used the same trick when cutting class back in the day, at least before their teachers caught on and began separating them. Whoever follows the other out of the lesson would wait a rough quarter mark first, then find his friend by taking two lefts through the hallway. The logistics worked regardless of the building they were stationed in, and they work now just the same.

Their meeting spot ends up being somewhere dark and empty. Olruggio is leaned up against a wall, easy to find by sound alone as he blows his nose. Qifrey is grateful at least one of them knows their way around, especially so because it doesn’t have to be him.

“Qifrey,” calls Olruggio hoarsely. The echo of his cough is starting to squeak a little in his chest.

“Olly. Seems you’ve forgotten a few things,” Qifrey says as he hands them over.

“Awful nice of you to bring them to me.” Olruggio takes his pages back, playing along. “Sorry for the trouble.”

I love you, Olly, thinks Qifrey, so much I can barely stand it.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asks out loud, because it’s the most he can manage.

“Well, no. That meeting pissed me off plenty.” Olruggio taps Qifrey on the arm and starts walking. “I know that island they were talkin’ about.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Or I guess I know of it, because nobody lives there.”

“Nobody lives there,” repeats Qifrey. That can’t be right, can it? “That meeting was focused on commission requests from the villagers.”

“Right, but they don’t exist. Some nobles are interested in buildin’ a village for themselves to holiday out there, but nobody nearby will help with it because of the volcano. It’s too dangerous.”

“They left out that first part, didn’t they,” agrees Qifrey sourly. “And do you think it would be possible to accomplish with magic?”

“Maybe. But I’ve got a feeling they’re using the village names to pose their project as a public service for witches, and if nobody bites, to get away with underpaying someone for work they didn’t consent to doin’ in the first place.”

“Sounds like something that happens often.”

“Yeah, plenty. Been tricked a few times myself, but some of my own clients are wise to it.”

“Of course.” It’s much easier for people on the surface to talk about goings on that actually matter, after all. “Do you think you’ll say anything this time?”

“If I do, it won’t be down here,” sighs Olruggio. They reach a point where the hallway splits, and he stretches his neck toward Qifrey. “Anyway, enough with that for now. You up for a snack?”

The cafeteria is much less crowded mid-morning, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Qifrey thinks for a foolish moment that they may get away with taking their food and sitting down unbothered. They’re halfway across when some irritating gentleman offers Olruggio a free set of sweet dumplings, which he ends up paying for and sharing with Qifrey anyway. 

“Suppose I should say hi to Sinocia,” Olruggio says as he tucks himself into a chair near the back.

“Check the Medical Spire off your list, you mean?” Qifrey divides the plate in half and sets Olruggio’s portion down in front of him.

“Maybe get an exam so people stop askin’ about it,” Olruggio adds before taking a bite of his food. “Return that thing of medicine, too.”

“Already worn out by your admirers, Olly?”

Olruggio scoffs, rolls his eyes and ignores him. “Come with me. You could use some quiet, yourself.”

“At the Medical Spire...?” 

“Got somewhere else to be?”

He doesn’t. Retreating to one’s own dwellings with a full schedule would raise questions and criticisms, which is the last thing their atelier needs.

Qifrey watches Olruggio wince as he swallows, and he takes the opportunity to move the spotlight. “How do you like those?”

Before answering, Olruggio holds his hand out flat, then tilts it side to side like a see-saw. “Fine. Nothin’ like I’m used to at home, though.”

“No?”

“Not even close.” Olruggio nods toward Qifrey’s plate. “Try some.”

Mid-bite, Qifrey realises Olruggio’s sense of taste has got to be gone completely, he’s so stopped up. The thought counts for something, so Qifrey doesn’t bother to mention it.

✵ ☆⋆｡⋆˚꩜｡‧ ᯓ★

The medical spire isn’t far, but certain parts of the Hall are full of staircases that take them up and down for no good reason other than to confuse everybody at best. Today it means even a short distance gives Olruggio trouble catching his breath by the time he’s knocking at the door. 

The one who lets them in is Emile, the strapping doctor Sinocia likes. Good. She steps aside into an empty foyer, pats Olruggio on the back when he starts coughing, then takes them to the benches behind the curtain so they’ll have a place to sit.

Sinocia is there setting towels into a basin. She looks over her shoulder and sets her eyes on them, then smiles brightly and spins around. 

“I was wondering when I’d see you two!” she says with a wink, tilting her head playfully. “Business or pleasure?”

Olruggio clears his throat. “How’ve you been, Sinocia?”

Qifrey recognises the joke. Witches aren’t allowed social visits with doctors. 

“Oh, just fine over here. Busy, though,” Sinocia says. She brings him a glass of water, then hands one to Qifrey as well.

“Thank you,” Qifrey says, making conversation so Olruggio can drink. “You’ve had a lot of visitors, then.”

“Yes, mostly strangers coming in for… Well, for whatever it is happening out there this week. I won’t ask.” She starts to gather something from a cabinet. “Shame we really can’t see each other unless somebody is sick or hurt, isn’t it?”

Someone is supposed to reply in defence of the Pact, something along the lines of Perhaps, but it’s necessary, usually followed by a threatening silence to keep anyone from complaining about it again.

“Yeah,” Olruggio says, still a little breathless. He pulls a satchel from his robe. “If you’ve got some time now, I wanted to check if you might have any use for these.”

“Oh! Let me take a look. I’ll trade you.” Sinocia takes the satchel from him and hands over a tiny metal cup. “Drink that, please. You sound even worse than everybody has been saying.”

“What is it for?” asks Qifrey as Olruggio downs the medicine without so much as inspecting it.

“Just standard cold medicine. Cough, headache, fever, that sort of thing.” Sinocia takes the cup from Olruggio as he cringes with a dry little cough. “Sorry, dear. I know it’s bitter.”

Smoothly, she transitions their interaction into a quick physical exam, palpating the areas Olruggio has been struggling with before he’s even disclosed them. Throat, sinuses, forehead, and right beneath his ears. She takes a look at his eyes, checks his pulse, listens to him breathe. Every once in a while, she’ll hum something to herself or say “that’s not good!” or call him a sweet name out of sympathy. It’s clear she’s familiar with him, and it’s just as clear that he trusts her to treat him properly.

Qifrey likes Sinocia. Her disposition is cheerful and tranquil and her presence is steady; she’s always been kind and professional. It takes a special type of doctor to treat witches, not only in competence but in personality, too. They have to be okay with not knowing, with the relative isolation to their peers on the surface, and with the restrictions on communication between themselves and their patients. Sinocia has managed to be respectful of that without detaching herself, and she’s able to take care of Olruggio in all the ways Qifrey is locked away from.

At least somebody is doing it. And Sinocia hasn’t got an ulterior motive, no reason to care for titles or status. She hardly cares about anything aside from his company and his health. It would be nice for Olruggio to have someone like her for a friend, instead of someone like Qifrey who…

“IHGXSshu!”

…who cares about those things too, but can’t help the rest of his circumstances around Olruggio. Including his own body’s responses to something so… so…

“IHGXZSHHhu! ha–AEZSSHhiu!”

“Aw! Bless you. Oh, don’t worry about— here, honey, just use one of these.”

…so attractive. Sexy. Natural, naive, beyond his control. You’re terrible, Qifrey reassures himself, unable to look at anything but Olruggio, the breath building in his chest, brow taut and mouth open, moisture sparkling at the edges of his features.

“MPHZSHHhhih!”

“All right, you, enough with that,” Sinocia says warmly. “I know you don’t feel good, you don’t have to try and prove it to me. Can I take your temperature, or do you have to sneeze again?”

“Best hang on a few,” is Olruggio’s muggy answer.

“Blow your nose then, dear.” Sinocia gives Olruggio some privacy by looking to Qifrey next. “Usually he staves these things off until after all the work is over, right? I’m curious about what the deal is this time.”

Qifrey crosses his legs. “Afraid I couldn’t say.”

“Have you been well, Qifrey? And the girls? They were in great shape last time they came in. You must be taking good care of them.”

“Think it’s just the season,” interrupts Olruggio. He sniffs and beckons Sinocia back before she can ask how Qifrey has been taking care of him. “Go ahead, Sinocia, give me your worst.”

“Okay!”

Olruggio looks so darling with a thermometer in his mouth, pouting like he does, nose flushed pink from the influx of activity.

“Now, what do we have here…” While she waits, Sinocia has decided to look into the supplies Olruggio brought in. She begins to rifle through the bag without pouring anything onto the counter, holding up and then putting back its contents one by one. “Marktea, pastilles, fancy water, some aromatherapy…? Olruggio, where did these come from?”

“One of Olly’s clients,” answers Qifrey. “He’s supposedly well-meaning.”

Olruggio shifts like he wants to say something, so Qifrey holds his index finger vertically against his own lips.

“The brands in here are really expensive,” Sinocia says. “Ooh, and this one’s been opened already. You didn’t like it?”

The thermometer bounces as Olruggio makes a sound through the corner of his mouth.

“Laceweed oil!” Sinocia laughs. “No wonder you’ve been sneezing like that.”

What in the world does that mean? Is Qifrey even allowed to ask? The reminder of what he missed is going to make him dizzy all over again if he isn’t careful. He keeps his gaze off of Olruggio, just to be safe.

Sinocia closes the drawstrings on the satchel and sets it aside, then takes the thermometer from Olruggio and inspects the number with a frown. “You’re a little warm, but not too bad yet. I’ll give you some tranquileaf to take as needed, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“And this syrup in case your cough gets worse. And a poultice to help you breathe better; apply it before you to go bed.”

“Okay. Sure. Thanks.”

“And… I’ll have to give this back, too. I’m really sorry, I don’t think a hospital can accept something that costs so much.”

“So,” sighs Olruggio, “just take it home with you, then.”

“What?”

“Consider it a gift.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not against the rules, is it,” says Olruggio dryly as he stands up. “It’d be a big help, you know. Keeps me from havin’ to deal with the guy when he thinks I never received it. Probably wanted me to try returnin’ it to him so he’d get a chance to— …Ah. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” echoes Sinocia.

“Forgot where I was.” Olruggio rubs his neck and looks away. “You’d be doin’ me a favor takin’ it off my hands is all.”

Qifrey shrugs when Sinocia looks to him for explanation, so she shrugs easily and brightens right back up. 

“If you insist! Thank you, Olruggio, that’s very generous.”

“Like I said. It’s mostly a favor to me. Share it with someone if you’d like, put the bounty to use.”

“Hmmm…” Sinocia’s eyes dart to Qifrey and then up at the ceiling as she taps her chin with one hand and places the other on her hip. “I know! I’ll accept your gift so you can do a favor for me too, and be a less troublesome patient.”

“Much easier said than done,” Qifrey reminds her.

“He’s one to talk,” Olruggio says. “At least I see a doctor when the time comes. I have to drag this guy by the scruff to get him to go at all. Lucky he’s usually too weak to fight me by then.”

I love you, thinks Qifrey. He watches Olruggio gather his prescriptions and tuck them away neatly, like a good patient does.

“Yes, I know,” Sinocia says. “So since I’ve got you both here already, I’m not letting you leave until you’ve slept a clockmark or two. It’ll be much worse on you, Qifrey, when you catch this cold because you haven’t been sleeping either, and then I’ll really have my hands full.”

“Whether that’s true or not,” Qifrey says, as though he wouldn’t love anything more, “I’m not sure we can get away with skipping just to have a nap.”

“Sure you can! Doctor’s orders,” declares Sinocia. “I’m sure whoever you’re standing up would be happy to meet in private later or relay necessary information to you some other way, right?”

“Up to you,” Olruggio adds. “I’m takin’ a cot either way.”

What else is Qifrey meant to do? He follows the both of them to a quiet space down a half-flight of stairs and clenches all the muscles he can access, feeling like a stone falling to the bottom of a water well and scraping the sides of it on the way. He mirrors Olruggio’s crooked smile, perches stiffly on a hard wooden chair and wonders how long he’ll pretend to sleep.

[w1ngxd]

glissando

welcome to another witch hat atelier fic! this one is set in a musician AU I've been seeing on my socials by qiyomori, and the premise is that Qifrey is an accomplished music instructor and Olruggio is a concert pianist. Look them up on twitter or instagram if you've got either of those, there has been some BEAUTIFUL work made by other people who are into it too.

Concert pianist Olruggio has to give a performance while miserably ill. Qifrey is there to support and to look after him.

--

glissando (n.) -- a glide from one pitch to another (4k words)

--

On one side of the curtain, the orchestra was beginning to tune.

On the other, Qifrey could hear Olruggio sneezing.

The opera house had a fairly large backstage area, and Qifrey had gotten lost back here before, but today it was easy to find his friend.

"hh'IRRHShieu!"

Qifrey frowned. When Olruggio had admitted over text earlier that he was going to have to perform tonight while sick with a cold, Qifrey hadn't known what to expect. But here was Olruggio standing in the wings, a blue-trimmed black handkerchief clutched one-handed to his face, eyes half-shut with anticipation as his breathing began to hitch, began to swell…

…and then, when the irritation should have tipped over into a sneeze, nothing. He sighed, cursing, and gave his nose a firm rub through the handkerchief before dropping his hand with a sniffle.

Qifrey stepped forward, making sure his wingtips made a soft patter against the floor so he didn't startle his friend. "Olly?"

Olruggio was thumbing at the corners of his eyes, but he turned at the sound of Qifrey's voice. "Qifrey."

His voice was a gravelly rasp, and Qifrey winced.

"Oh, you sound terrible."

Olruggio sniffled again, but by the sound of it, he was growing congested and losing the ability to deal with his irritated nose in that manner. He was squinting faintly behind his glasses, like he was working on a headache too. "Can't say I feel great," he admitted. "But I'll be all right."

"Will you?"

Olruggio shrugged. "'Ave to be. There are goin' to be people in those seats."

He was right, and Qifrey knew it — there was probably no cancelling the concert this close to its start. Qifrey bit his lip.

"I did bring you some medicine." He reached into the pockets of his long coat and produced a blister pack of Dayquil, a bag of cough drops, and a pack of travel tissues. "I didn't have time to pick up much, but I suppose it's better than nothing."

Olruggio looked faintly startled, and he seemed to be stumbling over what to say when his body made the decision for him, and he took a hurried step back from Qifrey to grasp his handkerchief securely in both hands and sneeze into it. "hhr'ESHHieu!"

"Bless you!"

"Snf. Thank you." Olruggio sniffled thickly, palming his handkerchief with something that looked like hesitation, then he turned his back to Qifrey and blew his nose quietly. There was something a bit ironic about the juxtaposition, of Olruggio dressed in formal wear and clearly trying to maintain some composure while also suffering through the complete indignity of a head cold. He wiped at his nose with another sniffle, his head sounding a little clearer this time. "An' thank you for bringin' me things."

"Of course." Qifrey's eye was sharp with concern. "I was worried about you. Am worried about you."

That seemed to fluster Olruggio, who ducked his head and dabbed the handkerchief beneath his nose again. Qifrey hoped he had several on hand; that one was certainly taking its fair share of abuse. "Don't need to be," Olruggio mumbled. "'S just a cold."

"You said you've had it for almost a week, though," Qifrey pressed. "Because you're not taking care of yourself. Will you promise me you'll try and get some rest after this? No late night practicing."

Olruggio barked a laugh, then folded over into his handkerchief as it turned into a coughing fit. Qifrey felt a flash of aching empathy.

"Get out of 'ere, Professor," Olruggio croaked fondly once he could breathe again. "Doors'll be openin' soon."

"Will they?" Qifrey checked his own watch, then made a face. "I'm sorry, I've kept you for too long."

"Not at all." Olruggio moved to the table where Qifrey had set the cold medicine and began to inspect the goods. "Just figured you might be wantin' to get to your seat. It's a good one."

A good one that Olruggio had specifically set aside for Qifrey as a comp ticket. They both smiled at that, gazes meeting in something soft and affectionate. But then Olruggio gave a sharp, irritated inhale, and he quickly turned away from Qifrey before lurching forward into his handkerchief with a powerful "hhHrIISHHoo!"

"Bless you." Qifrey's hand hovered, unsure, in the air between them. He wanted to touch Olruggio's shoulder in sympathy, to touch his cheek and to feel for fever, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. He withdrew his hand and sighed instead. "Break a leg, old friend."

—

Olruggio was doing excellently, Qifrey thought from the audience an hour later, especially for someone who was as ill as he was. The first half of the performance was drawing to a close, and he'd only seen Olruggio turn towards his shoulder to sneeze once and cough twice. Most impressively, it hadn't interrupted his playing. He'd clearly practiced this piece enough times that it had sunk deep into his muscle memory, with sheet music hardly required anymore.

It was a beautiful performance. Qifrey was unfamiliar with the concerto, but the rich, full sound of the assembled orchestra was the perfect backing to Olruggio's nimble piano. He played with great éclat, with sparkling flair, and he was hypnotizing to watch as he bowed his head beneath the lights and his fingers flitted and danced across the keys. Qifrey's seat really was perfect, too; he made a mental note to treat Olruggio to breakfast or coffee in thanks the next time they went out.

He was back in his seat before the end of the intermission, and he pulled out his phone to send Olly a quick congratulatory text, though he knew he likely would not see it until after the show.

The intermission was supposed to be fifteen minutes, so when it dragged past twenty, Qifrey began to grow concerned. Who or what was holding up the show? What if Olruggio was too ill to perform the rest of the concert?

But then the lights flickered and began to dim, and he put aside his worries as the orchestra returned to the stage. Olruggio was the last out, and the audience gave him a warm welcome of applause as he took a bow and returned to the piano bench.

Qifrey frowned. Olruggio looked…well, he still looked great — he was stunningly handsome in formal wear, and it always warmed Qifrey's heart to see him wearing the golden lapel chain that Qifrey had gifted him — but to Qifrey's expert eye, he looked tired. His nose had also acquired a faint pink cast around the base of his nostrils, like he'd been blowing it repeatedly during the intermission. He was starting to look unmistakably ill, and it made Qifrey's heart tighten in his chest.

While he was thoroughly enjoying the performance, the end of the show could not come soon enough.

Olruggio only seemed to continue to fade as the concerto progressed; whatever fortitude he had stubbornly clung to during the first set seemed to have deserted him. There were even a few times where Qifrey could tell Olruggio had erred, when the backing of the orchestra grated against the melody coming from the piano, when the conductor glanced over with something like faint surprise. But Qifrey was a professional musician himself, and he knew the rest of the audience was not likely to have picked up on it, just as they were also unlikely to have picked up on how sick Olruggio was.

At long last, the concert drew to a close, and Olruggio took a weary final bow to cheers and a standing ovation from the audience. Qifrey too was applauding uproariously, though concern lurked heavy in his chest, and he was already counting the moments until he could slip backstage and check on his friend.

Olruggio's gaze was flitting across the audience, and as he straightened, it found Qifrey's, and the lines around his eyes seemed to soften.

"Excellent," Qifrey mouthed, beaming, and Olruggio gave him the tiniest of relieved nods before taking his leave from the stage.

—

It wasn't more than ten minutes later that Qifrey had successfully fought through the crowds leaving the opera house and then presented his ID to the venue security, who inspected it closely before letting him pass, but when he found Olruggio backstage in the green room, slumped over his knees with his head in his hands, the other man looked like he'd been there for hours.

"Oh, Olly," Qifrey fretted, one hand already drifting up to touch Olruggio's shoulder, then his forehead. He was definitely feverish now, with sweat beading on his brow, and he was beginning to look sallow beneath his olive skin.

Olruggio's fingers latched gently around his wrist, but instead of pulling Qifrey's hand away, he simply sat like that for a moment, holding onto him like an anchor in a storm. "Fucked that last bit up," he said after a breath, his wrecked voice grating against an obviously sore throat. He couldn't seem to look at Qifrey. "Can't believe it."

"I guarantee no one noticed," Qifrey tried to soothe him, his brows furrowing deeply in concern. "You played beautifully."

Olruggio released Qifrey's hand and turned away from him to direct a hoarse cough into his shoulder. His eyes were glassy and distant. "You're just sayin' that."

"I'm not," Qifrey said truthfully. "I swear it. But you are so ill, my friend. Did you take any of that medicine?"

"Couldn't be drugged up for the show," Olruggio murmured. "I'll take some later."

He wouldn't, Qifrey knew, unless there was someone there to remind him to. Olruggio was terrible at taking care of himself, and always had been; back in grad school when they had lived together, Qifrey had been absolutely astonished that the man had made it this far in life with the complete and utter disregard he showed for his own health and wellbeing.

"Come back to my place," Qifrey said instead, coaxing. "Just for the night. You're in no state to drive home, or to be alone. You can take a hot bath and some cold medicine and then sleep as long as you'd like."

Olruggio turned away from him to sneeze heavily into the crook of his arm. "HIHZZHshuu!" It looked like it dazed him, like he had to wait for his surroundings to settle, but after a moment he felt in his pocket for his handkerchief and wiped it beneath his nose. "I don't want to be a burden," he said finally, but he sounded like he was wavering. He was too tired and sick to be able to turn down an ask like this one.

"Bless you. And I swear you wouldn't be." Qifrey tried another angle. "You know I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it."

Olruggio's expression took on the faint, distant cast that meant another sneeze was incoming, and Qifrey waited until after he had folded forward into his handkerchief again — "hh'IESHZHieu!" "Bless you." — to kneel in front of him so they were on the same level.

"Olly," he breathed. Olruggio still wouldn't meet his gaze, so Qifrey reached out and touched him gently beneath his chin, lifting his face so their eyes met. It was unexpected enough that Olruggio couldn't deflect. "Please let me take care of you."

There was a beat as Olruggio fought with himself, while his pride and his yearning for comfort seemed to war within, until he deflated with a sigh that rattled in his chest and made him cough again. "…Fine. Let me go 'nd change."

—

"I'm goin' to get you sick," Olruggio groused from the passenger seat of Qifrey's car. He had just had yet another sneeze and was stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. Qifrey thought wryly that it would be better for him to keep it in hand with the rate things were going.

"I've already had what's been going around, thanks to my students," Qifrey said. He only lived fifteen minutes from the opera house, but Olruggio seemed moments away from falling asleep where he was huddled in the seat.

Something about that statement got Olruggio's attention, however. "When?"

Qifrey shrugged. "Two weeks ago?"

Olruggio shifted. "Sorry. I would've brought you some soup or somethin', 'ad I known."

The words prickled across Qifrey's skin like a sunburn, and he forced himself to smile, though his hands tightened on the steering wheel. "There was no need. You seem to have it far worse than I did."

"Still."

Qifrey let that remark go and tried to focus on the road, though his attention remained half on monitoring Olruggio's rasping, whistling breaths on his right. It just sounded like congestion, he decided, though if Olruggio wasn't careful, he'd give himself bronchitis, which had happened a handful of times in the years they'd known each other. Olly's colds tended to linger in his head most of the time, but the occasional winter bug would settle in his lungs and leave him coughing for weeks.

This one could almost be a mix of both, though the coughing was likely more post-nasal drip than true chest congestion. Qifrey had been plagued by a rough and scratchy throat of his own when he'd had this cold, as well as the heavy, extended fits of sneezes that Olruggio was in the thick of.

Speaking of which.

"God hhhdamn it," Olruggio said breathily, and Qifrey's attention flicked to the right to see him rush, and fail, to pull his handkerchief from his pocket in time for the sneeze that appeared to have snuck up on him. He caught it instead in the shirtsleeve of his oxford. "hrR'ISCHZhuu! hhh — hih — IESCHHoo!"

"Bless you, and bless you," Qifrey said.

Olruggio sniffled. "Thank you," he said quietly, wearily, like each sneeze was taking more and more out of him. "You know you don't 'ave to keep doin' that."

"Would you prefer that I stop?"

"…No, 's fine."

—

Qifrey's flat was more humble than Olruggio's, as he was working with salary of a music teacher instead of a concert pianist, but he liked to think that it was cozy and welcoming. Olruggio, at least, seemed to always feel at home here; they spent enough time at each others' places too that they both comfortably knew their ways around.

"Medicine, then bath and bed," Qifrey reminded Olruggio once they'd climbed the stairs and let themselves in to the front hall. The single flight of stairs had left Olruggio coughing into the crook of his arm, and Qifrey wincing. "There should still be plenty left over from when I was ill, it's all in the bathroom cabinet." They had left Qifrey's purchases at the opera house - minus the tissues, which Olruggio had snagged - since Olruggio had another performance there tomorrow night. Qifrey hoped that 24 solid hours of rest and TLC would be enough for Olruggio to start to shake his cold, or if not, that he would cancel the show.

"Yes, Professor," Olruggio said dryly, but the sarcasm was tempered by the hoarse and thready quality of his voice.

Qifrey rolled his eye with the start of a smile. "Get out of here." Olruggio obeyed.

Qifrey's bathtub was the crown jewel of his place: a beautiful, deep, claw-footed tub that was his savior whenever he got his migraines. He swore at times that it had healing powers, which hopefully it would produce for his friend.

Meanwhile, he went to his refrigerator to see what sort of soup ingredients he had on hand. The kitchen was generally well-stocked, but it had been a busy week of catching back up with students after his own illness, and he wasn't quite sure where his stocks of certain items stood. Thankfully, it looked like he had enough to make some chicken-lemon-vegetable soup, so he got out the celery and began to dice it.

He could hear Olruggio moving around in the other room, could hear the cabinets opening and closing, and moreso could hear the other man coughing and sneezing. "HR'IESCH'ieu! HPPTcxhhu!"

The sneezes seemed to be coming in pairs now, like a single one alone wasn't enough to scratch the itch that had settled into Olruggio's sinuses. Olruggio had begun to try and stifle the second one too, which Qifrey knew couldn't be helping his headache.

Bless you, he thought in his direction, then returned to peeling carrots.

Caring for Olruggio was as easy and natural as breathing. Qifrey was only glad that in recent years the other man had begun to let him. Olruggio had spent the entirety of his life pouring his heart and soul into providing for others, to make himself worthy of love by being "useful," but having the vulnerability and trust in another to let the favor be repaid in kind was something that had taken time, even though they'd known each other for fifteen years at this point.

But Qifrey…well, he still felt deeply uncomfortable receiving much targeted affection or positive attention from Olruggio. It made him nauseous, like there was a hole somewhere deep in his chest that would forever lie empty, a missing space that made him unworthy of that warmth from the sky's kindest, most radiant star.

He nicked the side of his finger with the paring knife, breaking his focus on the maudlin fog beginning to settle over him, and he swore under his breath, then immediately put his finger to his mouth. Ouch. That would teach him to brood while he was cutting vegetables.

"IESCHHoo! hh'czchhuu!

A productive nose-blow and a watery sniffle from the other room, then the sound of running water. Qifrey hoped Olruggio could finally relax for a bit; he'd likely been tense and wound up about his performance all week. The bathtub would work its magic, and there would be a hot bowl of soup waiting for him, and then he could crash for ten to twelve hours and hopefully wake up less miserably ill. It was a winning combination that Qifrey had used many times, both on Olruggio when they'd lived together and on himself. He had half a mind to check after a while to be sure Olruggio didn't doze off in the bath, in his current state.

But about half an hour later, by the time the soup was simmering, Qifrey heard the water begin to drain. He moved to the cabinet and got out some dishes, then filled his tea kettle with water and set it to boil. Having some tea on hand couldn't hurt either.

He was ladling the soup into the bowls when the bathroom door opened again with a rush of humid air, and also one Olruggio. He was pink-cheeked from the warm bath, and his dark hair was damp and stringy at the edges.

"Soup's ready," Qifrey said cheerfully, and Olruggio rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes with a squint and a series of blinks.

"You made soup," he said blankly, like his mind was still catching up with his vision. To be fair, Qifrey noticed, he also wasn't wearing his glasses.

"I did. Tea should be ready soon too."

"Y'didn't 'ave to," Olruggio said roughly. He was clutching the box of tissues that Qifrey had bought (now at least half-empty) like it was a beloved possession, which appeared to be for the best when his nose gave a distinct twitch and he had to hurriedly grasp for a sheet. "hhHrIISHHoo!"

"Bless you! How are you feeling?" Qifrey settled in one of his kitchen chairs and gestured for Olruggio to do the same. Olruggio did so, sniffling.

"All right," he said vaguely, then gave his nose another irritated wriggle. "I can breathe now, 't least. Headache's gone too."

"That tub works miracles on headaches," Qifrey said. "I'm so glad. The soup," he added when Olruggio took a spoonful, "is chicken with lemon and vegetables. Another quality cure for a cold."

Olruggio tasted the first bit, and his eyes widened. "It's very good."

Qifrey preened. He'd spent the bulk of their graduate student years trying new recipes on Olruggio, but it was always a delight to get him to make that face. "I'm glad you think so."

They chatted for a bit over dinner, mostly Qifrey telling Olruggio about the upcoming recital his students were preparing for, as well as updating him on their progress.

"I'm still workin' on that duet for Agott and Coco," Olruggio said. He took another tissue from the box in his lap and blew his nose delicately. The steam from the soup and tea also seemed to be helping him breathe better, though his nose appeared to be running now instead. "I know Coco isn't quite up to Agott's skill level yet, but she plays so cleverly, I'm goin' to see what it's like if I give 'er the melody."

"Wonderful." Qifrey rested his chin on his folded hands. "They'll be delighted to hear an update. Thank you again for doing that."

Olruggio shrugged. "'f course. I'm lookin' forward to hearin' the others at the recital too."

Olruggio had never taken students of his own, but he'd shown great interest in Qifrey's current roster, particularly the three girls he'd been working with the longest and Coco, the newest of his students. It had been a surprise to all of them when he'd offered to compose some pieces on their behalf.

"It will be a great honor for them to get to debut your work," Qifrey said. "They're really quite excited about it."

Olruggio coughed into his fist. "It's nothin'," he said. "Any time."

He was starting to look exhausted again, rubbing at his eyes and drooping like a plant in need of water, and Qifrey decided to take pity on him. He stood and took the two bowls away, leaving the mugs with tea.

"Give me a moment and I'll have the couch set up for you."

Olruggio pulled yet another tissue from the box — it was running quite low; Qifrey wasn't sure if he had others on hand or if he'd need to run to the pharmacy again while Olruggio was sleeping — and held it between tented hands as he bent forward to sneeze into it. "hh'IRHShieu! R'ISCHZhuu!"

"Bless you."

"Thank you." Olruggio scrubbed at his nose through the tissue and sniffled roughly. "An' thank you again for…ya know. Lettin' me crash 'ere."

"Any time. Truly," Qifrey said seriously, making sure Olruggio met his eye. "My home is yours, as well."

It didn't take Olruggio long to fall asleep once he'd nestled into the blankets Qifrey had laid out on his couch. Qifrey could hear him snoring congestedly, and he smiled.

Can't believe he's not waking himself up with all that racket, he thought, trying to clean up the kitchen as quietly as possible. Thankfully it seemed that Olruggio in this state could sleep through just about anything. He snored on while Qifrey put away the leftovers, then retreated to his bedroom to start his own nightly routine.

Qifrey did not sleep well, as a rule; it had always been a struggle. Things had been better when he'd lived with Olruggio, but in the years since, he'd grown used to lying awake for hours or waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, or on some nights not sleeping at all.

He felt tonight might be another one of those nights, with Olruggio snoring and occasionally coughing, but for whatever reason, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He slept deeply, unburdened by nightmares, and when he woke the next morning, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so well-rested.

Olruggio was still snuffling out on the couch, and Qifrey stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom for a few minutes, smiling faintly, before rising for the day.

[sniffly-soap]

I LOVE NIGHTWINGGGG I’m so happy to find u

ahhhh yay!! He's my absolute favorite, I'm really excited to keep sharing things for him <3 and I'll very gladly take any content of him as well, we need more dickie snz in the world 🙏🙏

[bestwhumpist]

DROP THE JP TWT REI/GEN SNZ ILLUSTRATION LINK ‼🗣

YOUR WISH IS MY ETC!!!!!! (this is a real anon and not me to me. i love you my first REAL r9igen anon)

ok real condition i am gonna post the screenshot because i'm paranoid about the OG artist for some reason TToTT and i speak only english which means i still cannot verify whether my translation was real but either way the interpretation of sneeze styles 1&2 have remained in my headcanons

by the way (yap time) i had to go in my search history because i didn't want to re-find the kanji for his name - i always search the name and then kushami to find the extra sneeze posts aka 霊幻新隆くしゃみ. and this is all i was looking up yesterday ToT mostly because i wanted to verify that my other canon evidences were not just from memory even though my sneeze fetish post aint have to be a college level research paper

[sniffly-soap]

C/lark K/ent snz fic (with some S/uperbat caretaking <3)

Y'all see @peachsnz's Clark snz drawing?? Yeah, this is definitely born from that xx. There are going to be at least 2 parts to this, the second part is almost complete.

MINORS DNI. Contains: m snz, cold/flu, mess (no fr, this is def for you messfkers out there)

3.5k | part one/two(?)

Bruce taps the side of his phone absentmindedly at the end of his Watchtower shift. He had sent a quick message at the beginning of his shift, and Lois was just getting back to him now. 

BW: Did Clark seem…? LL: Like he's been fighting the headcold from hell for the past few days? LL: Pls tell me you have a way to force bedrest. Or at least stop him from spraying his germs all over the bullpen.  LL: Can he even be contagious?  BW: Working on it.  LL: You're welcome. And thanks xo

Apparently, the blue boy scout was sneezing through his Daily Planet shifts too. Bruce had showed up for his watchtower shift ten minutes early, as always, and headed to the main monitoring room to switch off with Kal-El. What he had found wasn't completely the Kal that he knew. Superman, normally picture-perfect and coiffed, had been a sniffly mess. Bruce had watched him try and fail to cover a spraying sneeze, the particles settling on top of the monitor board. He had been able to cover his kneejerk reaction of disgust, instead rifling through his memory bank for a previous example of Kal sneezing. Finding none, he had tilted his head slightly, asking, “Everything alright?” 

Kal had answered with the affirmative, and since Bruce trusted him, he had let it be. Mostly. After he sent a text to Lois and collected a swab of the moisture left behind on the monitors to run via flow cytometry later. 

_______________________________

Bruce had three hours between his Watchtower shift ending and Clark getting off from the Daily Planet. He spent most of it running Clark's fluids through a multitude of tests and getting too many positive results to confidently say which ones might be causing his ailments. No kryptonite readings at all, either. On a good day, Superman had an overwhelming and unique microbiome. He couldn't see many differences between Kal's baseline and these readings, except for a slightly elevated viral load. Was that enough to cause his current symptoms? And why was Clark acting like he was unaffected? It was a mystery, which was luckily Bruce's specialty.

Although he and Clark had an agreement that Bruce would let Clark know if he was breaking into his civilian apartment, Bruce figured this counted as extenuating circumstances. Since Clark had seen fit to lie to him, he didn't feel very bad about a little B&E. 

The apartment itself was telling. It was usually cluttered due to its small size, but it was in more disarray than usual. Although it was early fall, and Clark was unaffected by cold weather, there were many blankets piled on the threadbare couch. Bruce catalogued tissue boxes that usually weren't present on the small kitchen counter, the couch, and the TV stand, and Clark’s small kitchen trash can was set up beside the couch as well, filled a quarter of the way with balled-up tissues. Bruce sat delicately on the uncomfortable sitting chair that he had already tried and failed to get Clark to replace, crossing his legs by settling his ankle on his thigh just in time for the lock on the door to rattle. The door opened, and Clark appeared a few moments later, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned around and froze, wide eyes locking with Bruce's. 

The surprise took only a moment to clear from his face, replaced with a tired resignation. “Lois?” He asked, shoulders slumping in that stupid oversized suit jacket of his. 

“What's wrong with you?” Bruce always found getting right to the point was best. Clark wrinkled his nose in annoyance. 

“Would it kill you to be ndice?” Clark rubbed at his face before dropping his messenger bag at the door, making his way into the living room and flopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose over the top of his glasses as he breathed through his cracked, parted lips. Bruce hardly saw him so miserable, especially outside of kryptonite poisoning. 

“You look…concerning.” Understatement. Clark looked properly ill, cheeks slightly flushed in what Bruce figured was a fever, his nose red and raw down to the lip, his eyes rimmed pink and watery. Bruce could hear the catch in Clark’s chest when he sighed, the congestion that probably felt like cement in his sinuses (if the way he was massaging them was any indication) bogging down his words, the exhaustion in his words that were punctuated by light sniffles. Even his outfit had suffered the effects of his illness, damp spots sticking out on his gray suit top sleeves from where he presumably wiped his streaming nose into them. “How are you sick?”

Clark huffed out a laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled into the already damp cuff of his sleeve. “It happends, Bruce. Ndot oftend, but I’ve had a few colds and flus.” He sniffled, wiping the corners of his mouth with the wrist of his sleeve. He looked so delicate, which was a strange state for someone who was probably the strongest person on Earth. “Usually whend I’m already runnding mbyself ragged.” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his face where it looked like the congestion was bothering him the most. “I overdid it with that tsunami and the League mission. And a lot of people at the Planet have beend calling out, some sort of flu I think. I’m just the mbost recent victimb.” 

“This information is not in your file,” Bruce said. Discomfort prickled at his skin. Superman being affected by the common cold or Type A and B flu was the sort of thing that should be included in the files that he kept on everyone. What if Clark had fallen ill on an away mission and was unable to tell them what was wrong? Or no one could get ahold of him? A few dozen worst-case scenarios ran through Bruce’s head, but he bit them back. Clark was probably well aware of what points Bruce would bring up. 

“It’s the flu, B,” Clark looked amused. “And I hardly ever ge-heh…hah!” Bruce leaned over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the couch, holding them out to Clark, who was fanning his face with one hand and reaching towards the box with the other. He hurriedly grabbed the proffered tissues and held them firmly over his nose and mouth. “...Hihh!! Heh’KSHht! Heh’ESHH’uh! –TSCHieew! Ngh. ‘Scuse mbe.” 

If anyone had asked Bruce what he thought Superman’s sneeze would sound like, he would guess some sort of loud, abrasive, and succinct, “Ah-choo!” noise. But Clark was a hitching, damp mess, panting into the tissues and seeming almost embarrassed as his voice pitched up oddly in response to his tickling nose. His sneezes wrenched him forward but didn’t incapacitate him, though his glasses were knocked askew and the tissues squelched as he pinched off the mess he had produced. Bruce watched in silence as Clark threw the bundle of tissues away only to immediately grab two more, blowing his nose unproductively before giving a stuffed up sniff and tossing those as well after a final sniffle and a crisp swipe under his nose. He hadn’t managed to catch everything, though, or maybe the nature of his congestion meant that sniffing wasn’t effective, because a small gleam of moisture clung to his reddened nostrils. Clark sighed, exhaustion tinging the noise. “I’m assuming ndo one’s letting mbe go into work tomorrow?” 

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been going at all this week,” Bruce quipped. “It’s highly irresponsible to be around other people when you’re as ill as you are.” 

“I’ve beend masking up,” Clark protested. “And I had a big deadline.” He blinked. “Crap. I took mby mask off when I got into the building.”

Bruce shrugged, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a fever?” 

Clark shrugged. “Probably. I feel kinda achy. What…what are you doing?” 

“Taking your temperature. I assume you don’t have a thermometer.” Bruce stood over Clark on the couch, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Years of fatherhood gave Bruce a pretty good idea of what fevers felt like. “Elevated, but not too far from your normal range. Are you tired?” 

“Exhausted,” Clark exhaled. “Wait, you shouldn’t get too close. You’ll catch this.” 

Bruce ignored him, moving into the kitchen. “Get changed and make yourself comfortable.” 

Clark grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, shuffling into the bedroom to presumably change into something more appropriate for a sick day. Bruce could hear his dry, painful-sounding coughs punctuating his actions, though he was focused on cataloguing Clark’s food supply and medicine cabinet. Predictably, there was nothing stronger than over the counter painkillers, probably for guests, but Clark had a fair amount of ingredients in his fridge and pantry. Bruce wasn’t much of a cook, but Clark could hold his own, even while not feeling his best. Bruce had been witness to many of Clark’s culinary adventures, the man able to balance cooking, holding a conversation, and editing Lois’ article without skipping a beat. Sneezing and cooking at the same time would be a cakewalk comparatively. 

Although he was lacking in medicine, Clark did have some cold packs in the freezer, and Bruce got one out, wrapping it in a towel before taking it back to the living room alongside a glass of water. That was about the time Clark shuffled back in from the bedroom, clad only in a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and thick socks. He had ditched his glasses, which made his eyes look smaller and more watery. He immediately beelined for the couch again, grabbing one blanket to pull over his lap and another to wear over his shoulders. If Bruce hadn't felt his forehead, he'd be sure of that fever now. Clark had obviously chosen his outfit so that he could alternate between feeling hot and cold at a rapid pace. At the moment, he shivered slightly, tightening the hold of the blanket a little. With his reddened nose and eyes, he looked the sick man that he was. 

“Here,” Bruce held out the glass of water, watching Clark drink half of it before setting it back on the side table. He handed him the towel-wrapped cold pack. “Put that on the back of your neck.” Clark did as he was told with a sniffle, eyes fluttering shut in relief as the cold pack soothed his the heat that seemed to be plaguing him. He leaned his head back again on the back of the couch, giving Bruce a clear look into his nose, which was so swollen and red that he was positive Clark had been sick for at least a few days prior and was doomed to many more days of his illness ahead.

“Four days?” Bruce guessed. 

“Hm?” Clark didn’t open his eyes. Bruce looked at him fondly. 

“How long you’ve been feeling sick. Four days?” 

Clark hummed again, this time slightly contemplative. “My throat started hurting Friday.” 

Today was Wednesday. “Five days, then.” Clark hummed once more, sounding slightly miserable about it this time. “That’s one hell of a flu.” 

“The other symptoms didn’t start for a few days.” Clark coughed slightly. “Can we stop talking about it for a sec? It’s making me feel itchy.” His nostrils flared as if in warning, and Bruce knew he would acquiesce to almost anything Clark asked of him when he was looking so pathetic. “Tell me how the family center’s renovations went?” 

Bruce wasn’t pleased with the deflection, but he understood it. Clark wasn’t used to being cared for, he was usually the one doing the caring. He couldn’t count the times that Clark had helped a friend, a family member, or Bruce himself through an injury or illness, and he knew all too well the feeling of weakness that came with asking for help. So he sat back down and started regaling Clark with stories from the renovations. The surprisingly high volunteer turnout, the surprisingly beautiful weather in an otherwise rainy autumn, the general cheerfulness and the stupid speech he had to bumble his way through at the beginning. 

Although Clark didn't move from his lounged position, Bruce could tell he’s listening actively to his words. He puffed out a breath of amused laughter when Bruce mentioned Dick parading in with his friends, all of them playing at being airheaded socialites with minimal gardening skills while also installing an irrigation system in the newly-built front garden beds. When Bruce talked about the innovative updates to the building, he made appreciative cooing noises. And when Bruce shared his annoyance about the shareholders who decided to naysay directly to his face, Clark scoffed hard enough for snot to shoot from his nose, and he quickly straightened up, the back of his hand lifting to cover as the shifting congestion causes his eyes to crinkle, lids heavy as a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his expression turned hazy behind his hand. 

“HEUH’kkSSCHeugh! Gah, ha-h’kchiew! HII’idgsheuh. Ugh.” Clark ended the fit with a miserable gasp, snorting inelegantly into his hand. “Godda be gross for a sec, B,” he said, horribly congested, hand still pressed to his nose. He put the cold pack in his other hand down and used it to pull two tissues from the box on the couch. He probably gave the warning so that Bruce would look away, but instead he watched as Clark pulled his hand away, sniffling in large, soupy sounds but unable to snort back a rope of watery snot that connected his hand to his upper lip. Clark grimaced, looking like he was trying to decide whether to wipe up his nose or hand first, but his hand won, Clark mopping that with the tissues before following the rope of mess to his running nose and blowing, a thick, gurgling sound coming from the action. He balled the tissues up and repeated it, the same germ-laden, snotty noise filling the room. He pulled the tissue away with a thick sniffle, thumbing at his sore-looking nose. 

Bruce looked away before Clark caught him staring, and once he felt his lover’s eyes on him he turned back, smiling in genuine sympathy. “You sound miserable, Clark,” he said. “In what world made you think you should go to work like that?” 

Pink embarrassment dusted Clark’s cheeks, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter to himself. “Like I said, there was a big deadline. But I finished it this morning.” 

“And you still finished out your work day? You’re always on my case about being a workaholic, but you’re just as bad.” 

Clark sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic look, then walked over from the chair to sit on the couch, pulling Clark in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t be sorry. But look out for yourself, sometimes? It’s okay to take the time to be well.”

He could feel Clark’s nod. Once he felt that Clark suitably understood his point, he pulled away and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Put the cold pack back on your neck. I’m going to make you something to eat.” He had made the executive decision that Clark was too ill to have to do anything, especially make dinner, and although Alfred liked to pretend otherwise, Bruce could follow a simple recipe. 

“Don’t you have patrol soon?” Clark asked, squinting up at him like he was trying to remember if he was correct. 

“There’s still a few hours,” Bruce responded. “I’ll get you set up, then into bed, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back from patrol.” 

Clark blinked. “Oh. You’re…staying?” He looked genuinely touched, like his long-term partner deciding to stay in his apartment with him when he was sick from a near-debilitating cold was a gift instead of an expectation. Damn, Bruce loved him. 

“Of course. I’m sorry I have to leave for patrol,” he turned away to wander into the kitchen, pulling out the raw ingredients that Clark had for a simple curry. Potatoes,onions, peas, chickpeas, carrots, chicken, spinach, and apples, all of it with plenty of ginger and garlic. He would make a curry so healthy that Clark would immediately be healed upon eating it. 

Another liquidy sniffle and a loud, “HIh-GGKSSHUU’HA!” followed by another sopping nose blow. Okay, so maybe Bruce was being a bit optimistic. Nevertheless, he was determined to get some nutrients into Clark. 

Clark was mostly quiet in his misery, sounds of sickness but no words coming from him as Bruce chopped the vegetables as quickly as possible. So when Clark stood, he paused, giving his partner his full attention. “Clark? Need something?”

Clark blinked, thumbing at the moisture at his nose. “Bathroom,” he said with a sniffle, then shuffled off. Bruce listened carefully for the door to close, and then followed the noises of Clark relieving himself and washing his hands. He knew that this was Superman, and Superman could handle a bathroom trip, but Clark was so vulnerable looking and miserable that Bruce couldn’t help but worry. He got this way around his kids when they were sick or hurt, too. It irked the hell out of them, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the paranoia that crept into him when his loved ones weren’t feeling their best. 

He was just finishing leaving everything to simmer on the stovetop when he heard the bathroom door open again, though it sounded like Clark was making a pit stop for something in his bedroom.

Then Bruce heard a muffled thump, just a bit louder than it should have been, and he quickly moved from the kitchen towards the bedroom, concern spiking. Did Clark fall? Did he trip over something? Trip into something? He rounded the kitchen in time to see Clark leaning heavily against the wall in the small hallway that led to his bathroom and bedroom, face hovering above his forearm before he lazily brought it towards his nose. “hehh… h'uhhH'EHSSCh'uh! Heh'ESHHuh! Eh’ISHh! Esh'SHiuhh!”

Clark braced himself on the wall, head bobbing up and down with each sneeze. He tried to sniffle between them, but it seemed that his nose was adamant about being cleared, because an itchy look overcame his expression and his glistening nostrils flared again as he aimed the next flurry of sneezes towards his arm again. “-IIhp’sshHHEhww! HiihhhhiH-HiisccHHihwww!!” He tried to dab at the mess, but it was futile, a strand of it connecting his nose to his bare arm. It broke in half, dripping down his face, and it must have been ticklish enough to bother him again because Clark only had time to brace his hand against the wall as he bent in half with a, “IhZZSCHHihhwww!!” that had his huge chest heaving towards the ceiling at its start and snapped him in half by the end, his running nose shooting towards the floor. Bruce was frozen in disgusted fascination at the thick ropes of mucus that stuck to themselves as they were expelled weakly from Clark’s nose, clinging to his septum and unable to be sniffed up, despite the marshy sniffles Clark was attempting between ragged, exhausted breaths. In the sunset of the early evening that filtered through Clark's limited windows, he could see glittering spray in various sizes rain down upon his poor sick partner.

Bruce went from voyeur to witness when Clark looked up, embarrassment written in his expression at the performance being seen by someone else. “Oh mby god,” he mumbled, quickly bringing the corner of his blanket to his nose. “Sorry. Sorry, that was gross.” He snuffled without any progress, and that finally kicked Bruce into action. He turned around and grabbed the tissue box from the TV stand, handing four to Clark. He looked away politely while the other man cleaned himself up, miserable breaths and squelches the only thing letting him know that Clark was still working at it. Bruce pulled a couple more tissues out and offered them again, and Clark took them with a grateful thanks.

Once the noises had subsided, Bruce turned to see Clark still leaning against the wall, red-faced. His chest warmed at the sight. 

“Let’s get you back onto the couch. Want me to take those?” Bruce held a hand out for the used tissues, but Clark’s grip went white-knuckled on the mass of soggy paper. 

“I’ve got it,” he said, and gratefully accepted Bruce’s arm as they shuffled back to the couch. “Sorry,” he said again. “Ugh, I’ll ndever be able to forget that. Absolutely humbiliating.” Bruce rubbed his back comfortingly. He wanted to comfort Clark, but he knew his words probably wouldn't convince the man of anything. The best he could do was hand him tissues and be here to get him through the worst of it without judgement. Then he realized that there was an etiquette faux pas he had been making, something he hadn’t said yet today.

“By the way, bless you, dear.” 

[bestwhumpist]

earlier this week i found the og source saying "hay fever" was one of his many benign yet bothersome ailments and now here i am to celebrate

[bestwhumpist]

qifrey turn (imagine all these was in the same day)

[sky-snz]

i just wanna say i absolutely ADORE your writing. i keep rereading your stuff dude, all of it is just so, SO GOOD. and man if you ever feel like writing some really sick dude who's miserable with a cold on his way home from work (left early, ofc) who's just dripping and feeling gross and stuffed up and itchy and sneezy as hell on public transport and he's out of tissues and oh fuck everyone's staring??? I'D LITERALLY DIE HAPPY 😭

hey anon, thanks so so much for the kind words, and for this prompt. this may just be the grossest thing I've written in a bit, and boy was it fun. hope it fits the bill 🫶🏼

cw mess

-

His head leans against the bus window, eyes staring into space. His relentlessly drippy nose produces constant vulgar, liquid sounds with every unavoidable sniffle, and the sight of it isn’t any less forgiving. Deep red, like a stain from the juice of blueberries. All around his nostrils, down to his philtrum. His breathing has a shaky rhythm to it, between noisy, slurping sniffles, and coughs that are too weak to move the phlegm lining his throat.

At a certain point it seems as if he’s dozed off. Mucus streams down his upper lip, and the next breath seems to catch on the muck in his throat. His brow crumples as he coughs and draws in more deep, liquid sniffles. He lifts a folded, sodden tissue to dab at the moisture oozing from his chapped nostrils. It’s all he has left. 

The sound of a shaky breath arrives like a distant siren. His eyes close, not just out of exhaustion, but in resignation of what’s to come. With fumbling fingers, he lifts the damp one-eighth surface area of tissue over his flaring nostrils.

“hrrRR’USSCHHIUE!!!-USSHIEWW!! hiH-! huUDZ’EEISSCHHIUHh!!! …. *snnnrgk~* … *snrgk*”

If the ‘Move Out Of The Way’ siren-like gasps hadn’t been heeded by any passengers a few moments earlier, they were certainly alerted by the sudden hurricane-caliber burst of sneezes, which had expelled an uncontainable amount of warm, goopy mess into the small folded-up tissue. He pants for breath, clutching the soaked fibres over his still tingling nose. His other hand moves to his pocket, but any tissue that’s left is wet and unusable, leaving him to try and pinch-wipe the mess away with the sopping one he’s holding. His upper lip stings as the tissues grazes it. 

“AAIY'ESSCHHIEWWw!!!” 

Fuck. He isn’t exactly a fan of surprises, and that one had been particularly un-delightful. By now the passengers on the bus have parted like the Red Sea - some spooked, some disgusted. The man can barely sniffle, and trying is far too ticklish. Both hands hurriedly rise to cover his mouth and nose as the urge reappears with violence.

“-'EDSSCHHIUHhh!!!”

Oh dear. 

His eyes blink hazily through a film of moisture. There are tear tracks he can feel, but that seems to be the least of his troubles right now. Muffled coughs seem to expedite the unending flow of thick mucus, pooling into his palms. Sniffles are merely instinctive, no use to him now. The air is warm beneath his steepled hands. He doesn’t dare move them.

[hauntedpollen]

I’m just gonna put these in a nice little pile right here so I can look at them

[sniffly-soap]

Your witch hat atelier fic was so so good!!! Qifrey and Olly trying to care for one another while both being miserably under the weather was so on brand for them hahaha I can't stop rereading it it deserves so much more recognition!!!

omg thank you so much, this is so kind of you to say! I'm very much hoping that witch hat takes off in the community bc I'm already adoring the snzblr content of the two of them a ton. To be completely honest I'm already cooking up their next moments of misery in my mind, they are so precious to me! And the mutual caretaking as they both kind of fail at it bc they feel bad....so good. Thank you again for your lovely words xo

[snrrf]

Mess things I like:

noseblows that come immediately after a sneeze in hopes of getting a productive blow in from the brief loosening of congestion that comes with a sneeze

a glistening philtrum from a persistent runny nose

a nose that runs thick. snot creeping out the entrance of the nostril but not thin enough to completely run out past the entrance

the squelchy crunch and clicking of a runny nose being rubbed only to cover their fingers in a cool sheen from whatever was in their nose leaking out

noseblows that are deep and bassy with how productive they are, leaving the tissue or handkerchief visibly fuller and plumper with snot

sneezes that heave snot out, not strong enough to have it spray out the nose, having globs hang off their nose that threaten to fall off with every sneeze

snot that pours out of a nose in waves with each sneeze running warm and plenty over an upper lip

wet sneezes into cupped hands/pinched fingers that seep through gaps between fingers

[ithadtobesneezing]

tug of war [2/2]

a huge thank you so much to everyone who read and engaged with the first half of this. thank you so much for trusting me with all this misery

fandom: Cher/ry Magic | characters: Kuro/sawa, Ada/chi | length: 7.1k (omg sorry)

summary: nervous and determined to be a good boyfriend, Adachi spends the night.

cw mess mentions, nothing graphic

[part 1]

-

The wind is getting stronger. In the span of only a few minutes, it’s gone from teasing gusts to intermittent gales. Adachi’s hair whips at his eyes, the roar of the leaves around them growing louder, more ominous with each passing rush. Too preoccupied with worry over Kurosawa’s sudden dizzy spell, it seems he’s misjudged the proximity of the storm.

Since Kurosawa is laying on him, he’d anticipated that he could gauge Kurosawa’s readiness to walk.

Instead, he’s unintentionally grounded them at the bench— possibly long enough for the impending storm to have caught up with them, because Kurosawa’s fatigue hasn’t abated at all. Flickering pangs of vertigo wash through him each time Kurosawa shifts in his lap. 

He’s going to have to make a hard choice.

“Kurosawa,” Adachi says, glancing down at his boyfriend’s pale face. “I think we need to get up. It’s going to start raining if we stay here any longer.”

“Mm?” mumbles Kurosawa from his resting place on Adachi’s thighs. He takes in the urgency in Adachi’s eyes and steels himself, pushing out a shallow breath as he sits up. Both hands are splayed over his face, shielding his expression as he works through the rebalancing of his equilibrium. He seems unaware of how Adachi is hovering at the small of his back, poised and ready in case he starts to waver.

“Still dizzy?” 

“I’ll make it okay,” Kurosawa assures, palms braced against his knees as he comes to a shaky stand. Another gust of wind blows in, stirring up stray leaves on the sidewalk. They swirl in the glow of the lamplight, then disappear as the wind carries them farther into the night. Adachi raises an arm to keep his hair from hitting his eyes. Beside him, Kurosawa folds in with a shiver.

That’s hardly promising, thinks Adachi in lieu of a retort, frowning. 

“It looks like you don’t trust me,” Kurosawa chuckles. “Carry me instead?”

Flashing back to their time in the sauna, Adachi blanches. He doesn’t work out like Kurosawa does, and Kurosawa is much taller than him, broader and more built. His muscles strain at the mere idea of it.

“I’m not very strong. I’d probably drop you,” he muses, cheeks warming at the thought of Kurosawa in his trembling arms, long limbs tumbling out of his hold, “but if you need me to, I can try.”

In the middle of the pathway, Kurosawa stands with a hand cupping the lower half of his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Adachi circles back to where Kurosawa is, “is your fever getting worse?” and as the words leave his lips, he realizes that Kurosawa is blushing. 

It still catches Adachi by surprise, that he can draw an expression like this from someone like Kurosawa without meaning to. There’s something delicate about the intensity Kurosawa feels from even the slightest of Adachi’s affections, like each one is something to be savored and teased apart, held close to his heart like something precious. Adachi has never known love at all, much less like this. He doesn’t know how to return Kurosawa’s intensity, only how to collect these moments and mull over them, slowly and steadily letting them meld together into an unshakable fondness. 

“No,” Kurosawa says, shaking his head, bringing Adachi back to the present, “nothing like that.” He takes a step forward, and Adachi monitors it carefully, not realizing until he exhales that he’d been expecting Kurosawa to stumble.

When that doesn’t happen, he waits for Kurosawa to catch up, then lets him set their pace as he leads towards the other end of the park and into the start of the residential blocks. 

There’s a corner store looming in the distance, and Adachi wonders if he should pay it a visit once he’s gotten Kurosawa settled. He’ll have to see what Kurosawa has already stocked. He has to remember that Kurosawa was the one who filled his medicine cabinets with supplies the last time he had a cold. The chances that his own are empty is slim. Either way, it’s nice to know that the option is there if need be.

A glowing orange hand waits for them on the other side of the street. A few cars pass by, headlights illuminating the asphalt, but the sidewalks are largely empty. Adachi tilts his head up at a fractured rumble of thunder, quickly followed by a distant flash of lightning. 

In charged anticipation, they wait. 

At the same time the sign flips to green, a single bead of rain splashes onto one of the crosswalk’s thick, white stripes. The first of the storm, it comes with friends. A cool drip of water strikes Adachi across the cheek, followed by another on the crown of his head. By the time they’ve crossed the intersection, steady rainfall has begun over their corner of Tokyo.

Fortunately, just as Kurosawa predicted earlier, he does recognize the area.

He scans the streets for any awnings to walk under, finding none. Of course. Just his luck. Or maybe he’s spoken too soon, because the rain is starting to pick up, falling heavier and faster around them, reminding him that it’s never too late for things to get worse.

Turning back towards Kurosawa, who’s flinching in the battering wind, Adachi shouts, “I think we should run.” 

Kurosawa’s expression is hard to decipher. To be honest, Adachi isn’t sure if Kurosawa has even heard him at all.  

Sorry, Kurosawa, but you’ll thank me later. 

He takes Kurosawa’s rain slick hand in his and starts to run, gripping his palms as tightly as he can. Puddles are already starting to collect on the sidewalk, reflections of blurry lights shimmering amidst the constant disturbance of new rainfall. Their footsteps tear through each watery likeness of Kurosawa’s neighborhood, their single, unbroken form rippling in reflections.

-

“ihKSCHhh’iewh!” Paused in the middle of the stairwell, Kurosawa gives a weighted sniffle, and then repeats the motion of drawing in a great inhale and pitching forward into both hands, flinging beads of water from the ends of his damp bangs. “AehH-! ’HTZzschhiiew!”

“Ah,” Adachi frets, finding that once again, his hands are suspended in the space around Kurosawa. Close enough to touch him, but not quite. “You’re completely soaked.”

One hand blocking the lower half of his face from view, Kurosawa fumbles in his pockets for his keys. They’re coming up on his unit. 

“So are you. It’ll feel good to dry off soon,” he agrees. 

“I can run a bath for you,” suggests Adachi. He glances down and catches a glimpse of Kurosawa unsteadily trying to fit his key into the lock. The urge to step in and offer to do it in his place rises in his throat. He imagines that that’s something Kurosawa would do without question.

“I’m sorry, Adachi.” Kurosawa says ruefully, and with the new acoustics of shelter, Adachi can hear as Kurosawa talks that he’s still out of breath. “I don’t know if I’m feeling well enough for that.” 

“That’s okay.” Adachi’s expression softens. Even though it was his idea that got shot down, Kurosawa is the one who looks upset. His downcast gaze is full of remorse, like he’s just said something awful. 

Kurosawa pushes the door open and flicks on the main light. Leaning his forearm against the wall, he starts to toe off his shoes. As Adachi is doing the same thing, accomplishing the same goal at twice the pace, he hears Kurosawa gasp with quiet urgency.

“uhhK’DJShhhyiuh!”

That’s no good. 

Still wearing his wet suit coat and his wet socks, Adachi ventures further into Kurosawa’s apartment, leaving a trail of damp footprints in his wake. It’s been a few months since he spent the night here, but he still remembers the layout.

Once he finds the bathroom, he pulls the nearest towel from where it hangs on the railing and rushes back to where Kurosawa is. 

“Here,” he drapes it over Kurosawa’s hair and begins to dry him off, gently patting away all the rivulets of rainwater streaming down Kurosawa’s flushed face. 

Instantly, he feels all of Kurosawa’s discomfort. How cold he is. How sick he feels. How uncomfortable and heavy his wet clothes are as they stick to his skin. An apprehension he can’t place. And through all that, his feverish, affectionate wonder.  

Adachi is being so gentle with me. The way he’s touching me, it’s like I’m dreaming. 

Adachi works with careful diligence, fluffing the towel around Kurosawa’s hair, then against the nape of his neck, and then lightly against his soaked shoulders and back. 

“Come sit down,” Adachi instructs, taking Kurosawa’s hand in his. He leads him to the low table in the center of the main room, helping to ease him into a sitting position. 

Shivering underneath the towel, Kurosawa glances up at him with glassy, unfocused eyes. His nose is running. A slow, small stream of it escaping his pink nostrils and glittering across his philtrum. He looks so small like this, helpless in a way Adachi had always considered outside the realm of possibility. 

It makes Adachi want to wrap him up. Siphon the chill from his bones and watch over him until he’s feeling like himself again. 

His mental image of Kurosawa has changed a lot in the past few months. He’d never imagined someone like him would feel such a strong pull to protect someone like Kurosawa either.

“I’ll be right back,” Adachi assures. He places a hand on Kurosawa’s shoulder, letting it linger longer than he intended because Kurosawa’s begun to lean into it.

What? Kurosawa looks at him like nothing else in the room matters, a subtle, wanting shift in his features playing out right before Adachi’s eyes. I don’t want him to go. 

“I’m just going to get you a change of clothes,” explains Adachi, withdrawing. He takes a step back, starting to angle himself towards the hall. “You shouldn’t sit in these any longer, it can’t be good for your cold.”

“Oh,” Kurosawa nods after a beat, then he smiles. It reaches his eyes, albeit weakly. “Thank you. Ah, Adachi, wait.”

Tilting his head, Adachi does just that.

“Don’t forget to dry yourself off, too. Otherwise, we’ll both be sick. You can wear anything you find in my closet.” 

Adachi’s heart twists. Kurosawa always thinks of me first. He reaches out to give Kurosawa another reassuring squeeze before making good on his words.

Adachi would look so cute in one of my sweatshirts… If the sleeves were too long for his arms, I don’t know if I could take it. Or maybe he’ll wear those pajamas again? I still think about the last time!! He looked just as cute as I thought he would. I still can’t believe-

Right. 

He gives Kurosawa a small smile. It’s a good sign that he can still muster this sort of intensity. 

He walks towards Kurosawa’s room, and two things happen at once. 

Behind him, Kurosawa starts to cough. It’s ticklish and heavy, no doubt something he was waiting for Adachi to leave before indulging in. At the same time, with a wistful heaviness in his chest, Adachi thinks back to the face Kurosawa made just before they entered his apartment. 

He realizes it’s the first time Kurosawa has ever told him no.

-

Adachi flicks on the light, letting his shoulders droop. He’s on edge, and fighting the need to shiver himself. He’s been so preoccupied with making sure Kurosawa was alright that it seems all of his own feelings had forced themselves to lie dormant, waiting for the right moment to catch up with him. 

This is the first time he’s seen Kurosawa’s room. It’s the first time he’s been over to stay the night since they started dating, and it’s a shame that he can’t drink it all in slowly, spending time figuring out how all of these things fit into who Kurosawa is.

There are potted plants near the windows, lush, well cared for and real. He’d noticed the first time he spent the night that Kurosawa had quite the green thumb. The plants in his room seem even more vibrant somehow, like they’d been tended to for quite some time. There’s a desk with some pictures that Adachi can’t quite make out, and a chair with several shirts slung over the back. In the corner is a bookshelf with a gap in one of the shelves, the nearby volumes slumping towards the empty space.

It’s messier than he expected it to be.

Continuing his cursory assessment, he notices that Kurosawa’s bed is unmade, gray blankets twisted with an empty, curved space on what Adachi can only assume is where Kurosawa sleeps. There’s a broken blister pack on his nightstand, a few mostly empty glasses of water, and a stack of old volumes of Zombie Dead. There are also piles of clothes scattered across the floor. Yesterday’s pants at the foot of the bed, the day before’s a few feet away. Stray socks here, there, and there, lying in limp, black piles near the plants. 

Adachi wonders if Kurosawa’s room is always half managed like this, or if the disarray is just another symptom of his oncoming illness. 

Speaking of which, Adachi has a job to do. He pulls open the closet door, revealing all of Kurosawa’s neatly arranged clothing. 

Instantly, he recognizes Kurosawa’s usual work attire. The outfit Kurosawa wore on their first date. Other stylish pieces that fit him, but that Adachi has never seen. For some reason, that makes Adachi feel self conscious. It reminds him that Kurosawa has an entire life outside of the office that he’s only barely begun to understand.

And you’ll keep learning more, he tells himself, the steady beat of the rain murmuring against the glass behind him. Bit by bit. 

He picks out a dark blue sweatshirt for Kurosawa, and an ivory one for himself, followed by two sets of gray sweatpants. Figuring it’s easier if he changes now, Adachi starts to strip out of his wet clothes. He grimaces at the resistance the damp fabric puts up as he peels it off of his skin. It’s madly unpleasant. 

There are extra towels near the top, so he reaches for one to dry off better before he slips on Kurosawa’s clothes, catching a glimpse of the pajamas Kurosawa got him. A pattern he’d never thought he’d recognize anywhere, in teal blue and purple. 

Wait. Adachi hesitates as he’s pulling the towel down. Purple? He doesn’t remember that. Did Kurosawa get him two? Or had he - Adachi blushes, concealing his face with his palm - had he bought them as a matching set?

Kurosawa is so ridiculous. And Adachi… maybe he’s just as ridiculous, because he’s gone and fallen for Kurosawa anyways.

Once he finishes changing, he gathers Kurosawa’s change of clothes in his arms. 

The scent of Kurosawa’s detergent surrounds him, the same one he catches hints of each time they embrace. It’s immensely comforting, something he unabashedly wants to bask in. He pauses just before entering the hallway, bringing his own sleeve closer, just so he can indulge a little longer in the scent.

It’s pure bliss, broken when Kurosawa starts to cough again. 

Flinging his arm to his side, Adachi remembers himself. He’s thankful that Kurosawa wasn’t around to see him doing that. 

He hadn’t understood Kurosawa very well when they’d first started talking, but he thinks that he gets it a little better now. How silly, how beautiful it is, to love someone. 

-

Adachi finds Kurosawa leaning back wearily against the arm of the couch with his knees drawn up. When he notices Adachi getting closer, he smiles.

“You look nice,” says Kurosawa, swallowing with a subtle wince. “That color suits you.”

“You can admire it more after you’ve changed too.” Adachi huffs, holding out the new clothes for Kurosawa. Only the topmost two buttons of his shirt are undone. A half hearted attempt seems to have been made at undoing his tie as well. It loosened at his neck, sitting in a half tangled mess. “Do you need help?”

“If you’re offering.”

Gently, Adachi kneels on the ground and draws Kurosawa’s slender fingers away from his chest.

“Your hands are so cold,” he observes sympathetically. “No wonder you were having a hard time.”

Kurosawa just sniffles and nods.

“Maybe I wanted you to undress me,” he says with a joking flourish that lacks its usual energy.

Adachi hooks a finger into a loose fold of Kurosawa’s tie and starts to pull the ends apart.

Am I really that helpless right now? 

Unraveling the rest of the short end from the loop, Adachi whisks Kurosawa’s tie off and sets it on the table. Then, he turns his attention to the rest of the buttons on Kurosawa’s shirt, easing them open, one by one.

Adachi is so close. I can’t believe how careful he’s being. My heart is beating so fast. I… I… ohno-

Despite recognizing the hairpin trigger warning that Kurosawa is about to sneeze, Adachi hardly has time to prepare. He still jolts with surprise when Kurosawa palms him back, hurriedly burying his nose in his shoulder, the contracting muscles of his stomach peeking out from his half open shirt.

“h’kggxNTsschh’iiuh!”

The stuffy quality to Kurosawa’s sneezing is new. The concerted, unsuccessful effort at suppressing the intensity of them is something else that isn’t lost on Adachi either. That’s always been a running theme in their courtship. Kurosawa trying and failing to be collected.

Adachi scans the room for a nearby box of tissues after Kurosawa sniffles and it’s heavy enough to indicate their necessity. Being out in the rain certainly hasn’t done him any favors. 

“uhKGdt-iieshhHH’euh!” Kurosawa coughs from behind his hand, sniffling profusely. 

“Those don’t sound very good,” comments Adachi. He sets a box of tissues in Kurosawa’s lap. 

“Sorry,” Kurosawa says sheepishly. Their fingertips brush as he grabs the box from Adachi.

What a terrible display. I feel so self conscious. I can’t even look at Adachi right now. I hope he isn’t put off by me.

A swell of vulnerability, as if Kurosawa is preemptively expecting to be hurt, transfers through Adachi’s touch. It feels awful.

“Don’t be,” mindful of how Kurosawa is looking away, Adachi shakes his head. He aims for the gentlest voice he can muster, “Your cold is getting worse.” 

The silence that sits between them is uncomfortable.

He isn’t sure what the best course of action to take is. Stay by Kurosawa’s side? Or give him the privacy to change and clean himself up? When he thinks of what he’d want, there’s no question that he’d prefer to be left alone. There are other ways he can make himself useful.

“Where do you keep your medicine?” he asks. 

“Ah, in the bathroom cabinet.”

“Okay. Give me a second.”

“Okay.”

Adachi makes his way back to the bathroom. He pulls the cabinets open and scans the small shelves in front of him, feeling once more like he’s peeking into Kurosawa’s private life. He finds an already opened, mostly full package of cold medicine and frowns.

How long has Kurosawa been sick then? 

The not so muffled sound of Kurosawa productively blowing his nose reaches him through the open door, a pang rippling through Adachi’s chest in the moment after. There’s something so sad about how hard Kurosawa is trying not to take up space in his own home. 

It was the same way at the office, wasn’t it?

“hh-hhH’Uhktsshiew!”

With a weary glance back at the hall, Adachi splits off a section from the blister pack, curling his hand around its sharp, plastic edges. He returns to Kurosawa, whose wet clothes have been cast unceremoniously to the side.

“Hey,” he says softly, heart fluttering at the way Kurosawa looks up at him from the couch. Seeing him with a flushed face and a sickly pallor in comfortable clothing feels vulnerable. An unfamiliar need takes root in Adachi’s chest. He aches to have Kurosawa in his arms. 

“I brought something for your fever.”

Falling into place beside him, Adachi brushes a hand through Kurosawa’s faintly damp bangs. He leans forward until their foreheads rest together, noting that Kurosawa tenses briefly at the contact before leaning in. 

He can’t explain why he does it, where the sudden burst of bravery comes from, but he nuzzles against Kurosawa before pulling away with a solemn announcement.

“Still warm.” He fiddles with the medicine in his hand. “It’s better not to take this on an empty stomach, do you feel up to eating anything?”

“I think so.”

“Alright, good. I’m not even half the cook you are, but I can make you something simple.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Kurosawa murmurs. He lays his arm across the top of the couch and slumps against it. Despite how exhausted he is, warmth for Adachi still shines through his gaze. “Anything you make for me will be good, because you’ll have put your heart into it.”

Amazing. Adachi thinks. Kurosawa really never misses a beat. 

Still, he knows that his intuition in the kitchen is lacking.

“You’ll have to get better soon.” Adachi stammers.

“Hm?”

“You’ll have to get better soon,” repeats Adachi, clearer, “so that you can give me some pointers.”

Kurosawa smiles. 

“Okay then. It’s a deal.”

The moment makes Adachi feel as if he has the permission to be bold. He squeezes Kurosawa’s hand before getting up once more, for the most part feeling exactly what he expects. Exhaustion, affection, and above all, relief.

-

It comes as no surprise to Adachi that Kurosawa’s food pantry is well stocked. He sees that Kurosawa has dashi packets, miso, and dried wakame, and allows himself a small sigh of relief. Miso soup had always been his plan, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to resort to a back up. 

While Adachi is collecting everything he needs, he takes care not to make too much noise. He doesn’t know why it’s so important to him, but he doesn’t want Kurosawa to think he’s making a mess of his kitchen. It matters so much to him that it’s painful to retrieve bowls, chopsticks, even the pot he needs just because of how much sound it creates to do so.

His nerves, it seems, keep resurfacing each time he finds a moment to be alone.

He wants to remind himself that it’s fine, but he can’t even pinpoint the source of his worries. Maybe it’s just the newness of it all. Every touch feels experimental, even Kurosawa overflows with joy at each one. Maybe he’s afraid of how it would feel if Kurosawa were ever to react otherwise. Maybe he’s terrified of his own greed.

“hk’gHTSSchh’ooh!”

He startles when Kurosawa sneezes, slowly breathing out through his mouth. Right. That’s right. He can worry about these things later.

-

“It’s delicious,” Kurosawa praises, absolutely delighted after taking his first sip. His entire face is lit up, absolutely beaming with adoration.

Adachi smiles and nods.

The soup is mediocre. 

Unfamiliar with Kurosawa’s burners, Adachi had let the broth boil. Consequently, the flavor had evaporated as penance. It’s not like he’s messed up something as easy as miso soup, but still he knows he could have done better.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Kurosawa about his mistakes, so he just offers his thanks. There’s a small part of him that wonders if Kurosawa is just trying to boost his ego, so he sneaks glances in between his own sips.

Kurosawa, despite looking weary and a little tender, happily spoons the soup to his lips. It’s a slow process, but ultimately he seems at ease with each sip

he takes. Faint smiles ghost across his lips every so often, as if Adachi isn’t in the room with him. 

Adachi doesn’t have much to say. He doesn’t want to break Kurosawa from this trance. There’s something mesmerizing about it. He hadn’t realized how rewarding it was, to see someone he loves enjoy a meal he’s made with so much earnesty. No wonder Kurosawa had always wanted to cook for him so badly.

It touches his heart when he gathers their bowls and he notices the flower painted on the porcelain at the bottom of Kurosawa’s, as if it’s telling him job well done. 

-

“It's getting late,” Kurosawa starts, sniffling, “I can lay out the futon for you.” 

“What are you talking about?” protests Adachi, “You’re the sick one here. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re still a guest in my home.” Kurosawa pushes his hair back, leaning forward to rest against his knees. There’s a bit more color to his face after eating, but that doesn’t mean he looks well. 

“Adachi?” Kurosawa says when Adachi takes too long to respond, a nervous edge in his voice.

Adachi can only blink as he considers what to do next. Truthfully, he wants to spend time looking after Kurosawa. He wants to care for him through the night the same way Kurosawa did for him, but admitting that directly feels too vulnerable somehow, like he’d be pressuring Kurosawa into wanting that too. He’d never even considered that they’d sleep in separate rooms.

He smiles apologetically, not wanting to worry Kurosawa any further.

“You must be getting tired then.” Adachi rounds the table to where Kurosawa is, then extends his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Ah, together? Are you sure?” Kurosawa furrows his brow, following up with a soft, unsure, “You know I have a cold.”

“Yeah,” Adachi nods. “I want to be there if you need anything.”  

Color floods Kurosawa’s face. Adachi is sure it has less to do with the fever, and more with Kurosawa’s own bashfulness. Or maybe it is the fever, blurring the lines of Kurosawa’s emotions, forcing them all to the top.

As Kurosawa reaches for his hand, Adachi tells himself that if he finds that Kurosawa would prefer privacy, that he’ll respect it. He’ll make sure Kurosawa is comfortable and then find the right time to slip out. No hard feelings. 

Kurosawa’s grip, usually cool and dry, is feverishly clammy.

I’m so relieved that Adachi still wants to stay with me. I was so worried he wouldn’t… I just want him to be next to me. I don’t want to sleep alone. Is that childish? Everything feels better when Adachi is there. 

Heart jumping to his throat, Adachi stifles a gasp. Kurosawa’s insecurities are like a vice in his chest, heartbreaking and not meant for him. He squeezes Kurosawa’s hand harder, afraid that if he doesn’t he’ll feel like crying.

-

“Sorry, my room isn’t always this messy,” Kurosawa sniffles, turning away from Adachi to cough. “I’ve been too tired to pick up.

“It’s fine,” Adachi assures him. He waits as Kurosawa gravitates towards the bed, crawling over the impressions left in the sheets to leave room for Adachi to sit down. Adachi shuts off the main light before heading over, leaving them bathed in the soft glow of Kurosawa’s bedside lamp.

“So you’ve been under the weather for a while then?” Adachi pries while Kurosawa settles underneath the covers, half heartedly tugging them up to his chest. 

It’s still storming outside, thunder warbling in the distance while the rain whispers at the window. Kurosawa winces as he turns to face Adachi.

“A few days,” Kurosawa admits softly. Unable to help himself, Adachi leans over to fix the blankets. He pulls them over Kurosawa’s shoulders, tucking the edges in. He leaves his hand on the curve of Kurosawa’s back, absently rubbing it up and down as he frowns.

There was so much work to do with that new client. Maybe I’ve pushed myself too hard.

“I’m sorry,” continues Kurosawa, “I know I should’ve told you. I didn’t want to worry you if it wasn’t serious.”

I hope Adachi isn’t upset with me.

“I want to know these things.” Swinging his legs over, Adachi pulls the other end of the blankets over himself, tentatively shifting until he can feel Kurosawa’s knees brushing against his shins. He’s still half sitting, leaning against the headboard.

This is the first time they’ve shared a bed. The first time their bodies have ever been close in this way. He feels stiff, desiring closeness and unsure how to approach it.

“If you’re tired or not feeling well,” Adachi starts, pulling his hands into his lap. He starts to twist the sheets, nervously weathering the silky fabric between his fingertips. He has that tightness in his chest that he gets when words are about to start falling out of him.

“Then I want to make things easier for you. I know you work really hard, Kurosawa, and it’s rare to see you down, but if you are then I want to be there for you. I don’t like to think of you pushing through things alone because you’re afraid you’re going to worry me. I’m your boyfriend now and I really care about you,” Adachi inhales, glancing over to meet Kurosawa’s wide eyes, “so please tell me these things from now on, okay?” 

In the few seconds of silence that follow, Adachi feels like he’s hyper aware of every muscle in Kurosawa’s face. He’s ready to overanalyze any subtle shifts, ready to collapse at the first indication that he might have overstepped.

“Okay,” Kurosawa finally breathes. “You’re right.” Weakly, he grasps at the folds of Adachi’s sweatshirt, pulling until he can rest his forehead against Adachi’s shoulder. The pounding ache in his temples translates through his touch.

Hesitant and intentional, Adachi pulls that same arm back and away, wincing with guilt when he feels the flash of Kurosawa’s alarm. He moves closer, placing his arm around Kurosawa’s shoulder to draw him towards his chest. It’s an awkward attempt, and the awareness of that has Adachi’s heart beating faster.

Thankfully, Kurosawa adjusts them. He shifts so that his head is tucked underneath Adachi’s chin, throwing one leg over Adachi’s so that it’s easier to turn his body in. It’s not the first time that Kurosawa has slept with someone like this, Adachi is sure, but he can feel Kurosawa’s nerves, his awareness of their bodies and his unsureness of how they’re meant to fit together, just as clear as his own.

He pulls Kurosawa into him, relaxing as Kurosawa snuggles into him. The urge to kiss every part of Kurosawa within his reach shouts inside of him. The crown of his head, the skin near his lips. His uncertainty is louder. He resists. 

“I don’t know why I get so self conscious.” Kurosawa murmurs into Adachi’s chest. Wanting to do something with his hands, Adachi pets Kurosawa’s hair. The movements are gentle and timid, like he’s stroking the wings of a butterfly, perched on his fingertip and liable at any moment to flutter off.

That feels so nice. Adachi is so nervous, I can tell. I love him so much I feel like my heart could burst. 

“It’s okay.” Adachi continues to stroke Kurosawa’s hair. People always pay so much attention to Kurosawa. Any tendency to hide these parts of himself would make sense to Adachi. Kurosawa stands out naturally, but that doesn’t mean the spotlight is always welcome.

Kurosawa nods, and then he pulls the collar of his sweatshirt over his nose and jolts in Adachi’s arms.

“hH’Kshhewh!”

Adachi flinches in surprise, and then he hugs Kurosawa tighter as he starts to cough. He waits for Kurosawa’s embarrassment to ebb away, then frowns when Kurosawa starts to shiver.

“Are you still cold?”

“A little. Pull me closer?” The familiar, teasing edge to Kurosawa’s tone makes Adachi feel more at ease. 

“Closer than you already are?” he smiles. “Come here.”

The moment is so sweet that Adachi almost doesn’t notice the way that Kurosawa’s head spins from such a minimal shift. The heat from his fever burns where his forehead rests against Adachi’s neck.

“Are you tired, Adachi?”

“Not really. Definitely not as tired as you. You should try to get some sleep.”

“Mm. I would’ve liked to entertain you more. It’s not every day we get to spend the night.”

“I can entertain myself.” Adachi says, eyes flicking over. “You left all those copies of Zombie Dead.” He grabs one and starts to flip through the pages. Volume 7. It isn’t his favorite, so he’ll probably swap it out once Kurosawa falls asleep.  “I’ll just read these.”

“Oh, which one is that?” Kurosawa perks up, tilting his head so he can peer over at the cover. “One of my favorite arcs is in the volume after this.” He shimmies deeper into Adachi’s hold, straining so that he can see the panels. 

“We can read it together, if you want?” suggests Adachi, setting the book lower so that it’s in Kurosawa’s line of view. “Until you fall asleep.”

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

It’s easy for them to slip into a cadence as they read, though Adachi suspects Kurosawa isn’t paying as much attention as he is. At first, he slips his finger under the next page once he’s ready to turn it, and Kurosawa gives a short nod as a go ahead. Then those become few and far between, and the quiet commentary Kurosawa’s been offering starts to taper off, his head growing heavier on Adachi’s shoulder. 

“Kurosawa?” Adachi whispers, looking up from an action sequence in the manga panels.

Kurosawa’s eyes are shut, his eyelashes fluttering gently. His breathing is heavy and even, coming in soft wisps through his mouth. Adachi takes a second just to admire how gentle Kurosawa looks in his sleep, how peaceful. He wants to kiss him so badly. 

Okay, he steels himself, just one. Just one won’t hurt. 

Slowly, Adachi lowers his lips to Kurosawa’s forehead and  presses a shy, chaste kiss to his fever warm skin. He tenses, waiting for the whirlwind onslaught of Kurosawa’s affections to let him know that he’s been caught, and it doesn’t come. Kurosawa’s breathing remains steady and undisturbed. Light with relief, Adachi kisses him again, more confident as he leans in, intoxicated by the faint scent of Kurosawa’s shampoo and the feeling of Kurosawa’s skin against his cheek.

–

The copy of Zombie Dead is still strewn across his chest when Adachi wakes up. He’d meant to set the book back on the nightstand before falling asleep, but it seems he was too lost in the novelty of holding Kurosawa and didn’t get to it. There’s a crick in his neck and a vacancy in his arms. Kurosawa has twisted away from him, curled at the opposite edge of the bed with the covers thrown off. The rain is beating a steady rhythm on the roof, having gone from a roar to a drizzle in the time since he’d nodded off. Adachi blinks slowly, wondering through a drowsy haze just what it was that roused him. Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar mattress, or maybe he’s gotten too hot. 

It’s not a big deal. After he fixes the covers for Kurosawa he can forget all about it. He stifles a yawn into his fist, sets the book aside, and carefully reaches over, aiming not to disturb Kurosawa. 

A choked gasp resonates from the other end of the bed, immediately grabbing Adachi’s attention. Brows knit with concern, he freezes, uncertain, as if what he’s just heard might have been no more than a trick his still half asleep mind is playing on him. As he tries to focus on the silence, he realizes that it’s not just the rain creating the room’s ambient noise. Kurosawa is panting, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.

“Kurosawa,” he whispers, one hand hovering just above Kurosawa’s exposed form. Eyes having adjusted to the moonless light, he notices that Kurosawa is shaking, his hands bunched tightly at the corner of his pillow. 

“Kurosawa,” Adachi says with more urgency, gently starting to rub Kurosawa’s back. He’s too warm. His clothes are soaked in sweat. When Adachi’s hand brushes against his neck, the skin there is damp and hot to the touch. Even without his magic, Kurosawa’s fear is palpable. To touch him at all transfers feelings of anxiety and despair so raw and strong that it’s nauseating, clawing at Adachi’s own throat and making his blood feel cold. “Hey,” Adachi murmurs, sitting up now. He starts to shake Kurosawa’s shoulder with a fearful vigor. “Kurosawa, wake up.”

And eventually, Kurosawa does with a sharp, desperate inhale. He starts to pant, chest heaving from the comedown, and then dissolves into a fit of quiet coughs.

“Adachi?” he says in a small, hoarse voice once he’s caught his breath. “You’re still here?”

“What are you saying? Of course I’m still here.” Adachi turns on the lamp, squinting at the abrasiveness of the new light. Kurosawa sniffles, still facing away from him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Kurosawa’s voice is shivery and thin. He clears his throat and sniffles again. “Just a bad dream, I’m okay.”

“Okay.” Adachi sighs. “I think your fever is up again.” He retrieves the sheet of medicine already on Kurosawa’s nightstand by sliding it into his palm, breaking the room’s silence with the sound of its quick, grating resistance. “You should take something for it.”

“Alright,” Kurosawa agrees, gingerly sitting up. His hair is covering his eyes, but Adachi can make out the thin, hard line of his mouth. Something is wrong, but Adachi doesn’t want to press. He breaks out another small pill, then grabs some water for Kurosawa to wash it down with. When he turns back, Kurosawa is rubbing the cuffs of his sleeves across his cheeks, sniffling quietly. The sound is thick, like his sinuses are swollen. His fingers are trembling, and there are dark, misshapen freckles of moisture at the head of the blankets.

Quickly, Adachi sets everything down and rushes towards Kurosawa. He knows he should be doing something, but again, he’s in new territory. He’s never seen Kurosawa like this. 

“Hey,” he says softly, “What’s wrong?”

Kurosawa shakes his head with a breathy, incredulous laugh. 

“Sorry. It’s silly.” 

“No.” Uncertain of himself, always always so frustratingly uncertain of himself, he circles his arms around Kurosawa’s waist and drops his head onto Kurosawa’s shoulder. “It’s not silly if it upsets you.”

Kurosawa’s lower lip starts to quiver, fresh tears wending down his cheek when he blinks. His eyelashes are dark, clumped together from the moisture. Beautiful.

Why am I still so worked up? I keep remembering how it felt when Adachi looked at me like that and getting so sad. It was just a dream. It’s okay. Stop freaking out. 

The memory of Kurosawa’s nightmare fills Adachi’s thoughts, and with it, a taste of Kurosawa’s unspoken fear and insecurity. Adachi feels his own chest clenching at the false visage of his disappointment. The echo of a door closing and Kurosawa slumped against a wall with his head in his hands. It feels horrible to witness. Wrong to see. The more Kurosawa tries to calm himself down, the more Adachi can feel him spiraling. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Kurosawa sniffles and nods, and Adachi balls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt around his fist, gently wiping at Kurosawa’s teary cheeks. The faintest tremor is still present when one of Kurosawa’s hands grasps at Adachi’s forearm. Adachi nuzzles into Kurosawa’s neck, slowly running his thumb over Kurosawa’s knuckles, holding him until his damp, involuntary sniffles start to peter out.

The time that they stay like that feels immeasurable, but it’s tender and important. It’s late and sleep is starting to pull at him again, but Adachi doesn’t mind staying like this. He’ll do anything if it helps Kurosawa. 

He leans over and grabs some tissues for Kurosawa to clean himself up, face falling in sympathy as Kurosawa leans away to blow his nose. He does it with the difficulty of a good cry, filling the room with an ugly, vulnerable sound. When he’s finished, Adachi tugs him back. He brushes his lips against Kurosawa’s forehead, tightening his embrace at the rush of affection that it earns. 

-

The next time Adachi wakes up, there’s an arm slung over his torso and Kurosawa’s face is buried deep in his neck. He’s snoring gently. Adachi can’t help but smile, finding the whole thing endearing. 

Moving as imperceptibly as he possibly can, he reaches for his phone and messages Fujisaki that both he and Kurosawa will be out today, but that the documents for the higher ups should be sitting on Kurosawa’s desk.

After she confirms that she’ll let everyone know, Adachi sets his phone down and starts the careful job of extracting himself from Kurosawa’s hold. There’s mild protest as he removes Kurosawa’s arm, a frustrated, sleepy whimper that Adachi needs time to sit with. He watches with tender curiosity as Kurosawa’s brow furrows in his sleep before his expression fades once more into serenity. It’s too cute. 

Once he’s out of bed, he makes sure that Kurosawa is still adequately covered by the blankets, and then begins to pick up some of the stray things on the floor. He folds Kurosawa’s dirty clothes over his arms, setting them near the hamper in his closet. He straightens out the bookshelves and collects stray scraps of plastic scattered across his desk.

“You don’t have to do that,” comes Kurosawa’s groggy voice as Adachi is stacking empty cups.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

“Mhm.” Kurosawa mumbles, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Adachi walks back to the bedside as Kurosawa starts to sit up. 

“How are you feeling?” He snakes a hand under Kurosawa’s bangs, finding the cool, clammy trace of a fever that’s been sweat out. “You don’t feel as warm.”

“A little sore, but better.” Adachi winces at the way Kurosawa’s voice grates on the way out. “What time is it? Are we-” Kurosawa starts to sit up, eyes widening with confusion when Adachi places a halting hand on his chest.

“I called out for you. Don’t worry. I think you still need another day to rest.”

“Oh…” Kurosawa says, before yawning into his fist. It looks like he can hardly keep his eyes open. “I see.” 

A few moments pass, and Adachi can tell that Kurosawa is already starting to drift off again, right where he sits. 

“You’re not much of a morning person, are you, Kurosawa?” 

Sluggishly, Kurosawa shakes his head. He slumps over onto Adachi, his breathing immediately growing even and slow. 

“Come back to bed,” he whispers, congestion rounding out his already soft consonants. 

And Adachi is more than happy to oblige. He falls back into the mattress with ease, like a space there had always been carved just for him. 

[ithadtobesneezing]

tug of war [1/2]

i am so obsessed with this show!! And the idea of someone being able to read the thoughts of someone who's trying to hide that they're sick!! ummmmmmmmm *throws*

fandom: Cher/ry Magic | characters: Kuro/sawa, Ada/chi, mentions of side characters | length: do not even worry about it.. (6.1k)

summary: Kurosawa, Adachi is coming to learn, has weird hang ups about being ill

-

Adachi doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on his coworkers as he’s leaning down by the vending machines to grab his morning coffee. He’s always been aloof and quiet, a passerby in their corporate halls that his coworkers have never felt the need to lower their voices around. It’s opened up a world of mundane gossip to him that’s useless in his hands.

And perhaps that’s deserved. It goes both ways. Adachi has already decided to write them off as office white noise when he hears something that piques his interest, turning him into a satellite focused on the two men making small talk by the corner.

“Kurosawa sure had a rough go of it this morning, didn’t he? Late to the Ueno meeting and unprepared on top of that.”

Adachi’s hand hovers at the mouth of the vending machine, the cold can having already clunked its way to the bottom seconds ago. 

“He’s lucky he’s so handsome. I don’t think I could’ve gotten away with a mistake like that.”

“Seriously! Forgetting to serve the client, I think they would’ve fired me for less. Is it true you could hear their stomach growling?”

“Yes.” The voice that’s speaking drops to a hushed whisper. “And it was so loud.”

“No way!”

Adachi decides he doesn’t need to hear any more of this, finally retrieving his coffee. He pops the tab and brings the rim to his lips as he turns to walk, taking in a sip of the bitter liquid.

“Adachi.” 

Spluttering at the sound of his own name, he does the polite thing and shields his face with his forearm as he coughs his way back to composure.

“Asahina,” he starts, still a little out of breath. “Sorry, you startled me.”

“Apologies,” Asahina says with a practiced smile. The other man in between them, someone Adachi vaguely recognizes from a different department, raises an eyebrow. “You’re close to Kurosawa, right?”

Adachi can’t help it. Heat rises and pools in his cheeks. Before he’d returned Kurosawa’s confession, reminders that people saw their closeness and ease with each other made him feel bashful, nervous, like he was stripped bare and on display. Now that they’re together, he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s been caught doing something illicit every time their names are mentioned together. Their relationship is fresh and tender, uncharted territory he’s timidly feeling his way through. He’s still working on it.

“Y-yes,” he manages, choosing his next words carefully. “We’re friends.”

“Right. Has something been going on with him lately?”

“Huh?”

“He’s been little off the past few days, I thought you might know why.”

Really? Kurosawa? Thinking back, their schedules have kept them from walking home together all week. Kurosawa has been working late nights, and refusing Adachi’s help. He’s always smiled as he’s sent Adachi off though, felt so warm and safe with each tender embrace goodbye. Is something wrong? If there is, his thoughts haven’t given anything away.

Adachi realizes the flimsy metal of his coffee can is starting to dent in his grasp.

“Ah, no I haven’t heard of anything.”

“Oh, I see. Don’t think too much of it, maybe it’s just the change in the weather,” Asahina shrugs, leaning against the wall.

“Okay,” murmurs Adachi. “See you later.” 

As he turns the corner, he scrapes a nail across the smooth surface of his coffee, pausing to note the imperfections he’s caused in the frame. 

-

The first thing he does upon returning to his desk is pull up the spreadsheet with the numbers on one of Kurosawa’s main clients. He’s already sure of the data, he’s already sure of most of his work, really, but his brain is pulling him towards Kurosawa and this will give him a reason to cross the office space and end up at Kurosawa’s desk.

It feels silly, engineering an excuse to be close when they’ve already said their I love yous and gone on a few dates, but the thought of approaching Kurosawa just because in front of the whole office makes Adachi’s head spin. Maybe it’s more romantic this way. It’s not a work question, it’s a secret rendezvous, a charged moment in disguise.

He wishes he weren’t so nervous. 

Spreadsheet finalized, he clicks a button and hears the printer whirring to life. He walks over to collect a small stack of papers, tucks them securely against his chest, and then approaches Kurosawa’s desk. 

“Kurosawa,” announces Adachi on his arrival.

“Adachi,” Kurosawa breathes, face melting into a smile as he swivels around. Too pretty. Adachi fights to see through the glow, concentrating on the soft worry lines underneath Kurosawa’s eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He holds out the papers, feeling shy as the shine of Kurosawa’s charm starts to bleed into the space around them. “I have Ueno’s numbers for the past month. Could you look these over for me?”

“Of course,” Kurosawa murmurs fondly, turning in his chair to face Adachi properly. He takes the papers from Adachi’s hands without grazing the skin underneath, which is unusual for him. He’s never one to miss an opportunity for a casual touch. Not only that, but he’s foiled Adachi’s plan to peek into his thoughts. “I’m happy you came to see me.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Adachi pouts.

“Then I’m happy you needed me to do it, if it means I get some time to see you,” Kurosawa says, effortlessly adoring. Adachi feels his face warming. It’s always growing hot around Kurosawa.

“Me too,” he says quietly, taking the chance to lean against Kurosawa’s shoulder as he taps the papers on his desk to straighten them out. It feels invasive, prying like this, but it’s such an easy fix. There’s a rush that comes with hearing Kurosawa’s thoughts, a small, sinful thrill that Adachi has become shamefully reliant on.

If he finds out something he’s not meant to know, he’ll deal with it later.

Ah man. I wish I could’ve touched Adachi’s hand. He’s so cute today. 

Okay, Adachi thinks, breathing easier. Same old Kurosawa. He starts to ease off.

I don’t know how I’m going to concentrate on these. My head hurts. I shouldn’t have come in today, but I guess it can’t be helped, can it? And I embarrassed myself earlier too… 

Adachi frowns, pulling back, sitting with the sting of this new development. Kurosawa isn’t feeling well? He’s been working so many late nights— has he not been taking care of himself? 

The poorly conducted meeting begins to make sense. It’s not like an ace salesman like Kurosawa to make such trivial mistakes. 

“I’ll bring these by later, okay?” Kurosawa says, bright as ever. It gives Adachi pause. If he wasn’t able to read Kurosawa’s thoughts, would he have even been able to tell that Kurosawa was under the weather? There are so many things he has yet to learn about Kurosawa. This is just another addition to a long list, a race with a constantly shifting finish line.

“Sounds good,” Adachi says with a nod. There are other words on the tip of his tongue, questions withering away in his throat. It’s not the time. It’s not the place. He’d stumble, trying to explain himself.

His hand lingers starfished by Kurosawa’s shoulder, itching to give it some sort of squeeze. This view, this lighting, this room, this exact situation, he’s seen it all so many times before. Just not like this.

In the end it feels too foreign. He’s a coward. He can’t do it.

“I’m going to head back. I’ll see you, Kurosawa.”

“See you, Adachi.” 

Hands at his side, Adachi turns, the sound of his name in Kurosawa’s mouth echoing in tune with his heartbeat. His own empty desk in sight, he takes his leave. 

“Hih’iishchiiew!”

Adachi swivels around, senses on high alert. He finds Kurosawa with a knuckle curled against his nose, thumb resting just on the edge of it. Gaze still unfocused, Kurosawa’s eyebrows knit, then quiver. His shoulders hike twice, and then another delicate, airy sneeze rocks him forward.

“ihgk’sschiiuh!”

The first thought to cross Adachi’s mind is that even Kurosawa’s sneezes are perfect. Soft, polite, and unassuming, in total contrast to his. Befitting of someone so beautiful.

“Are you alright?” asks Adachi, hesitating at the edge of someone else’s desk. Kurosawa sniffles and blinks from behind his fist, giving Adachi a reassuring look. He waves him off cheerfully.

“I’m okay. All good. This part of the office must need cleaning.”

An uncomfortable wave of something descends on him, tight and twisting in his chest. Maybe it’s selfish of him, but if Kurosawa isn’t feeling well, then he wants to know. If it’s vulnerable for someone like Kurosawa, he understands, so he doesn’t want to feel low about it.

He’s been away for so long that by the time he gets back to his own desk, his monitor has gone to sleep, revealing his uneasy reflection. He taps a few keys, bringing back a half completed draft of a document, and then drags a finger across his desk, the rim of his keyboard.

When he examines it after, it’s clean. So clean that he can make out the ridges of his fingertips, the short, half moons of his nails, peeking out over pale skin. 

-

A few hours later, Adachi is drying his hands after using the restroom. Catching himself in the mirror, he notices the flyaway hairs Kurosawa is always complimenting. He runs a hand over them, watching as they spring back up. Tricky little things.

There’s someone in one of the closed stalls nearby, probably waiting for him to leave. He hopes they won’t mind if he takes a few extra seconds to freshen up. He rolls a sleeve up and wets his hand under the tap, flinching when the person in the nearby stall starts to cough.

The bathroom itself is modest and tiled, the perfect environment for sharp, grating sounds like that to echo off of. He stays frozen, features pinching in sympathy as the coughs continue. Whoever this is, it sounds painful.

Slowly, he presses his palm to his stray hairs and smooths them down, taking care as if every movement of his joints carries the risk of sounding too abrasive. Eventually, the coughs die down, and Adachi silently apologizes as he stiffly dispenses several new sheets of paper towels.

The person in the stall sighs and gives a watery snuffle. Adachi decides he might as well take his leave and give them their privacy. They were already here when he arrived. He can’t help but wonder if they’d been there long, or if he’d accidentally infringed on some private ritual and they’d just been biding their time, waiting for him to leave.

As he pushes the door open, he hears the hushed crackle of this person cautiously starting to blow their nose. 

He glances at Kurosawa’s desk on his way back, unsurprised when he finds it vacant.

-

“Kurosawa,” Fujisaki says with a small bow, “Have you updated those documents on Ueno for today yet? I’m sorry to rush you, but the president keeps asking for them.”

This time, Adachi does mean to eavesdrop. 

“Not yet, I’ll have them done before I leave.”

“Okay,” Fujisaki says, “And I need you to report your expenses for the week, too. Sorry, it’s so much work.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not your fault.”

If Adachi’s desk didn’t naturally face away from Kurosawa’s, he knows he’d be sneaking glances, trying to see if he could discern any cracks in Kurosawa’s perfect facade. A twitch in his expression. A too short smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

There’s a gnawing suspicion that’s made a home in the back of his thoughts, an urge to pry where he’s not sure if he’s wanted.

He finds himself standing up, legs moving of their own accord until he’s switched places with Fujisaki. A beat passes and Kurosawa still hasn’t acknowledged him, so Adachi does the honors, leaning so that his chest rests on Kurosawa’s shoulder.

How am I going to do all this? My throat is killing me. So is my head. I should do the expenses first. That’s an easier job. 

“Kurosawa,” wanting to be mindful of Kurosawa’s health, Adachi speaks softly. He feels a little guilty when Kurosawa’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly taken by surprise. Just as quickly, Kurosawa’s crow's feet appear. His face relaxes into its usual charming smile, overriding his momentary lapse. “Did I startle you?”

“A little bit. Seems I was spacing out a little.”

Crap. That was so close! I don’t want Adachi to see me feeling sorry for myself. But it would feel so nice if I could lean my head on his shoulder for a little bit.

Kurosawa’s thoughts meld into his, so heavy with emotions, desires, raw want that the office turns into the train. 

They’re sitting together, thighs touching, and Kurosawa’s head is dropped down against Adachi’s shoulder. The surrounding passengers are gray and indistinct, unimportant, but the air around the two of them is so vivid that Adachi can hear the steady hum of the train moving along the rails. The sun is low in the sky, and Adachi is pulling him close with tender concern.

“Come here, Kurosawa,” he says, and in Kurosawa’s mind a thin glow frames him like a halo. Kurosawa himself feels pliant, breathless with relief.“You look so tired. Sleep on me.”

“Did you need something?” asks the Kurosawa in front of him. Of course his face betrays none of what Adachi’s just felt. “Oh, the Ueno numbers! I finished them a bit ago and was going to drop them off later. Everything was perfect. Good job, Adachi.”

“Thank you,” Adachi pauses, then shakes his head, studying Kurosawa’s face. He’s still smiling, but upon closer inspection, his complexion is washed. Sallow hues line his usually bright eyes, and the skin around his nose has taken on a gentle shade of pink. “I appreciate that, but I came over because I wanted to see you.”

Kurosawa hasn’t even said anything yet, but his appreciation is already threatening to swallow Adachi whole.

He came over here just to say see to me?! Adachi is so sweet! I love him so much!!! Just this moment is enough to help me get through the day. Yes, that’s it. I’ll just think of Adachi. If I start to feel tired, if I start to feel sick, I’ll think of Adachi and everything will be okay.

“Just what I needed.” Despite how he might be feeling, Kurosawa’s glow hasn’t dulled at all. Adachi swears he can see flower petals manifesting around him “Seeing you always makes my day better,”

“You always say things that sound straight out of a tv drama,” Adachi says.

“Just telling the truth.” Kurosawa reaches a hand out to rub his thumb over one of Adachi’s knuckles. It’s so simple. Adachi feels a sweet, flickering affection, his own this time.

Adachi’s voice sounds so gentle right now. It’s so nice. Fujisaki’s was starting to hurt my head, earlier. I guess that’s not really something she can help.

“Can we go home together tonight?”

“Ah-“ sheepishly breaking eye contact, Kurosawa hesitates. “I’m sorry, it seems like I’ve got some extra work to do and I don’t know how long it will take. I don’t want to make you wait for me.”

I won’t be good company. Oh, but it’s so rare for Adachi to ask first.

“That’s alright,” Adachi straightens. The lie falls out of him easily. “So do I. If we’re both going to stay a little later then it’s no problem. I uh-“ he stammers, remembering that it had been his idea to walk home together in the first place. “-would have tried to push myself, if it meant we could walk home together. This just means I can take it easier.”

Kurosawa stiffens, shoulders going rigid in contrast to the relief Adachi is teasing out, buried deep under his l nerves. The latest version of his smile is tinged with apprehension that Adachi only recognizes because he’s looking for it.

“Then I’d love to.”

Ah, this isn’t good. Should I tell him I’m not feeling well? I don’t want to get him sick. What if he doesn’t want to be around me anymore? 

Adachi sucks in a breath, pulling back like he’s been slapped. His heart feels heavy, like an anchor sinking into the pit of his stomach. The image of Kurosawa’s desire to rest against him flashes through his mind, the overwhelming comfort enveloped in his daydreams is enough to make Adachi feel like he wants to cry. Kurosawa’s worries couldn’t be further from the truth.

Adachi blinks, fighting to keep his expression neutral. 

“Perfect.” This is usually where one of them suggests they stop for drinks or an Izakaya, or to pop into the nearest bookstore. Anything to prolong the night. It feels awkward letting the silence linger between them, but they’re working late anyways, aren’t they? 

“I’ll look forward to it then.”

“Me tih-“ In the middle of his short sentence, Kurosawa gasps, shrinking away from Adachi to sneeze into his shoulder. “hhihd’ttsshiUw!”

Eyes bleary, he apologizes to Adachi, kicking off against the ground so that an outstretched arm is in range of the tissues nearby. It’s then that Adachi notices an incriminating amount of them piling up in the trash can underneath Kurosawa’s desk. Furrowing his brow, he has to admit he’s a little impressed that Kurosawa has managed to accrue so many in near complete silence.

“Hih… hih—! hah‘ihkChhiew!” The whispery sneeze is securely hidden into the feathery ridges of a tissue. Adachi watches, helpless, as Kurosawa folds at the waist, small tears beading in the corners of his eyes. “Hihd’zischhiu! Ishhhiieu’hh!”

Adachi steps closer, creating a barrier between Kurosawa and anyone else in the office’s curiosity. People are speculating, he’s sure of it. Especially the women. The spotlight that comes with being the office star stays focused, even when Kurosawa isn’t at his best. 

In the same, soft voice he used earlier, Adachi asks, “Are you feeling okay?” 

With a dewy glance up, a deep blush begins to spread across Kurosawa’s cheeks. He nods, a healthy dose of embarrassment still visible on his half obscured face. 

“You’ve been sneezing a lot. Maybe you’re getting a cold?” Adachi ventures, and Kurosawa sighs, neatly folding the fabric in his hands before tossing it.

“Something in the air, maybe,” supplies Kurosawa. He sniffs, “I’m alright, please don’t look at me with a face like that.”

“Right,” Adachi feels his stomach dipping. He can’t force a confession of poor health from Kurosawa if he doesn’t want to give one. “Maybe we can stop and get a nasal spray on the way home, if it’s still bothering you then.”

Again, Adachi catches a brief glimpse of surprise flitting across Kurosawa’s face before it collapses into a sincere smile. 

“Okay. I wouldn’t mind that.” Feeling a little braver, maybe emboldened by the earnest way Kurosawa is looking at him, Adachi lets his palm rest heavy on Kurosawa’s shoulder and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze.

Adachi’s worried face is so cute!!!!! I can’t believe he looked at me like that. So cute I could just die!!!! So cute. So cute so cute so cute socutesocutesocuteso—

Adachi withdraws his hand. He’s had enough. But he has to admit, the familiarity of his rambling inner monologue is a reprieve from all the unpleasant, confusing derivatives of concern floating around in his chest. Clearly, Kurosawa still has some energy. 

He feels distracted as he returns to his desk, quietly curling a fist at his sternum so that even in the sea of numbers sitting in front of him, he can still track the heavy, rhythmic pulse of his own heartbeat.

-

“Getting up again? Must be a really busy day for you, huh, Kurosawa?” Rokkaku’s strong suit has never been discretion. Every conversation he has is usually between him, the person in front of him, and the entire office.

“Looks like it,” echoes Kurosawa with a perfectly executed chuckle. “Excuse me, I need to go pick something up.”

Adachi pauses his typing, glancing out the window at the fading sunlight. His shadow sweeps across the floor, superimposing a distorted version of himself over the tile. He strains his ears in search of another abnormality, finding confirmation in a faint, but recognizable, string of faraway coughs.

-

After the last remaining person has trickles out from the office, Adachi waits another half an hour before deciding it’s time to check on Kurosawa again.

It had been an agonizing wait. His workload for the day had been light— he’d actually finished hours ago, which meant that he’d needed to invent tasks for himself until everyone else had left. He could only play around with Excel formulas for so long. 

He stretches as he stands, turning his head towards Kurosawa’s empty desk. Hold on. What? 

He reminds himself that there’s no need to panic. It’s not as if Kurosawa has gone home. His details are still up on the white board, an eyecatch within all the blank space, just like Adachi’s.

Adachi winds his way through the empty desks and peers over the cubicle walls into the row where Kurosawa sits. As quick and devastating as lightning, a flash of concern strikes him through the heart and begins to crawl down his skin.

With a new urgency, he makes his way to Kurosawa’s desk and kneels down. 

Kurosawa’s head rests in the divot of a folded elbow,  his breath coming in deep, shuddering huffs from his mouth. His keyboard is shoved up to the base of the monitor, where the harsh glow of the company screensaver illuminates his flushed face. 

“Kurosawa,” Adachi whispers, giving a gentle shake to a firm bicep. “Kurosawa, wake up.”

When Kurosawa doesn’t stir, Adachi presses the back of his hand to one of Kurosawa’s clammy cheeks. It’s feverishly warm. His nose has been running too, a thin gleam of it flashing in the light. It feels like he’s seeing something too private, something that was never meant for his eyes- or anyone’s.

Kurosawa’s eyelashes begin to flutter, a disoriented knit to his brow.

“Ada…chi?” He sits up slowly, a rickety, tender motion that squeezes at Adachi’s heart. With a small sniffle, he brings the cuff of his sleeve to his nose. “How late is it?”

“Not very, Rokkaku only left a few minutes ago,” Adachi answers, flicking his gaze towards the window, where the sunlight is growing dimmer and towering cumulus clouds are beginning to roll in. Their wispy edges are tinted gray, promising a healthy storm later that night.

“I see,” Kurosawa says. He pushes a hand through his hair, collecting loose tendrils of silvery brown that tug at the roots, spilling out over his fingers. A weighted sigh cuts the silence, and then he’s slipping sideways, forehead catching on the plateau of Adachi’s shoulder.

I fell asleep? How embarrassing. Thankfully it was only Adachi here to see it. When did it get so cold in here? My head is so heavy. I hope Adachi doesn’t mind.

For a brief moment, Adachi tenses at the contact. He’s not used to this version of Kurosawa, the subdued, hesitant one that isn’t confident in what he’s seeking out. This is new to him. It’s all so new to him.

“You’re not well,” he observes lamely, adjusting Kurosawa into an awkward hug. There’s a limp movement against his chest- Kurosawa shaking his head. “I wish you had told me.”

Instantly, Adachi is hit with a sickening wave of shame and regret. He falters, instinctively pulling Kurosawa closer to compensate, relieved when some of the hurt begins to ebb.

“Sorry,” Kurosawa’s words are warm, gathering a soft heat as his breath comes through Adachi’s dress shirt. “I thought I could push through it. It wasn’t so bad when I came in.”

Adachi frowns, remembering the gossip he’d overheard earlier. 

Being where you were seemed preferable to staying at home alone. How silly. Now I’m causing trouble.

“Let me take you home,” he suggests, and Kurosawa withdraws from their embrace, a sheepish look in his glassy eyes. He has news Adachi isn’t going to like.

“Would you be upset if I told you there are some documents I really do need to finish?”

Adachi softens with understanding, leaning over to snag a chair from one of the nearby desks. He isn’t happy with this, but he doesn’t want to push anything. Kurosawa seems tender. 

“Which ones?” Adachi maneuvers himself into his new seat, the wheels of the chair clicking as he nudges Kurosawa to make room for him. “Let me help you.”

Kurosawa inhales, looking like there’s nothing he wants more than to protest any assistance. Adachi watches patiently as his thoughts catch up with his head.

“Just the Ueno numbers,” he finally answers. 

“Okay,” The keyboard grates on the hard plastic as Adachi retrieves it from where Kurosawa had shoved it out of the way, “I’ll fill these in, and confirm with you when I’m not sure, alright?”

Kurosawa gives a dazed nod, and then flinches away from Adachi and into his forearm.

“uhk’Sschhiiew!” 

“Here,” Adachi murmurs, sliding the box of tissues from the other side of the desk. 

“Thank you,” Kurosawa says. “For all your help.”

Adachi looks away while Kurosawa tends to himself, pretending that there’s nothing to notice about the gentle scraping of the fabric against the box, or Kurosawa’s pitifully polite attempts at blowing his nose.

He expects the work to be quick, but he finds that some of what Kurosawa has already done today is so riddled with small errors that it’s throwing the integrity of the whole document into question. It’s nothing he isn’t capable of correcting, so he begins the arduous task of poring over Kurosawa’s work from the start. 

The streetlights have come on by the time he finally finishes up, glittering accessories among the rest of the city’s lights. Kurosawa has fallen asleep again, trading in occasional coughs and sniffles for feathery snores. 

Adachi feels guilty for disturbing him as he shakes him awake for the second time. 

As he sits up, the jacket Adachi had draped over him earlier slips from his shoulders and onto the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice. Adachi will have to retrieve it before they leave.

-

It’s late enough in the evening that the crowd filling the train towards Kurosawa’s apartment is thin. The seats along the edge are still occupied with other tired commuters when Adachi and Kurosawa board, so Adachi guides them to a space where there are two open handles for them to grab on to.

Across from him, two salarymen with features weathered from age and exposure rest their eyes. Another scrolls listlessly on his phone, too fast, in Adachi’s opinion, for him to be retaining any information. 

The doors shut with an airy hiss, and the train lurches to a start. Kurosawa travels with it, briefly losing his footing and stumbling into Adachi. 

For once, Kurosawa seems focused on the view in front of him rather than the glimpses he can manage of Adachi. His expression phases in and out of an anxious discomfort, and Adachi guesses that if they were to touch, he’d discover that Kurosawa is feeling sick. His mouth is pressed in a tight grimace, but they curve upwards when he notices that Adachi is looking at him, as if to say, don’t worry, doing fine.

Aiming to be discreet, Adachi takes a half step to the side so that Kurosawa’s shoulder is pressed flush against his. 

I’m so dizzy. I don’t feel good at all. 

Adachi glances up at Kurosawa’s white knuckled grip on the metal above, wondering if the slight tremble to them is just a trick of the light. He acts without thinking, twisting back so that he can tug gently at Kurosawa’s sleeve. He hikes his shoulder in a question he can only hope Kurosawa will pick up on, doing his best to meet his boyfriend’s curiosity with confidence.

It’s not even close to the comforting scenario from Kurosawa’s daydreams, but it’s what he has. 

Heavy pressure manifests between his shoulder blades. Kurosawa sighs, the ghost of his breath tickling the back of Adachi’s neck.

How does he always seem to know what I need? 

“Thank you,” mumbles Kurosawa.

“Close your eyes,” Adachi instructs. “I’ll look out for our stop.”

-

A few steps out from the station exit, the waning sunset reflecting off the ornate glass that lines the walkway, Kurosawa pauses and braces himself against the railing.

“IhSHH’yuuh! Hh..hh’IHtschiiuu’h!” Adachi is impressed that Kurosawa has managed to hold out so long. Between their stop and the last, his thoughts had oscillated from how nice it felt to lean against Adachi to a creeping dread surrounding the realization that he had to sneeze. It seems now that the feeling has grown vengeful, punishing Kurosawa for denying himself earlier relief. “-uehK’sshhewh! hhp’Kzshhiu!”

The last one is harsher than Adachi has heard all day, forceful and distinctly heavier, dragging a few raspy coughs out in a trailing finale. 

“Are you okay?” Adachi feels useless, like the best he can do for Kurosawa is stand idly and offer him concern, but no real help, while the world continues around them.

“Mhm,” Kurosawa’s smiles still reach his eyes, but they’re getting less convincing. “Just a lih…snf! little-“ he pauses, gaze flickering and Adachi reaches out to steady him, holding in place while his body jolts from the force of another sneeze.“-Hah’IdshHH’hu!”

Kurosawa has been sneezing so much that the sleeves on his clothes are starting to show evidence of it. Fresh patches of abstract, damp streaks that Adachi tells himself not to pay attention to. It feels so strange, to be reminded in this way that Kurosawa is human too.

Kurosawa himself exhales a controlled breath and folds his arms over his chest, poorly disguising his frustration. “A little sensitive to the air right now,” he finishes, sniffling. 

That too, sounds worse than Adachi has heard all day. He can’t tell if it’s because Kurosawa is actually feeling worse, or if his safeguards are getting harder to maintain. Maybe those things are one and the same.

Ahh, I wish I hadn’t used all my pocket tissues earlier. I really need one. Adachi is looking at me with so much concern, and I can’t even enjoy it because I’m too self conscious about my nose dripping. I’ve been sneezing all over myself. I don’t want Adachi to see me like this.

He sniffles again.

“Adachi, would you happen to have any tissues on you?”

“Ah,” Adachi stammers, awkwardly starting to pat down his own pockets as if that would make one manifest. Of course, the magic he was granted is much less practical. He delivers the news with an apologetic shake of his head. “I don’t. I’m sorry, I usually carry some but it’s been getting warmer lately. Should we stop and get some?”

“It’s okay,” reassures Kurosawa. “I’ll manage. Shall we go?”

“Yeah. You’ll have to tell me the way, I haven’t ever come from this station before.”

“It’s not too far,” Kurosawa motions ahead, taking the initiative to start walking again. “We can cut through this park and then it should only be a few blocks. You might recognize the street as we get closer.”

Adachi frowns. Kurosawa’s voice seems to be getting thinner the more he speaks. There’s less ambient noise outside of the station, so he can hear the slight, uneven way Kurosawa pants as he tries to balance the conversation with keeping pace.

“I see,” Adachi says, taking in the expanse of the park's lamplit pathway. “I’m sure I will.” 

He observes that the clouds have created a blanket over the city, edging out any remaining traces of blue. The trees are performing a warning dance as a breeze whips through the foliage, a reminder that the weather will soon become treacherous for someone in Kurosawa’s state. Should he stay at Kurosawa’s place then? Is that what a boyfriend would do? 

Suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Beyond his desire to take care of Kurosawa, he’s out of his element again.

Kurosawa likes to hold hands, right? Should he be trying to hold hands as they walk? Kurosawa turns to the side to cough, and then Adachi has a new set of worries. If Kurosawa is sick, then would he still want to hold hands? Or would he find it rude? Do couples still hold hands when one is sick? Kurosawa still touched him when he wasn’t feeling well, so maybe… Adachi just isn’t—

“hH’Ahkshhiiew!”

One of Kurosawa’s hands is hovering by his nose when Adachi looks over. A small gust of wind blows past them, causing Kurosawa to curl in with a shiver. Adachi, on the other hand, is starting to sweat underneath all his layers. It’s certainly not a good sign.

“Cold?” 

“Just a little bit.” 

Adachi furrows his brow. Kurosawa’s sniffling is starting to pick up, and he keeps taking these thin, shuddery breaths through his mouth.

“It shouldn’t be too much more. Do you… are you doing okay? You don’t sound good.”

“Ah…” Kurosawa runs a hand through his hair, taking too long to answer for Adachi’s liking. “Maybe I… could we rest for a little bit?”

“Of course!” Adachi exclaims with a frantic enthusiasm, spurred on by his surging concern. He grabs Kurosawa’s arm and ushers him to one of the nearby benches, almost flinching at the lightheaded feeling that washes over him from the contact. Tendrils of it lap at his senses, just out of reach, coloring the edges of his existence with the imprints of Kurosawa’s malaise. 

He sits down on the metal and then supports Kurosawa’s back as he guides his head to his lap, concern welling in his chest all the while. He runs his hands through Kurosawa’s hair, keeping an eye on the uneven rise and fall of Kurosawa’s chest. 

“Are you feeling sick?”

Kurosawa throws one of his forearms over his eyes and nods.

I felt like I was going to pass out if we kept walking. How embarrassing. I’m causing trouble, but Adachi is being so kind. 

“Sorry. I need a minute. I think it will pass.”

“Don’t apologize.” Adachi shakes his head. He continues to pet Kurosawa’s hair, using his free hand to add soft strokes near Kurosawa’s elbow. “We can stay here as long as you need.” 

He can feel Kurosawa fighting to tether himself to his touch. For some reason, it makes him so sad. I’m right here, he thinks, I’m right here.

“You’re the one who isn’t feeling well,” murmurs Adachi. “Think of your own comfort, not mine. Yours is more important right now.” 

Tentatively, he walks his hand down Kurosawa’s forearm and leaves it so that his fingers are pressed into the inside of Kurosawa’s palm. Fingers twitching, Kurosawa grasps at what he’s offered.

Thank god. I didn’t know if Adachi would still want to touch me like this. 

“You always see me in a way no one else does.” By now, Adachi should be used to Kurosawa’s affections, but this one comes with an ache. He’s cheating, able to feel Kurosawa’s vulnerability through the touch they’re holding, but there’s something in the way he’s said it that would’ve given it away regardless. 

“You’re very considerate.” Adachi murmurs, “You made sure I had nothing to worry about when I was sick. You cooked for me, watched over my fever… I want to do the same for you, Kurosawa. If you aren’t feeling well then I want to help where I can.”

Kurosawa’s throat bobs as he swallows.

Why do I feel like crying? 

“You don’t even know,” he whispers, “How much better I feel just knowing you’re around.”

“Let me do more than that.” Adachi says, gently prying at Kurosawa’s arm so that he can feel his forehead, confirm the expected, dry heat that waits for him. 

Finally, Kurosawa peers up, green eyes fever bright and full of adoration, and then his gaze flickers. He struggles to sit up as he starts to cough. He doesn’t get far, but he seems determined to work himself as far away from Adachi as his body will allow.

Adachi rubs Kurosawa’s back in sympathy, guiding him back into his lap once the fit seems to have subsided. 

Another sticky summer breeze ruffles past them, eliciting whispers from the surrounding foliage. He searches for Kurosawa’s hand to remind him that he’s not going anywhere.

[ghostlychill]

"It sounds worse than it is" vs. "It's worse than it sounds"

I love a good mismatch of symptoms vs. how a character actually feels

[darlingsnz]

Quifrey catching an awfully messy cold and trying to hide it because he doesn't want it to spread... but Olly catching said cold while taking care of sick Quifrey 🫪

Rosewood / Honeytree

✦ Qifrey, Olruggio (witch hat atelier)

✦ hurt/comfort, sharing colds, cuddling, implied lore stuff

✦ hiiii !!!!! anon!!!!!! i want u to know that this hasnt left my brain from the moment you sent it. this is the first thing ive finished in so long. i wish it was longer and had more snz, but im so rusty T_T pls enjoy!!!!

Qifrey knows Olruggio. Knows almost everything, after years of being together, his tells and behaviors, and he loves it, aside from when it goes the other way around. Olruggio isn't easily decieved by him, no matter what he tries. Qifrey can tell from the sideways look he gets at breakfast while he’s resisting the urge to cradle his head in his hands. 

He had woken up late after turning in early, exhaustion seemingly triggered by the rain that had been pelting the atelier for a few days now, making his head throb. Upon waking up that morning, he realized it was only actually accentuating an existing pain, starting under his eyes and working its way into his temples. He had scrambled up to find the girls already awake, and came up with some flimsy excuse that none of them bought. It's his own fault for having such smart apprentices, but he would appreciate it if they gave him some slack. 

As is his usual luck, it's one of the few days Olruggio is awake before noon. While Qifrey struggles not to slump against the wall of their kitchen as his apprentices eat their breakfast in the other room, easily entertained by their own ideas, thank goodness, because Qifrey’s throat feels thick and the vibration of his own voice echoes through his head in sharp pains, Olruggio staggers downstairs and into the room, likely in search of coffee. His hair is mussed, and he's still blinking away sleep, but when his eyes lock with Qifrey’s they hesitate for a moment too long. 

Qifrey tries to smile, but it makes Olruggio’s brows furrow, so he just turns away to gently wipe his nose against his wrist. He’s been caught like always. It’d be easier to hold up the facade if Olruggio didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, because he just feels guilty lying to him. He sighs with defeat when Olruggio leans against the counter and levels him with a stern look. 

“You look awful.” Olruggio says, voice still rough. Qifrey sniffles again, nose irritated by the steam wafting off the bowls of oatmeal in front of him, feeling all too much like he's advertising his symptoms. “I’m quite alright.” He says, and his voice is just as congested as he feared it would be. How embarrassing he is. “Just a cold.” 

Olruggio huffs, leaning over to gruffly force a hand against Qifrey’s forehead that he's a bit too unsteady to dodge. “Jus’ a cold.” He murmurs. “You’re awfully warm for that.” Qifrey smiles again, suddenly finding his nose itchy. He pushes olruggio’s hand away, not unkindly, and steps back a bit to create space, waving a halfhearted hand in front of his face. “Not at all,” He can’t help the wince that comes across his face, the feeling aggravating both his sinus’ and his headache. “I’m merely warm from bearing near the stove. I’m in a fine state to-” has to pause to press a knuckle against his nose, which ends up having the opposite effect. The itch crescendos, so he has to whip around in an attempt to protect Olruggio from the worst of his symptoms.

“ ‘chT-!" he has to pause for a moment, curled over into his wrist, until his vision returns from static and he can feel anything but the thundering pulsing of his own skull. After a few deep breaths, he manages to straighten up and almost-look Olruggio in the eye. He looks annoyed, but not in the way he does when dealing with frustrating clients or mental blocks. He looks, frustrated, almost, closer to when their girls stubbornly refuse rest, or even Qifrey, sometimes. It's not a look he likes very much when it's placed onto himself. 

“Go to bed.” Never one to mince his words, Olruggio tells him flat out. “You’re going to fall over.” Qifrey was perfectly able to come to that conclusion himself, because there is still grey towards the corners of his vision, and his legs are starting to get suspiciously shaky. It's not something his lovely Olruggio should be seeing, though. Having his own weakness thrown back at him sparks an age-old defensiveness every time, like a cat backed into a corner. He sort of wants to snarl. 

“The girls need a master present.” He grits out instead between clenched teeth. Olurggio sighs, looking worn already, drags a hand down his face. “I’ll watch ‘em. I’m basically their master already.” He makes a shoo-ing motion. “Go off to bed before they start worryin’.” It's a bit lowbrow to bring them into this, but Qifrey can’t argue it, no matter how much his skin is prickling with desire to fight back. He sniffles against the back of his hand again instead of replying, starting to stumble his way upstairs to his chambers. Olruggio’s shoulders are tense as he passes, and his eyes look even more tired than normal, even though he doesn’t have any upcoming deadlines that he’s heard about. Not that he's been a good listener these past few days.

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

His room is dark when he wakes up. Intentionally, surely, because he had been too tired to bother closing his own blinds when he collapsed against his bed, had fallen asleep with his head buried into the pillow to try to drown the light out. There’s only one person that would be in here, so he squints against the dark shapes, ignoring the way it makes him ache, and can vaguely make out a dark robe. 

Olruggio must be focused, or else he would’ve noticed. Qifrey takes his time getting up, for no reason relating to the way the world spins and heady pressure shifts in his face, tries to study Olruggio. There's the faint scratching of a quill, and Oruggio's posture seems stiffer than usual, like he's focused. Once Olruggio sniffles a few times, unconsciously, because his nose has started running since he lifted his head up, Olruggio looks up at him.

“Mornin’.” He says, voice soft like he knows. “Want a light on?”  Qifrey feels his face pull into a frown. “Why not just open the blinds? Natural light is always better.” According to Beldaruit, anyway, who liked to preach on the importance of nature at random turns. Olruggio opens his mouth, then shakes his head like he’s thinking better of something. “It’s the middle of the night, Qifrey.” Is all he says, quill taping an anxious rhythm against his paper. 

Qifrey sits up in a frantic motion, almost tipping over in the process. He has to grip the sheets hard and pant for a second, the whole world consisting of spinning shapes and his heartbeat in his skull. He sniffles again, uselessly, and Olruggio shifts around for a moment before handing him a grey handkerchief.

The gentle touch of fabric against his nose sets him off almost immediately. He barely has time to take in a breath before twitching. “ ‘dszhh-!” The shifting of congestion in his nose makes the itch reignite before he manages to catch his breath. He watches Oruggio's gaze as his breath wavers, on the edge, until he's finally set free. “ ‘dSZh - eH’dTZh!” thick and so unlike his usual sneezes, they hurt his throat. 

“Bless you.” Qifrey hums. He doesn’t trust his ability to talk. He's sick of this song and dance with Olruggio. Tired of pretending, tired of everything. He's exhausted, aching, and feels trapped in this room. 

“You’ve got a fever.” Oruggio says, startling him out of his fervor. His hands are gripped in the sheets, handkerchief still in hand. He avoids Olruggio’s eyes. “Nothin’ bad, you’re not too warm.” Qifrey sniffles again, pathetically, clears his throat into his shoulder. He’s so foggy-minded. “Okay.” he murmurs. “Thank you, Olruggio.” 

Olruggio doesn’t say anything, for a few minutes. Long enough that Qifrey nearly starts nodding off, lulled to sleep by rhythmic noises of anxiety. His quill never stops its tapping, probably bleeding through the paper and onto his sheets. Neither of them mention it. 

“Can I just take care of you, for once?” Qifrey finally meets his eyes, through his half closed eyes. He looks more ragged than usual, accentuated by the dark shadows of his room. Qifrey wants to ask him when he last got a good night's rest, when his next commissions are due, when the last time he checked up on the girls is. Wants to ask if Richeh ate much dinner, if Tetia is too hyper without enough to do today, if Aggott even looked up from her studies once. He does none of this. 

Instead, he sighs. “Will you take no for an answer?” he tries, to Olruggio's scoff. “Do you ever?” Qifrey can’t help but feel a little guilty at that, sinking back into the bed sheets with flushed cheeks. Olruggio stands, groaning, like he had been sitting there for a while. He shuffles across Qifrey’s room to his desk, full of books and scattered sheets of paper. There’s a bowl on it, and Olruggio takes it before returning to his chair heavily. He reaches out the bowl, full of cool oatmeal, until Qifrey begrudgingly takes it, is slow to release it like he is worried Qifrey will drop it. It lays heavy in his lap. He sets it aside, despite Olruggio's look, and neither of them mention it. 

  Olruggio shuffles around a little more and pulls a few snugstones out of his pocket. He sets them around Qifery’s form in the blanket, and they’re too warm, but he doesn’t have the heart to say anything with Olruggio’s thoughtfulness. He closes his eyes, too tired to keep whatever it is they have going, and lifts a corner of the blanket. “Come in here, then. You look tired.” 

Olruggio gives him a long look, and Qifrey’s worried the fever got to him for a second. But then he stands from his chair, slides into bed without complaint. Their bodies are so close, and wife's aflame. He falls asleep burning. 

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

Qifrey feels disoriented when he wakes up. He can’t find anything that could have startled him awake, and he hadn’t had a nightmare. He stares at the dark ceiling for a few moments, trying to get his bearings, until he’s startled by a sudden  “ ‘rSZCHh!”, and the previous hours start to drift back to him. 

“Bless you..” Qifrey murmurs, voice surprisingly present. He must have passed the worst of it, finally. “Are you okay?” 

Olruggio makes a thick, snuffling sound somewhere to his left. The bed is still warm, so he must have just gotten up. “Yeah,” he says, and then it’s quiet for a few moments until the floor creaks with his return. “I didn’t mean to wake ya.” He says, voice more rasped then it usually is when he wakes up, nuzzling back into Qifrey. He falls back asleep quickly, but he tosses and turns uncharacteristically. It eats at Qifrey, keeps him awake. 

It’s likely sometime after sunrise when Olruggio starts to stir again. He never really settled, and at some point Qifrey stopped trying to help him for fear of waking him up, so his limbs are knotted in the quilts. He doesn’t seem to notice, blinking slowly at Qifrey. “Good morning,” he tries, with a smile. Olruggio doesn’t say anything, just buries his head back against Qifrey’s chest and takes a slow, congested breath through his nose. Qifrey’s heart hurts. 

They stay like that for a while. Qifrey doesn’t want to move him, but his nose starts to itch at some point, and despite his fight he ends up jostling him with a sharp movement. “h’TShh-! ‘tSZhih!” 

Olly startles up, probably having been half asleep. Qifrey wants to apologize, but his nose isn’t satisfied, so he holds a placating hand and shields his mouth against his other one as he sneezes once again. Finally, he falls back against the pillow, pushing Olruggio back against his chest with a gentle hand. Olruggio doesn’t say anything for a long while, and when he does speak it's rough and painful sounding. 

“I think we’ll both be stuck in here for awhile,” he says, and there’s nothing saying he’s mad at Qifrey for it but he can’t help but feel so guilty, especially when Olruggio’s so busy. “Somebody’s got to tell the girls.” Qifrey hums, allows himself the pleasure of running one brief hand through Olruggio’s messed up hair. 

“I’ll do it.” He says, without making any move to get up. “I think I may be better off than you are, now.” Olruggio huffs at that. He doesn’t want to move, feeling kind of like Olruggio is a cat that won’t come back if he moves even the slightest bit. But he can hear birds, faintly, and the floor above him is starting to creak with life as his girls start to stir. No matter what he wants, he can’t leave them entirely alone. 

So he gets up, and Olruggio watches him leave with droopy eyes, and he smiles at the girls as they trickle in, passing off his own stuffiness as just a bit of allergies. When he serves their bowls, he finds himself suddenly famished, so he ends up scarfing down a bowl in the kitchen while they eat in the other room. Their quiet chatter is so warm, but the light in the kitchen spills out from the windows. His head aches. He has to bid his girls farewell, instructing them to learn on their own for a second day, and return to his room with an orange and paring knife. 

Olruggio makes no move to sit up from where he’s sprawled out in his absence, so he sits himself at the edge of the bed. “Are they doing alright?” He mumbles into the bedsheets. “Of course,” he replies, choosing not to tease him for his worrying this time. “They’re a bit concerned, though.” Olruggio hums. “Too smart for their own good.” 

Qifrey has to stifle his laugh. “I brought you food,” he says, holding up the orange even though Olruggio can’t see it. Fruit doesn’t count as a meal, really, but Olruggio tends to get upset stomachs when he doesn’t feel well, so he’s hoping it's good enough. Olly groans into the mattress, but he eventually shifts around until he’s sort of sitting up. His face looks pinched, and it isn’t long before he’s muffling a heavy sneeze into his elbow. “ h’rRSZhh-iuh!” 

 “Bless you,” Qifrey says, and Olruggio makes a lazy flapping motion with his free hand before gasping again. “ ‘rRSCHhh’iuh!” 

“Bless you,” Qifrey says again, because he can’t help it. Olruggio’s face is flushed when he comes up, expression still pinched looking. He grumbles something inaudible. Qifrey hands him slices of fruit as a peace offering. Olruggio takes it with a steady   hand, holds it hesitatingly near his mouth before starting to eat. Qifrey feeds him slices until he eats them all. 

[sniffly-soap]

W/itch H/at A/telier snz fic where O/lly and Q/ifrey care for each other :) 1.4k

contains: m snz, illness, light mess, contagion

MINORS DNI

for those unfamiliar with the source material, these two basically watch over an atelier of 4 apprentice witches together. relationship left ambiguous on purpose, but they're totally in love. you can quote me on that.

Olruggio is under no false pretenses on how the next few weeks are going to go, so he's been quick to finish up his ongoing commissions and just as hasty with his polite refusals of new ones, citing, “A time-sensitive project that needs my attention before I accept any new commissions. I appreciate your patience and thank you for your patronage” as the reason behind his reticence.

In actuality, it's been people rather than objects that have been taking up much of his time in recent days. Their atelier had been touched by illness, a simple cold that made its way through Qifrey's apprentices before settling down in their master. The ailment hadn't been dangerous, though it had been rather severe, and Olruggio had found his hours outside of his usual commission work occupied by trips to the healers for supplies, warming and cooling spells, and a new magical object that concentrated steam in a round shape to allow their little witches to momentarily ease their congestion.

To his and Qifrey's relief, the girls had healed rather quickly, as youths are wont to do, though their atelier is still bathed in a calm quiet as their master works through achieving the same outcome and their Watchful Eye struggles through the beginnings of his own inconvenient ailment.

Olruggio rubs firm circles into Qifrey's back as the witch doubles over into a handkerchief with productive, chesty coughs. Nearby, the girls are clinking around in the kitchen, adding some final touches to a soup that they had been saving for a day like today. Qifrey wipes at his mouth with a congested sigh, sending a tiny, grateful smile Olruggio's way.

“Tetia's got the tea on,” Olruggio says, taking his hand from Qifrey's back and returning to his sketches that are spread across the floor. “That'll hopefully soothe yer throat.” It's a quiet midday in late fall, cool outside but warm inside, and they've all accepted that it'll be a subdued next couple of days.

“Here Olly,” Qifrey croaks, handing Olruggio a fresh handkerchief produced from somewhere beneath his leisure robes. He feels warmth dust his cheeks as he accepts the handkerchief, dabbing it under his leaky nose. He had dripped a little onto his sketches to make Qifrey offer up one of the precious, clean cloths, and it's equal parts embarrassing and truly that dire.

Unfortunately, the dabbing causes a tickle to radiate through the congestion in his nose, and he sniffs sharply to abate it. Screw it, he might as well blow his nose. It's not like it would be the most unsanitary thing to happen in the atelier this month. He tents the handkerchief around his nose with firm hands and blows best he can. His sinuses are simultaneously congested and drippy, which means that his nostrils are an irritated red from being wiped at and his attempt at emptying them ends with a sad, crumpled-sounding HONK.

Quick glances of sympathy come from everyone in the room, which make his cheeks heat again, but he knows better than to hide in his quarters. Without anyone to make Qifrey rest, the master would run himself ragged and make his recovery time twice what it should be. Plus, the girls couldn't be left unsupervised in the kitchen, and he has to admit that the spot on the floor by the fire that he and Qifrey had set up their spellbooks near is comfortable and warm. Much better than– and he would admit this only if threatened– spending the entire day alone. The only thing worse than being miserable is being miserable by yourself.

Qifrey didn't seem to believe that. Since their childhood, he'd always tried to endure alone, which is why Olruggio finds it as easy as breathing to drag him along when he's ill and force his friend to the inconvenience of his company. Sometimes he knew that his constant fretting frustrated Qifrey, but it was worth it for every private smile and grateful side glance.

“You're warm,” Qifrey says softly, his palm suddenly pressed to Olruggio's forehead. The hand travels to his cheek, cupping it briefly so that Qifrey can turn Olruggio's head towards him. Whatever he's looking for in Olruggio's eyes, he must find, because he gives a small, regretful smile and lets go, instead clasping Olruggio's free hand that isn't occupied with his nose and the handkerchief. “I'm sorry for passing my illness to you.”

Olruggio has time to remove the fabric from his nose and open his mouth before he's hurriedly covering both again, barrelling forward to catch his spraying sneezes. “Hn… h'ngtchh! —HRRAAHHT'chht!”

“Bless you,” Qifrey squeezes his hand.

Olruggio just shakes his head, sniffling and panting raggedly into the cloth before losing two more sneezes to it. “HNnt'chihh! ih'YISHhieew! Snft!”

“Goodness, bless you again. That sounded like it hurt.”

Blowing his nose with one hand isn't something he's well practiced in, but Qifrey's grip on his free hand is stronger than ever so he gives it a go. He can feel how much he's failed when the handkerchief isn't enough fabric to hold the mess he's made, which is simultaneously mortifying, fascinating, and disturbing. Qifrey seems to realize the problem right as he does, and lifts the handkerchief he had coughed into to assist in Olruggio's cleanup. He doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Let's just…here…” Qifrey's voice is soft and private, eyes focused as he gently wipes at the sides of Olruggio's nostrils. He's leaned in to get a closer look, his lips parted to make up for the fact that he's probably as stuffed up as Olruggio is right now and can't use his nose for basic functions like breathing. “Your kerchief is a bit obsolete, Olly, would you mind terribly moving it aside?” Qifrey looks amused as he asks, likely knowing exactly why Olruggio hasn't done so yet. He gives the man a halfhearted glare as he sniffles wetly into the handkerchief one more time in a futile attempt to snort up the majority of the mess that the kerchief can't contain, but based on the way he can feel the coolness of the air interact with his damp nose and upper lip, he hasn't really succeeded.

Luckily, Qifrey is quick with cleanup duty, pinching off Olruggio's nose with a wet sound that makes him wince, but Qifrey doesn't even blink. It's as if taking care of Olruggio is as natural as drawing spells to him. Qifrey gives a satisfied smile as he dabs at Olruggio's philithrum one last time. “There. All– oh– aADTSSCHHeUH!!” Qifrey is just quick enough to bring the handkerchief to his face. The same one that he had just used to mop Olruggio's face with.

“Bless. We make a right disgusting pair, don't we?” Olruggio remarks, making Qifrey choke on a laugh that quickly becomes a cough.

“Master Olly, is Master Qifrey okay?” Coco asks with concern, checking in on them between tea and meal preparation. Qifrey is turning a bit red from the effort of coughing, but still seems to be breathing.

Olruggio nods to her. “He'll be alright. Even better if we could have some o' that tea.”

She straightens. “Right! Right away!” and disappears again.

Qifrey's eyes are amused, sparkling in a way Olruggio hasn't seen in a few days due to his misery. “Good girls,” Qifrey remarks, voice slightly hoarser.

“I suppose we're a bit fond of ‘em,” Olruggio allows with a sniffle. He glances back at the spells littering the floor, a wave of exhaustion moving through him. His headache, which has been slowly getting worse throughout the morning, is pounding after his small sneezing fit.

“I've decided. We'll drink Tetia's tea, and then you'll have a nice nap before dinner.”

Olruggio raises an eyebrow at him. “Will I?”

Qifrey nods. “I know for a fact you didn't get much sleep last night.” Qifrey, alongside everyone else in the atelier, were probably almost as disturbed by Olruggio's nighttime misery as he was. He tries not to feel too mortified by the thought of them all hearing his miserable sneeze attacks. “So take a nap, just a quick one. It's warm and lovely, right? We'll keep your soup warm for when you wake.”

Olruggio's eyelids are already feeling heavy, and he feels hands on his shoulders that helpfully lead him horizontal. Someone– it must be Qifrey, but he can't be sure because he can't be bothered to open his eyes to check (and when had he closed them?)– wedges some pillows beneath his head, which helps him breathe slightly better, and he hums a thanks. He'll just take a quick nap before lunch, and he'll feel much better when he wakes….