Ts//ukishima didn't come to school because a terrible cold and it made Yam//aguchi worried 🏐
Fandom: Haiky//uu!
Ship: Ts//ukishima x Yam//aguchi
CW: snz (duh), slight mess, a bit of angst(?), mentioned contagion
Notes: So uh.. this is my first ever snzfic. I don't know what possessed me (probably hormones) but I did this in one sitting so please don't have too high of expectations! English isn't my first language so please be kind.
Yamaguchi looked at the empty seat beside him and felt himself fidgeting. It is not like Tsukishima to be late. He wonders if he should text him, but he knows how his teammate (and also his secret crush) hates being fussed over. He sighed and decided to wait a little more.
Just as he was deep in his thoughts, a classmate who sat in front of him immediately brought him back to reality. "Is Tsukishima not coming, Yamaguchi-kun?" She asked him. Probably a fan of him, Yamaguchi thinks. It was no wonder Tsukishima had a lot of admirers. He is talented and handsome after all. Anyone would want to be with him. Yamaguchi shook his head and tried to stop thinking about it.
"It seems like he isn't coming."
That was all Yamaguchi could say before the class finally started.
***
During lunch, Yamaguchi's bento was left untouched. All he could think about was Tsukishima and what could have possibly made him skip school. He sighed and gathered up his courage to finally text the person he had been thinking about all day.
"Tsukki, I'm just checking in! You didn't come to school. Is everything okay?"
He pressed send and felt his heart beating fast. He hopes Tsukki won't be angry at him for being too nosy.
"Just a cold. Don't worry too much."
Yamaguchi widens his eyes at the reply on his phone. He couldn't remember the last time his closest friend got sick. It has been raining a lot these days, so maybe he got caught in the rain? He sighed to himself before a familiar figure went up to him.
"Yamaguchi! Can we sit here since Tsukishima isn't here with you?" Hinata asked cheerfully with Kageyama beside him. "Where is he anyways?" Kageyama asked, still looking as indifferent as ever.
"He's sick." Yamaguchi replied with what seems like a pout. It was obvious he was worried, and Hinata couldn't help but feel bad. "Tsukishima gets sick too?" Hinata asked in shock. "Maybe because he is so tall that the wind went through him first!" Hinata added, which earned a reply from Kageyama. "Idiot"
Yamaguchi can only laugh at the duo's shenanigans.
***
The bell rang, signaling the end of today's school. Since today was Friday, Yamaguchi knows Tsukishima's parents won't be home until late. Will Tsukishima be okay on his own when he's sick?
The worry in his mind won't disappear at the thought, so he immediately packed up his bags and ran out of his classroom. He ran so fast that he didn't realize he went by his friends.
"Yamaguchi!" Hinata yelled. "Don't forget we have practice today!" The new spiker added. Yamaguchi stopped in his tracks immediately. Shit, he completely forgot.
"Hinata-kun!! Tell Daichi-san I won't be coming," Yamaguchi yelled back before continuing to run in the direction of Tsukishima's household.
Hinata froze at his friend's odd behavior, while Kageyama looked at him irritatedly.
"He's going to Tsukishima's, idiot," he told Hinata. "Oh! Shouldn't we visit too?" Hinata asked him.
"So you can miss practice?" Kageyama shot at him.
"In your dreams!" Hinata huffed before he stormed to the gym. Not without racing there with Kageyama, of course.
***
"Yamaguchi" Akiteru, Tsukishima's brother, opened the door with a smile. "Kei is in his room upstairs. He said he isn't feeling well," Akiteru explained. Yamaguchi felt flustered as he completely forgot that his brother is there, so Tsukishima probably didn't need him.
"I brought some medicine and food for him," Yamaguchi said gently. "Ah! Maybe he would let you take care of him." Akiteru said in relief. "He won't let me enter his room," the big brother huffed.
Somehow, Yamaguchi felt relieved. Maybe he won't be a nuisance after all.
After Akiteru's welcoming, he went upstairs and knocked on his door nervously. "Tsukki. It's me, Yamaguchi."
Some ruffling and a few groans were heard after Yamaguchi's announcement before a few minutes of silence. Yamaguchi was about to ask more until—
"Hhuh—Hihk'Sheew! Hh-Ihh'tchiew! It'sch! Ughh." Tsukishima's sneezes stopped him from knocking. He can hear Tsukki blowing his nose a few times before finally the door clicks open.
"Guhh…" Tsukishima groaned. He looked very pale and miserable. His nose was irritated and red. His voice was wrecked, and it seems like standing up is taking a lot of his energy. Yamaguchi couldn't help but feel bad.
"Yambaguchi, whadt do you wandt?" Tsukishima asked with his straightforward personality. "You sho-u'hh huhh…" He raised a finger at Yamaguchi before facing away to sneeze.
"HEEEH'KSHIEW!" He sneezed loudly. He grabbed his handkerchief and wiped his nose. "Sndrrk, you should be ad practice" he said congestedly, rubbing his nose some more.
"I was worried, Tsukki" Yamaguchi looked away, feeling very flustered. "I-I, I knew your parents wouldn't be home today. I was… hoping I could take care of you," he says gently as he shows him the paper bag full of medicine and takeout food for him.
Tsukishima softened at Yamaguchi's gesture. "I don'dt wand you catchi'g this" Tsukki replied to him. "Also.. I'mb disguti'g." Tsukishima added. He hates that Yamaguchi is seeing him in this state.
"You're always cool to me, Tsukki" Yamaguchi replied with a smile so sincere it made Tsukishima blush. "Shut ub" He mumbled as he let Yamaguchi lead him back to bed.
His room was filled with crumpled tissues and empty tissue boxes. His blanket was also soaked from both sweat and snot. Yamaguchi doubted that this was just some cold.
When Tsukishima went back to bed, Yamaguchi felt his forehead. "Gosh, you are burning up" he said worriedly. Tsukishima only hummed. "When did you start feeling sick?"
"Sdrrk ughh.. Lasd ndight?" Tsukishima said croakily. "Atd firsd it was just mby throat and n'dhuh.. hhh-Ihh'kShiew! ugh. Ndow I cand't stopb sdeezig" Tsukishima tried explaining. He looks totally wrecked, and Yamaguchi tried to tuck him back to bed.
The smaller man got up, rummaging in the paper bag to get Tsukishima's meds and also preparing the drink. "Take these, Tsukki." Yamaguchi ordered, which Tsukishima eventually complied with. He closed his eyes and let Yamaguchi pamper him some more, giving the sick man some compress and checking his temperature while occasionally feeding him in between.
After a long while of comfortable silence, Tsukishima managed to mumble. "I'mb so sorry if you'll catch this. I dond't wand you to hate me"
This made Yamaguchi flinch. He checked Tsukishima's temperature, and it's still high. "You must be delirious" Yamaguchi concluded with a sigh. "Tsukki.." He held the sick man's hand tightly.
"I can't hate you even if I tried" He said softly while looking into Tsukishima's eyes. "I don't mind getting sick. Just get better, okay?" Yamaguchi got up and took his compress.
"I'll soak it some more," Yamaguchi announced before he went back to the bathroom. Tsukishima felt a feeling in his chest that he couldn't explain. Was it because of his illness? No, it's not a cold symptom.
It was yearning.
***
Tsukki didn't know how long or when he fell asleep, but he woke up feeling his sinuses buzzing and his breath hitching. He sat up gently and immediately took a few tissues and put them in front of his face.
"HhuhH.. G-Gohhd.. HuhHh— Fuhgck!" He felt his eyes watering and nostrils flaring every few seconds. He could feel the sneezes from the back of his nose.
"Tsukki, are you okay?" Yamaguchi asked. God, Tsukishima completely forgotten about him. He shook his head at Yamaguchi and looked away from him as he blew his nose in hopes of triggering the sneeze... which he immediately regretted.
"Hngt—! Hkkchht!! HUT’cxshh—! Hhuh- hhHHh-! HTT’ssschhxt!! Gn'tchhht!!” Each sneeze was wetter than before as it kept going on, and Yamaguchi kept giving him tissues during the fit. Yamaguchi waited until it finally ended, and Tsukishima groaned in agony, eyes watering and nose still leaking.
"What a bad cold you caught, Tsukki. Bless you a bunch!" Yamaguchi frowned at his friend's state. He checked for the sick man's temperature again and sighed in relief.
"No fever though, so that's good."
Tsukishima huffed and covered his face when his face kept leaking. "Ugh.. dond't look ad mbe" He says, feeling ashamed and (trying to) hold back his tears.
This alerted Yamaguchi. The smaller man immediately leaned closer to him. "Tsukki… are you getting sicker?" Concern was written all over him, but Tsukishima was too ashamed to look at him.
"Is there anything I can do?" Yamaguchi asked. "I can't leave you like this. Your brother said you've been locking yourself in here."
This was what Tsukishima hate the most about Yamaguchi. He kept insisting even when Tsukishima pushes him away. How can he stop falling for him when he keeps showing his care like this? All the while Tsukishima was sneezing and being a disgusting mess.
"I wandt you to dot see mbe like this!" Tsukishima finally blurted out as tears fell down his face. "I wandt you to see odly the besd side of mbe, ndot the disgustig and stupid side ohHh—"
And of course, just after he said this, the burning sensation came back, causing him to hitch once, twice before—
"IhhH! H'hhHkchht!! 'TschieEw!!" Two sneezes sprayed out from him without warning. Yamaguchi froze, and it took a moment before Tsukishima realized.
"Fuckg, Did I get you?" Tsukishima asked wiping his face and giving Yamaguchi his tissues. "I-I'ts okay. Bless you, Tsukki." Yamaguchi says gently, but it did nothing to calm Tsukishima.
He was now as red as a tomato and refused to look at him. "It's dot okgay! You'll catch this ndow. It's all mby fauld, you're godda hade mbe.." Tsukishima muttered, tears running down his face again, which didn't help his nose from dripping like a faucet.
Yamaguchi sighed at his sick friend before gently lifting Tsukki's chin up so he can look at him. "Tell me how to hate you," Yamaguchi said almost like a demand.
"Because for years, the only thing I feel is.." Yamaguchi bit his tongue, not knowing if he should continue. However, the tears on Tsukishima's face made him determined.
"I could only love you."
There it was. The confession Yamaguchi was dying to tell Tsukishima from the start. It's out now, and his heart is beating out of his chest.
Tsukishima's face went into shock, but he immediately went normal again, trying to answer the man in front of him.
"Thatd was supbossed to be mby lide" Tsukishima replied with a breathless chuckle.
Yamaguchi didn't expect that reply, and he was lost for words. "You were always the coolest, Yambaguchi" Tsukishima admitted.
"You confessed firstd, congratulations. I'mb jealous" He added teasingly as he wiped his own tears. Yamaguchi was still frozen, but then his lips curved just slightly before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Tsukishima's.
The taller man gasped but ended up closing his eyes to reciprocate the kiss for as long as he could before pulling away to cough and sneeze a few times.
Yamaguchi laughed and cupped Tsukki's face affectionately.
"You wond't be laughing whed you get this bug. Itd's awful." Tsukishima warned, though he leaned more into the touch he was receiving.
"Lucky for me then. I get the bug, but I also get you as a bonus, Tsukki." Yamaguchi smiled gently.
Tsukishima widened his eyes at Yamaguchi's rare moment of audacity, but he soon pulled him to his chest to embrace him, scoffing.
Lately I can't help but be stuck in a loop of: going out dancing/drinking/whatever while getting sick and subsequently getting worse. And by the time they're home, they can't keep themselves from sneezing and sneezing and sneezing... and while the activity would have been enough to leave them craving, the fact that they keep sneezing like that is making it worse...
Blurb: Robby’s bad mood (and cold) has got everyone feeling the pressure — Whitaker now included. Plot is spoiler-free with a non-revealing comment about Langdon just to point out he’s not in this story. The entire fic is set before s2!
Length: 6.7k words (Part One here + sorry for the length — this was not part of the plan)
TW: Cursing, (probably) inaccurate doctor lingo, general hospital/ER stuff — NO gore, NO elaborate disease or injury descriptions! Fever and cough repeatedly mentioned.
**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs and minors DNI! Feedback and formatting tips are always welcome <3**
…
2:00 PM — 3:00 PM
Whitaker peeks at his watch for the time, but remembering it’s busted, he resorts to checking the digital clock on his desktop. The time shown (2:48 PM??) has him startled and wondering to himself: just how the fuck had several hours gone by? Just as soon as he asks though, he answers his own question.
Ah, that’s right — they’d gone by like absolute shit.
It’s not like a shift in The Pitt was ever forgiving or easy, per se — far from it — but today had been shaping up to be especially brutal, and in no small thanks to the elephant in the room. The very intimidating, terrorizing elephant who also happened to be the attending stampeding all over everyone’s spirits today.
It turned out that the morning meeting was completely necessary and scarily applicable to Robby’s approach with all his colleagues. Whitaker thought his morning had started bad (which it had), but since then it’d only gotten so much worse; almost like his bad luck had infected everyone in The Pitt.
First, it started small, with Robby dishing out backhanded comments at everyone to pick up their pace and keep busy. It didn’t feel great, but it wasn’t exactly all that serious either. After all, those directives could be considered completely valid, even if it made everyone feel like they were running over hot coals to keep moving. It became more extreme when he started picking on Dr. Mohan, barking at her to keep her patients cycling until he eventually made an example of her by claiming “Slo-Mo” was exacerbating moderate cases by misdiagnosing mole-hills for mountains. At one point he moved her altogether, strictly demoting her from her usual route to caring for the lightest of conditions on a time limit. Needless to say she was unhappy about this — Whitaker even overheard her talking to Javadi and Collins about it. That happened before they’d even reached 10 AM.
Then there was the Mel King Incident (or that-there-dubbed). Despite being fully staffed (well, except for the sidelined Dr. Mohan and Dr. Langdon, the latter of whom had been practically declared MIA for all Whitaker knew), Robby had decided that today Mel would be split between the North and South wings, nearly doubling her usual amount of more patients. Santos suggested it was her punishment for being Langdon’s second in command, but Whitaker didn't know what she meant by that. Regardless, Mel was practically running on fumes and in a constant state of chasing her own tail.
At some point she’d requested Princess to bring her a saline bag replacement while she was between patients. Unluckily, the one Princess had grabbed in stock had been proven defective; while delivering the leaky saline bag from the North to South wing, a trail had been left behind, crossing so many times over that a puddle had formed.
In the end, Perlah had ended up taking a fall, slipping back and landing on her arm. Thankfully she was fine, but a break was mandatory, and unfortunately Mel had been sourced out as the blame of the accident. It was an honest mistake and not one that was within her control, but Robby had harped on her about treating the nurses like maids doing busywork. An accusation like that may as well have been blasphemous from Whitaker’s point of view (considering how thoughtful and appreciative Mel was of everyone in the office), but no one was brave enough to contest Robby in the moment.
Still, Whitaker felt terrible watching Mel take the blame, and he could’ve sworn he saw her fighting back tears while she apologized profusely to both Princess and Perlah for embarrassing them. He had tried to follow up with her shortly after the incident by offering her another apple from the lounge and asking about how her weekend was spent with her sister, but she’d quietly excused herself from his company before yanking on her braid and fleeing towards the bathrooms.
The list of Robby’s victims didn't end there, either. Santos got chewed out for slacking on her charts and allegedly competing for more floor time in the trauma rooms with Garcia. Robby practically banished her from the trauma wing altogether after alleging Santos had made several “brutish” miscalculations during an impromptu procedure. Then around 1 PM, Javadi also got caught in the crossfire and was borderline bullied for her “naivety” when it came to misdiagnosing a difficult case of thyroid disease with unorthodox and vague presentation. Subsequently McKay was also criticized and aptly punished, since she was the resident overseeing Javadi’s mistake.
The only people who had been remotely spared from Robby’s wrath were Dr. Collins, Nurse Evans and a handful of the regular nurses, but even they had been scolded on several occasions. They weren't necessarily big remarks, but they were sour and had evidently left a bad taste in everyone’s mouths. It felt like everyone had an opinion to share about Robby today, and none of them were exactly glowing reviews. All this and it wasn’t even 3 PM yet.
As for Whitaker himself, he’d been fortunate enough to only cross paths with Robby a handful of times. When he did, their interactions were strictly short and professional, perhaps a bit impersonal, but that was probably a blessing considering today’s odds of being berated or chastised. He knew better than to think he was special or that God was sparing him from the worst of it, especially considering how bad his luck had started out that day.
Like everyone else, Whitaker couldn’t shake the feeling he was skittering across eggshells, ominously waltzing around limbo for his turn to be shredded apart by Robby’s bad mood. It’s like he was experiencing some sort of anticipatory grief before the worst was to come (more likely just having a prolonged anxiety attack). He was on edge, which explains why he feels nothing but dread when he hears:
“Whitaker!
He flinches, looking over his shoulder at Robby who is generously massaging sanitizer into his palms. He was currently glaring up at the digital monitor adorning the hub.
“Room Twenty South has been sitting around for a little under an hour now. I want us to go in and do a follow up, see if we can discharge her,” he says.
“Um, but isn’t that Dr. Mohan’s patient?” Whitaker asks.
“Not anymore,” Robby says. “Why? Do you have something more important to do?”
“No, no!” Whitaker insists, already standing from his desk and preparing to join Robby’s side as eagerly as he can fake it. “I, uh, am available and ready, sir.”
“Good. Follow me; we’re going to take a quick detour to the North Nurse’s Station for supply re-up. Mind the wet floor sign.”
Without waiting, Robby leads the way, forcing Whitaker to pick up his pace and keep up. Together they charge full speed ahead for the aforementioned location. When they arrive, Nurse Donahue is up on his feet, chest puffed and ears attentive to hear Robby’s predicted complaints.
“Dr. Robby,” he greets.
“Donahue,” Robby sniffs, cutting right to the chase, “I heard we’re running low on classic NRB and AMBU masks, plus surgical kits for a handful of the primary stations and the two trauma rooms, respectively. Evans also found an incomplete laryngoscope kit and thinks we could use some clean sheets and blankets. Any idea if we have replacements here or am I going to have to breach the dungeon?”
“The dungeon?” Whitaker asks.
“Well I was just about to do a rotation restocking the sheets and blankets — plenty of those up here — but the extra supplies you need are definitely locked up in the storage closet downstairs. I don’t think we keep any of those on this floor in case OR needs spares,” Donahue explains. “If you two are busy, I don’t mind-“
“Nope, it'll be faster if we do it. It’s why our graduate farm-hand here is coming with me,” Robby says, patting both of Whitaker’s shoulders. “Four hands are faster than two, but thank you, Donahue; we will take care of it.”
Robby starts to steer Whitaker away, then pauses.
“Oh-! If for any reason we aren’t back in ten, check in on Twenty South and see if we can get her moving. Consult any doctor, just not Mohan.”
“Got it, boss!” Donahue confirms.
With nothing else to add, Robby resumes guiding Whitaker all the way from the North wing to the West elevator.
“You been to the basement yet?” Robby asks, parking Whitaker in front of the metal box with one hand while the other pushes the button summoning the lift.
“Uh, no; not yet,” Whitaker shakes his head.
“Well it’s really simple to navigate and really unexciting,” he says. He stabs the button again, impatiently watching for the floor number drop. “Not exactly an ideal location for a field trip or a first date.”
Whitaker glances at Robby too quickly, the word “date” triggering a fight or flight response he can’t escape, much like the grip Robby has kept on his person.
“Just follow my lead and we’ll be in and out in no time,” Robby reassures, muttering “finally” when the elevator arrives, doors opening.
“Of course. Whatever you say,” Whitaker agrees.
Together they enter the metal cubicle, Robby’s hand migrating to Whitaker’s back as he ushers him inside. He takes initiative selecting the floor and closing the doors to avoid chancing any unscheduled passengers. Finally separated from all the chatter and noise of the ER, Robby closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
The headache following him around all day was worse than it had been even an hour ago, and residual pain was starting to affect his ears and jaw. He was also starting to grow congested, but was locked in that stage where his airways felt more inflamed than they did stuffy. It was like every breath of air was adorned with little shards of glass scraping against his nasal cavities and throat. He could not only feel but hear the results when he spoke; slightly dulled consonants embellished with a hoarseness that wasn’t there yesterday. Not to mention speaking tickled him like Hell.
Every time Robby uttered so much as a paragraph, he risked an unauthorized coughing fit or a sneeze. Thankfully sneezes had been limited so far this shift, but that didn’t mean the threat of them happening wasn’t always there. The sensation was practically omniscient, and depending on the hour, Robby was either chasing down the dragon or desperately dodging its company. Regardless, that itch was permanent, and it was really starting to piss him off.
And as if all that wasn’t already bad enough, his whole body was starting to develop symptoms too — not just his face. When he went to the bathroom earlier his reflection was noticeably sweaty and pale, with any source of exposed skin glistening in direct light. Beneath the surface, he simultaneously felt too hot and too cold, constantly tipping between extremes. Every hour it felt like he was switching between wearing a jacket and tearing it off; rolling up his sleeves just to pull them down again. He ached too. The pain stuck nowhere in particular, but it clung to him like a bad hug. Every time he moved too fast, coughed, sneezed, whatever, that pain became more and more suffocating. At one point it’d been so distracting he mentally compared it to walking through water, just barely swimming through the ER.
He was smart enough to know he was definitely getting sick (if he wasn’t there already), and while he had his suspicions last night (and lied about calling out to appease Abott and the others’ incessant hounding), even he hadn't predicted it to progress this quickly. Still, he was resolved to stick it out the rest of the day and probably the rest of the week should it come to it. Nothing sickened Robby as much as the idea of sitting at home waiting to get better with no bedside manner outside of his own intrusive thoughts. A fever was bad, but being alone in his own head? That was torture.
That being said, he really wouldn’t mind taking a seat for just a second. Maybe running errands to the basement was his subconscious way of affording himself a break, even if he didn’t think he actually needed or deserved one. But again, those were thoughts he was choosing to neglect, similar to the status of his own health.
“Dr. Robby?”
The mechanical whir of the elevator and Whitaker’s voice sound so far away from where Robby mentally was right now. Maybe closing his eyes was a mistake, because all of the sudden he felt tired — a little too tired. The lift rocking and dipping prior to their descent isn’t noticeable to his partner, but it is to Robby, whose silent vertigo flares, causing him to sway more than he’s immediately prepared for. He feels himself losing to gravity, but his eyes are too slow to reopen and readjust to his current predicament.
“Sir!”
Whitaker reaches out to grab Robby’s forearm the moment he senses him wobbling, and at the same time, Robby clings onto his sleeve, tugging Whitaker off balance. In their shared lapse of footing, the two men end up staggering against one of the walls of the lift. Given their height difference, it’s only natural Robby’s pull is stronger, which means Whitaker ends up being the one drawn to his side.
While they’ve somehow managed to stay on their feet, they have ended up tangled in an awkward half-hug; Robby’s right hand clinging onto the elevator railing while his other arm remains in Whitaker’s clutches. When their eyes meet (with Robby looking right through him), the poor kid looks absolutely mortified.
“Sorry-!” Whitaker apologizes, though his hands do not move. “I thought you were-!” he swallows.
He didn’t want to make any accusations, especially since he’s already terrified that Robby's about to yell at him (who wouldn't be given how today was progressing?). He’s fully prepared for a scolding too after such an embarrassing breach of personal space. He means to step back, hoping that by shuffling to the opposite side of the elevator as quickly as possible, he can afford his senior some space (and avoid being humiliated any further)…but his body just won’t listen. He’s effectively frozen; hands tied to his superior and afraid to let go.
Robby opens his mouth, and Whitaker prepares for insult, however instead of shouting at him, Robby twists his body and ducks his head behind his subordinate’s ear. He’d been close to Whitaker before, but at this distance, the fourth year could feel the heat of his breath on his neck (or maybe that was just the proximity of his fever).
“Dr. Robby, are-?”
Robby shakes his head, abruptly inhaling so fast and powerfully it whips up a breeze against Whitaker’s skin.
“HHA’DJSHH’OO!!”
As powerful as it was, one wasn’t enough.
“RR’SHHH’Hhu! Fuck,” he hisses.
Whitaker couldn't help it, he jumps at both sneezes, both shocked and momentarily frightened by their strength and sound. Thankfully Robby had sneezed over his shoulder, which meant he wasn’t in the line of contaminants. Adrenaline from his catch still floods every vein in Whitaker’s body, and that in addition to having been flashed by Robby’s crumpling expression, and breathy curse so close to his ear…? His body feels so tingly he shivers, then kicks himself for getting distracted.
“Bless you,” Whitaker manages.
“Thank you,” Robby groans, starting to retreat out of Whitaker’s space with a lean. He stops however, glancing down at Whitaker’s hands on his arm, then back at his face.
“You uh, can let go of me now,” he says, tugging his arm a bit.
“R-Right!” Fuck. Whitaker drops his hands and cringes when he sees the blanching he’s left on Robby’s skin. He hadn’t even realized he'd been gripping onto him that tightly, and now the prints of his fingertips were staring back at him like a regrettable tattoo. Robby notices too, flexing his arm.
“Jesus, kid,” he frowns, his opposite hand tentatively sweeping over Whitaker’s imprints like a linguist studying braille, “next time just hold my hand if you’re that desperate.”
It’s not exactly a cross statement how he says it, but it’s not exactly playful either; not like their banter usually is. Whitaker’s mouth hangs awkwardly agape, dry and devoid of a meaningful reply. He wants to excuse his actions or at least come up with some kind of response — anything really — but his opportunity is gone just as quickly as the doors reopen and two employees from another floor greet them with polite nods and smiles. Robby pulls down his sleeve to hide the evidence of Whitaker’s man-handling, then returns the strangers’ pleasantries while he and his student shuffle out the door.
“This way,” Robby says. With that, he leads the way once again, stringing Whitaker along a few paces behind.
And thank God Whitaker was behind. He can’t even bring himself to look at Robby’s back; not while he ruminates on what the fuck that was supposed to mean or whether or not Robby was irritated he’d touched him at all. The idea that Robby was potentially upset or even repulsed by his contact made Whitaker’s stomach hurt. That and Robby’s possible implication Whitaker might even be “desperate” enough to grab onto him while he was vulnerable and they’re alone…? Horrifying. He’d only tried to help, but the way Robby responded made him feel like he’d done anything but. Maybe it was just his anxiety making him think insane things, but when it came to Robby, Whitaker had the tendency to overthink himself into circles.
Even now, his mind still races. Anyone would've caught their attending if they thought they were going to fall, right? Was a simple expression of concern really that egregious? Was it what Robby had said that bothered him or how he said it; and how much of either could be attributed to his mood?
He’s so lost in thought he barely notices how he and Robby have swept through several shady corridors already. Hopefully he wouldn’t be quizzed on their route when they return back, since really all he remembered passing was a random water cooler. Thankfully, Whitaker still has enough directional sense to stop when Robby comes to an unexpected halt. Looking around his body, Whitaker realizes they’ve reached the end of an empty hallway, with a door labeled: STORAGE: STAFF ONLY.
“Say, you’re not allergic to dust, are you?” Robby asks, struggling to untangle his badge from his keys.
“Um, a little?” A lot. “Not as bad as cats. Why?”
Robby buzzes them into the locked room, swinging the door open and flicking on a light switch as he enters. He moves to the side to allow Whitaker in after him, just in time for the overheads to reveal a dank, poorly kept space crowded with shelves, narrow aisles and cobwebs. The second they’re both inside, it’s noticeably chilly, prompting Whitaker to hug his sides.
“It’s cold,” he comments.
“Cold, dark and depressing. Looks can be deceiving though; this is probably one of the most expensive rooms in the entire building…also the most neglected,” Robby says, running a finger across one of the higher shelves. He grimaces at the dust coating his skin, and showcases the evidence to Whitaker. “Careful, it’s dusty.”
“No kidding,” Whitaker agrees, sniffling at the sight of the shelves, boxes and plastic containers alone. He sidles past Robby. He’s so distracted taking in the chaotic archive of things and gadgets, he haphazardly bumps against one of the shelves, filling the room with an annoying tinny noise that aggravates Robby’s headache.
“Sorry,” Whitaker says, catching how Robby crosses his arms and winces. There was hardly enough space for one person in here (even at Whitaker’s size), let alone two. “W-What were we looking for again?”
“You tell me.”
“Um,” Whitaker blinks, trying to recall Robby’s list from earlier. “NRB and AMBU masks, generalized surgical kits…and…?”
“A laryngoscope kit. Two or three if we’re lucky, but make sure to check the entire batch when you find them. A piece went missing from the one upstairs which could’ve been the result of an accident, but it could also be a manufacturer's mistake, in which case the whole batch may be affected and need reporting.”
“Right. And those are…where, exactly?”
Robby uncrosses his arms and waves at the countless rows of equipment. “That’s the fun part. We’re going to have to find them.”
“You mean these shelves aren't organized??” Whitaker asks, incredulous. “But how does anyone find anything? Shouldn’t these be alphabetized or categorized by priority, use, need…?”
“They’re supposed to be. They should have labels at least,” Robby answers while he puts on his reading glasses and coughs at the floor. He wrinkles his nose. Damn, even putting on glasses was enough to irritate his face. “Other than that, we are looking for needles among haystacks. I’m hoping you and your Nebraska heritage have some experience sorting through haystacks?”
“Not like this,” Whitaker half-laughs, “not at this scale.”
“Then consider us both equally in the dark on this one,” Robby winks, “good luck, partner.”
…
3:00 PM- 4:00 PM
What was supposed to be a quick stop downstairs was starting to become a lot more grueling than either Whitaker or Robby had anticipated. The whole storage room presented itself more like a maze of miscellaneous tools than an oversized medical closet. Fortunately, they had developed a plan to divide up the work and help the search move along faster. Robby in the front, Whitaker in the back, both tackling aisle by aisle, right handed side then left. Whitaker was in charge of sorting through the lower shelves while Robby combed through the top.
It made sense when Whitaker had originally proposed the idea, but he’d also somehow forgotten that by staying low, he’d naturally remain closer to the floor — the floor that hadn’t been swept in God knows how long, and was currently caked in a filthy layer of dust and dirt. Between sorting through supplies and squeaking their shoes across the floor, plenty of dust had been kicked up. So much so that clouds of it practically swirled through the stale air and wafted effortlessly into their faces every time they breathed.
It made Robby cough and sniffle here or there, but Whitaker was far more sensitive. The result was nothing short of torture.
“Bless you, Kitten,” Robby wryly comments from above. “What happened to being ‘a little’ allergic?”
“An understatement I guess,” Whitaker groans.
“No kidding,” Robby scoffs. “Bless you.”
“iih’schu! You’re’hH-?! hh’itsch’u-!! h’aah-!…eugh,” he sniffles, having lost the urge last second, “going to get tired of saying that.”
“Haven’t yet, and you're already at eighteen.”
“iih’dttshh!”
“Nineteen,” Robby self-corrects.
Whitaker wipes his mouth and nose against his collar, trying to avoid making contact between his hands and his face. It was hard though, the way his eyes and nose itched profusely.
“You’re — SNF-! — counting?” he asks.
“I am; I’m curious to see if you can beat your record,” Robby shrugs. “Gotta keep entertained somehow.”
“You’ve counted before??” As if he wasn’t insecure enough already.
“Yep,” Robby confesses like it’s nothing special. “It was in the low thirties by the way.”
“Thirties??” Whitaker repeats to his own chagrin.
“Just about,” Robby estimates, still searching for the AMBU masks. Luckily he and Whitaker had managed to locate the other items fairly quickly, but the masks were stubbornly holding out on them. “I bet ten more minutes in here and you’ll beat that easily.”
“I hH-!…ho’hhpe not,” Whitaker says, managing to temporarily stave off another. Robby notices.
“Don’t stop just because you want me to lose.”
“Against who, yourself?”
“You don’t know how competitive I am. I’m considering starting a betting pool with the day shift next time I drag you down here.”
“Please — iih’TSCH’uu! ‘ksch— don’t,” Whitaker begs. “I’d prefer to keep the chances of being noticed to a minimum.”
“Bless you twice,” Robby stretches, then hesitates. “And no need to be shy. You should be honored to be elected the sneeziest person in the Pitt. That’s a pretty rare achievement; one that probably didn't even exist before you got here.”
Whitaker’s face falls and cheeks redden. It was hard to keep focused on their search between the constant sneeze breaks and teasing. That, and he still couldn’t tell if Robby was picking on him to be facetious or to punish him for some sort of indiscretion he wasn’t acknowledging. Maybe it was both.
“I-Is that what people are saying about me?” Whitaker asks.
“Just me. I promise I won’t start any rumors so long as you find those AMBUs before I do though.”
“Is that a threat? Or are you trying to suggest my attending is a secret gossip mongrel?”
Robby smiles coyly to himself. “Who knows? But since you asked, the latter only applies when the gossip is about people he’s interested in.”
Whitaker bows his head, hiding a cheeky little smile. That felt more like the usual Robby. Whitaker’s comfort doesn’t last long though, the way his lip twitches in tandem with his nose.
“tii’zzsch-! ‘ishhu-! ‘dchu!!”
“Bless you. Christ, at this rate you may need one of those masks yourself by the time we wrap up down here,” Robby chuckles, but his laugh dissolves into a chesty cough that seems to get stuck in his throat. It hurts, gradually building from something dry and tickly to something more akin to a bark.
Whitaker steals a peeks at Robby between sorting. That didn't sound good, not with the way they were persisting. From this angle he can see the way Robby’s face contorts, and how that unusual pallor of his wasn’t getting any better; not to mention sweat was starting to seep through his scrubs and matt his hair down. And his nose…was it redder than usual? Maybe it was bothering him more than Whitaker previously noticed.
If he was recalling correctly, that morning Evans had suggested Robby had a cold, but right now Whitaker was beginning to suspect that cold was progressing into a fever…and rapidly for that matter.
When the coughing finally relents, Robby mutters a curse, bowing his head while he catches his breath. Unfortunately — even through teary eyes — he catches Whitaker staring at him.
“Sorry,” he grumbles. “Guess you’re not the only one with allergies.”
Right…allergies. Whitaker swallows. He pretends to return to fishing for supplies, but really, he closes his eyes and mulls over what Evans had said earlier. He’s not supposed to ask Robby how he’s feeling; he’s supposed to just ignore his symptoms and grievances when he notices them. And to be fair, that's just what he’d been doing up until now. He didn’t harp on the way he snapped at everyone all morning and midday, he tried not to make a big deal of his near-fainting spell in the elevator, and he didn’t intend on commenting on the constant coughing just now…but this was all entirely against Whitaker’s nature — and he was growing a little too uneasy to keep quiet.
He glances at Robby again while he’s distracted. Maybe just this once he could bend the rules just a little bit. After all, Robby didn’t seem too aggravated right now, maybe even a bit cheerful given his return to banter. From Whitaker’s perspective this could very well be the only chance he gets to say something to him regarding his health — especially alone in the safety of their own privacy.
“You know,” he starts, trying to sound nonchalant as he musters up the courage to continue, “if your throat is bothering you, I think there was a water dispenser on our way here. If you need a drink, that is.”
Robby shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t want to lose my place.”
“I’ll hold it for you,” Whitaker volunteers. “That or I don’t mind grabbing you a cup myself.”
“You’d just get lost.”
“I’m sure I could find my way back. I moved from Nebraska to the city, remember? I’m used to finding my way through new territory."
Whitaker means it light-heartedly, but all he gets in return is Robby scoffing impatiently, scratching at his beard. “Wow, you must really want to get out of here. Hopefully it’s just the sneezing and not because you’re sick of me.”
“Of course not,” Whitaker frowns. Why would he say that? Did he really think that? “It’s just…you don’t sound too great yourself, Chief. That cough doesn’t, anyway.”
He can see Robby make a face in lieu of a reply. That probably wasn’t a good sign; and neither was the silence that’s suddenly emerged. The quiet is stifling, even more than the air itself.
“If I can be honest, you seem a little uncomfortable today,” Whitaker continues. “If anything is wrong or you aren’t feeling well, I’m here — to talk or to help. You’re health is important to-“
Me.
“-everyone,” he murmurs. “I just want to make sure-“
“I’m great,” Robby snaps, whipping around. Whitaker freezes when their gazes lock together. “Where is this coming from?”
“Nowhere,” Whitaker answers timidly. “Just what I thought I’ve been seeing.”
“So your imagination?” Robby doubts. “I don’t remember telling you something was wrong.”
“You didn't."
“Then did someone tell you there's something wrong with me?”
“N-No!” Whitaker fibs back. “Again, I just thought-“
“Well then you’re thinking too hard,” Robby interrupts. He returns to digging through supplies, clicking his tongue and barely paying attention while he pushes miscellaneous shit aside.
“I…guess I might be,” Whitaker mumbles.
“You are,” Robby corrects.
Whitaker blinks, both surprised and discouraged by how quickly Robby has turned defensive. He swallows back something heavy in his throat and nods.
“R-Right,” he stutters meekly. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Don’t be sorry, just do your job,” Robby mutters. He’s aware he’s being too harsh, but his frustration with everything — even himself — is so overwhelming he can’t rein it back. All day he’d been negatively brewing something akin to a storm in his chest, and now Whitaker was becoming the unlucky target of its cultivation.
It also probably didn’t help his face itched all over and he just wanted to get the Hell out of here.
“I’m not trying to be mean, kid, because I love you…but being a doctor with good intuition does not automatically make everyone your patient,” Robby imparts. “So maybe worry about getting yourself out of here alive, and focus your attention on the task at hand before you start trying to diagnose me with something. Save that for your actual patients instead of making them up — because I sure as Hell am not one of them,” he asserts. “Do that, and in return, I’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Deal?”
Whitaker stammers, trying to find some way to console Robby’s emotions and his own, but instead he surrenders the fight, nodding obediently. Robby couldn't have made it any clearer that he’d crossed his boundaries, which not only made Whitaker feel guilty but stupid. He chews on his bottom lip to keep from saying anything more he may regret. Having lost his voice, Robby speaks for him:
“Deal.”
They return to sorting, but this time they’ve fallen into complete silence; and though they only carry on for a few more minutes, neither afford each other any further looks or words — not even when Whitaker sneezes or Robby falls into coughing fits. Usually Whitaker secretly reveled his time alone with Robby, even when they were both quiet, but right now, he wants to do nothing more than run away.
“Fucking finally!” Robby breathes. Whitaker looks up, watching while his attending gingerly pulls one of the boxes off the shelves, revealing an entire stock of new AMBUs.
“Looks great,” Whitaker says in a small voice.
“Yes they do,” Robby agrees. “Alright, grab the other stuff. We are done here.”
“Right,” Whitaker obliges, smiling even though his heart isn’t in it. “I’ll grab the door.”
Whitaker cautiously shuffles on ahead, unaware of how Robby takes advantage of his distraction to fervently sniffle and scratch at his face.
In hindsight, he really should’ve known better than to do all that, because the instant he does, his nose feels like it’s caught fire, filling his lungs with smoke. Shit. Of all the fucking times to sneeze, this really wasn’t it. Robby had managed to wrestle the feeling away the entire time they’ve been down here, but now he knew that wouldn't be possible much longer. After all, his sneezes rarely gave him this much ample warning, and since it wasn’t already stuck, that only meant its arrival was inevitable. He needed to get out of this room at least; otherwise what was the point of holding them back if not to spare Whitaker from being infected in such close quarters?
“hHHH-?!” Shit.
He shoves his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to keep his eyes open and fixated on Whitaker while he bends over and collects the other two boxes. It’s tough though; already his eyes were starting to close against his will, breath scissoring dangerously and nostrils flaring.
“hH-…?! HHUH-!”
Whitaker opens the door with his hip and steps aside for Robby to exit first.
“Alright. Ready for you to lead the…way…?”
As soon as he looks back at his senior, he realizes something is wrong. He doesn’t have time to ask though, because Robby practically trips through the door, head tipped back and mouth gulping for air. The second he crosses into the hall and over his threshold, he comes undone.
He hadn’t sneezed like that in ages, and his body can feel it. It’s relieving, but also utterly relentless — vicious, even. They’re so strong, they fold him at the waist, eliciting stars in his vision and the box he’s holding to crash to the floor. Its contents spill everywhere, but at least Robby’s hands were now free to sneeze into (not that he should).
“hhH’DJSHH’UU-!!…MMM’FFSH-! MF’SCH’uh-!”
Fuck, when was the last time he’d sneezed more than twice in a row maximum?? He couldn't remember, and quite frankly, he didn’t care either. It was already clear enough that all that dust and holding back had done a number on him.
“RRSCHH’HU!”
The last one echoes off his palms, and immediately his fit of explosive sneezes fades into a fit of strangled coughs. Robby’s sight is as good as useless, so he keeps his eyes shut while his hand grips his knee and the other attempts to smother his coughs. He was in bad shape — so bad, Whitaker can’t resist springing into action.
“Dr. Robby!”
Whitaker flies to Robby’s side, hands immediately finding their way to his shoulders.
“Hey! Dr. Robby! Robby!! C-Can you breathe?!” Whitaker panics. He rubs circles against Robby’s back like his attending had once done for him.
In between coughs, Robby tries to speak, but it’s completely unintelligible. Eventually he gives up on talking, and begins to lower himself onto his knees instead. His actions may be deliberate (unlike the incident in the elevator) but that doesn’t mean Whitaker isn’t still worried.
“Let me help,” Whitaker says, kneeling with him. At first he’s relieved Robby may actually be grounding himself for a much needed break to catch his breath, but his enthusiasm is promptly dashed. When he looks down, he realizes Robby’s trying to pick up the stuff he’s dropped, despite being woozy and winded.
“Are you insane??” Whitaker hisses, grabbing Robby’s hands to stall him. It probably wasn’t the right thing to say, but it wasn’t like formalities had done him much good up to this point anyway. “Stop! Just-! Let me do that!”
“No!”
“No??”
“No,” Robby coughs. He’s swaying, even as the fit starts to die down. “I don't need your help.”
Whitaker stares at Robby bizarrely, both offended and bewildered by his adamant rejection.
“You’re sick,” he says, sounding more helpless than anything else. At this point, he’s not sure whether he’s saying as much to remind himself or convince Robby. “You may not ask for it or need my help, but I’m the only one here right now. If you don’t want me, then at least let me go get Evans or Collins or someone! Please! I want to help-!”
“STOP!”
Robby violently rips his hands back from Whitaker. Even while breathless, the force is enough to send the fourth year staggering back.
“Stop touching me, stop helping me — stop all of this before you drive me fucking crazier than I already am!!”
The two fall silent again with the exception of heavy breathes. Whitaker looks frantic while Robby glares at him. Robby has never looked at him like that, let alone yelled at him.
“Jesus, Dennis,” he pants, sounding and appearing outright distressed. “What the Hell are you doing to me?? Sincerely. Why do you think I asked for you, specifically to come down here with me??”
He doesn’t wait for Whitaker to answer.
“Anyone can carry boxes between floors, and probably more than you can. Shit, Donahue even offered for us! But instead I brought you down here with me because of everyone in the ER I thought you of all people would-!!”
He bites his tongue mid-speech, shaking his head while he purses his lips into a frown. He hadn’t meant to keep talking. Or had he? He didn’t know. He could hardly even think straight he was so fucking tired and high strung.
“Would-…?” Whitaker asks. “Would…what?”
Robby remains silent, though a million responses flood his mind.
Wouldn’t embarrass me by putting me on the spot when I clearly know what's happening? Wouldn't corner me when I’m already content being avoided after pushing everyone away? Would take my sarcasm as evidence I’m fine; that or as an excuse to deflect questions you know I don’t want to answer? Would distract me and make me feel better by ignoring the fucking obvious because you’re usually the one who just listens, waits, who gets me…?
But instead you've chosen to do this: to do more than look and actually see me when I already feel disgusting enough as is. It’s something I should've expected because you are kind. You are always kind. But sympathy is the last thing I need. Definitely not from you. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Your empathy, your attention, and your help is not what I want…
…or maybe it is…and that makes me feel sick. Not sick of you, but sick of myself.
“Nothing,” Robby dismisses, casting all his intrusive thoughts to the recesses of his brain. He didn’t want to deal with emotions when it was easier to pretend they didn’t exist. “Nothing.”
Whitaker desperately wants to know what he was about to say, but he knows it’s not a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes earnestly instead.
“I know,” Robby says, taking a deep breath. “Just go.”
“…What?”
“You heard me,” Robby mutters, gaze and tone as inhospitable and distant and exhausted as ever. “Go. I’ll pick this up, bring it back upstairs and handle it myself. Just-…stay out of the way.” Away from me.
It’s petty and it’s selfish after he’s the one who invited him down here, but now Robby desperately needs Whitaker gone. It was his mistake; one he needed out of sight and out of mind.
“But…what about Room Twenty…?” Whitaker asks. “Didn’t you want me there?”
“Forget Room Twenty. I’ll manage it alone. Instead, go back up Collins or McKay or whoever will take you. That’s an order from your attending, Whitaker.”
When he sees Whitaker hesitating, he adds: “Now.”
Whitaker stares at Robby, brows furrowing and lips thin as a line. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he can say; nothing except:
“Yes, Dr. Robby.”
Without chancing another word, Whitaker stands back up and heads down the hall back from where they came. He doesn’t know the way, but he doesn’t care — he wouldn’t mind getting lost for a little while.
Unseen to him, Robby watches him go up until he disappears around the corner. Looking back down at all the stuff scattered on the floor, Robby feels his eyes begin to burn. He plants his face into his palms, kneading carelessly at his crow’s feet and temples. In his moment of weakness, he can hear Abott’s voice in the back of his mind. Something about a storm, about keeping himself in check, taking it easier on everyone, and bad omens…
“Fuck, Jack. I’m sorry,” Robby whispers to himself alone.
i've had this concept in my head for a while (and this wip in my docs for a while) but it's finally here! on your tumblr dash! please accept this fic ft. sick kip, cold denial, pine allergies, and extra fluffy caretaking ~3.8k words 🫐🍌
—
"Yeah, of course I can come in. No, I know it's last-minute, don't worry about it."
Scott looks up from his bowl of granola and Greek yogurt to where Kip is standing by the fridge, a phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. It's still early in the morning, before seven, the sun having barely risen outside the large windows of their apartment.
"I mean, extra would be nice, but you don't have to pay— okay, yeah, that sounds great. I'll be there in an hour for setup." Kip's nose wrinkles as he shuts the fridge door, having taken out one of Scott's pre-packaged protein shakes. For a while, he'd completely rejected the idea of buying them in bulk when perfectly good shakes could be made at home, but the compact and instantly available nature of them was perfect in a time crunch, which it seems Kip is now in.
"What are they making you go in for?" Scott asks through a mouthful of granola when Kip has hung up the phone.
Kip sighs. "Not making me, asking me," he says, unscrewing the plastic lid of the protein shake. He presses his wrist against his septum. "Chew before you speak."
Scott swallows the mouthful and frowns. "You said you weren't feeling great last night. You could just tell them no, they'd have to understand." He thinks for a moment before he adds, "And you didn't answer my question."
"It's a wedding," Kip says, and takes a sip from his drink. "Late morning reception. A ton of the staff just cancelled, and I'm free, so…"
"Just because you're free doesn't mean you're up for it," argues Scott, his spoon clinking against the ceramic bowl in front of him.
"Okay, so maybe I have the sniffles, babe," he retaliates, though his voice doesn't sound poised for further argument. "I'm up for setting a few tables, making sure the bagel spread is to the client's liking. I've worked harder jobs feeling worse than… sorryonesecond— hiH'GNnkt-uhh!" Kip dips into his elbow, expertly, and most likely compulsively, stifling. "Worse than I am now."
That doesn't do much to assuage Scott's apprehension. "God bless you."
"Thank you," he says automatically, taking a deep breath through his nose as if to test if there's more coming. That doesn't seem to be the case, so Scott persists.
"It's a game day. I don't want you to come home feeling like crap, and not have me there to take care of you."
Kip steps around the kitchen island to where Scott is seated on a barstool. "And I'm telling you I'm not going to come home feeling like crap. This is barely even a cold. End of story."
Scott hums and stands up, wrapping his arms securely around Kip's waist. "You're sure?"
"So sure." The statement is punctuated by a sniffle, sounding urgent in a way that signals to Scott that it's keeping a very runny nose at bay.
"I won't play well if I don't know you're going to be okay when I leave you," he says, his breath tickling Kip's earlobe.
His boyfriend groans half-heartedly at his sentimentality, rolling his eyes. "I'll be fine. And I'm not going to spread anything around, either. I'll wash my hands, like, every other minute at my gig."
"Okay," Scott relents, releasing him with a kiss to his cheek. "I believe you. At least for now."
+
By the time the end of his gig rolls around, Kip is decidedly not fine. What had started as a tiny head cold is now turning him into a congested, yet still somehow drippy, mess. He's pretty sure the pine scent from the Christmas-themed wedding decor isn't helping matters, either. Why couldn't they have gotten fake trees? His eyes are as itchy as his nose.
He narrowly avoids sneezing while carrying a tray on numerous occasions, cranberry mocktails threatening to spill over as the tickle toys with him. He keeps his sniffles to himself, or at least he tries to, but he's sure he sees some of the guests side-eying him as he beelines for the kitchen, a paper napkin acting as his tissue. One woman makes an audible noise of disgust when he walks by.
His fellow servers notice it too, but are far more sympathetic, many having been in the same situation before. Being around hundreds of people, almost constantly catering various social events, means one is bound to pick something up sooner or later. He gets a pat on the back here and there, kind words of encouragement meant to put him at ease, but only embarrassing him further.
He's wiping his nose with a napkin in the corner of the kitchen (the only area of the place that doesn't smell like pine) when a young female server walks up to him, wordlessly offering a travel packet of tissue embossed with an inspirational quote.
"Oh mby god, thadk you," Kip says breathlessly, reaching out to take the packet. He's not exactly thrilled to have been noticed, but the tissues will be a welcome reprieve. "That's so sweet of you."
"It's no problem," she says, giving him a small smile. "You looked like you needed them more than me. I bet half the people at this party have got the same cold, mind you."
Kip swallows. "Oh, I'b ndot—" He rips open the packet of tissues and takes one out, holding it to his nose and allowing for a half-hearted blow. "It's the trees that're getting to mbe."
She doesn't seem entirely convinced by the explanation, but nonetheless gives him a sympathetic smile before walking away.
Kip intends to stay for the cleanup portion of the event, but his supervisor takes one look at him and sends him on his way, assuring him that he won't be paid any less for leaving now. Kip reluctantly agrees and grabs his bag and jacket from the coatroom he'd left them in, too overwhelmingly itchy to think of anything other than getting home.
Scott would normally pick him up from this type of thing, but he's currently at practice. That doesn't seem to have stopped him from texting Kip, though. He scrolls up through the messages he'd missed as he makes his way to the entrance.
Scott 10:27 AM
Hey, practice starting now. Hope everything goes well.
We've got a bunch of guys out sick, so just know you're not the only one. Half of them still came in, though.
Like someone I know.
Scott 12:38 PM
Thinking of you ❤️
Scott 1:15 PM
Let me know if you start feeling worse, I'll call you an Uber. You shouldn't have to take the subway home.
Scott 3:45 PM
I want to call before my game. Just text me when you're ready.
Is the reception still happening? Fighting the urge to check your location.
Scott 4:03 PM
Your little dot is moving on my map. Are you on your way home?
Kip sighs, both annoyed and extremely endeared by his boyfriend's protectiveness. It's very sweet, but it only reminds him of the fact that he won't be able to collapse into his arms until after the game. He shoots back what he intends to be a reassuring text, letting Scott know that he's walking to the subway station and is perfectly fine. He then shoves his phone into his pocket.
A moment after he responds, Kip's phone begins to buzz continuously. Someone is calling him. He pulls it out to check the caller ID and sees it's a FaceTime from Scott. Not surprising, but mildly terrifying considering he'd just lied about his symptoms. Oh well. He zips up his coat the rest of the way and pushes open the door, frigid air hitting his face as he accepts the call.
"Hey," Scott says. He's sitting in what Kip assumes is the locker room, judging by the familiar walls and stacks of lockers behind him, his uniform not yet on. "How was it?"
Kip clears his throat, which sounds much more filled with phlegm than he'd like Scott to have heard. "Oh, you kdnow, sambe old, sambe old. Sndfl!" He can hear the congestion in his head, and hopes his phone's shitty quality will cover at least some of it. "It was all Christmbas-y. Super cute."
Scott hums and smiles, though there's a hint of a frown in his eyes. He's concerned, and Kip knows it.
"You sound really rough, baby," he says quietly, though not exactly discreetly, considering his teammates are swarming him. They all know Kip and have accepted him as one of their own, but something about a bunch of manly hockey players knowing Kip is the damsel in distress at home sends a chill down his spine. That could also be explained by the below-freezing temperature.
"Well, I don't feel rough," Kip lies with a liquid sniffle, the cold winds clearing some of his congestion but setting his nose running even more than it already had been. "Not any worse than this morning, at least." He blinks back the tears forming in his eyes, stinging with the wind. He really needs to get into that station.
"I find that a little hard to believe," says Scott, biting his bottom lip. It's split in the middle, a result of the rink's dry, cold air.
Kip scrunches up his nose and flips his scarf over his shoulder, which had begun to blow off. Fighting the persistent tickle in his nose seems to be becoming an exercise in futility. "You have a game to worry about. You said it yourself— some of your best players are out. The great Scott Hunter needs to take chahh'rrge… take charge of.. the rin'hh'ih'NGSshh'iue! heh… hehH'NXGShh-uh!"
On Scott's end, the camera jerks and freezes as Kip pitches to the side with a pair of hastily (and only partially) stifled sneezes, wind crackling in the phone's microphone. It takes a second for the picture to come back, Kip's face reduced to a bunch of pixels.
"Sorry," Kip says, the routine of apologizing for his sneezes having been hammered into him during the prior portion of his day.
Scott's response is delayed by a second as a result of Kip's shitty service on the sidewalk. "Ble— bless you. You— breaking up. Did— say something?"
Kip shakes his head. His nose is threatening to drip onto his upper lip. He surreptitiously touches his coat sleeve to it, which comes away with a shiny patch. "I'm all good," he says, stifling an unruly cough into his glove and stopping before the stairs down to the subway. "But I'm going underground, babe, I need to hang up on you now."
Someone is talking to Scott on the other end, but his attention stays on his phone. "Listen," he says to Kip, face drawn with anxiety. "I should be home by nine, with wrap-up and press and everything. There's stuff in the fridge you can heat up, and I'm sure we've got some cold medicine in the cabinet. If you need anything, text me, and I'll get it on my way home, alright?"
"I know the drill," says Kip, and blows a kiss to the phone camera. "I'll be watching. Good luck out there."
After he's hung up, Kip taps his card to the sensor at the turnstile and walks through, his pace a light jog. His train is estimated to arrive in less than a minute.
The subway is absolutely packed when he gets on, with it being rush hour, and all. Kip wouldn't normally be bothered by this, used to the routine after so many years of taking the train home, but tonight the close proximity of the other passengers makes him feel like a sniffling, contagious mess. If he was getting dirty looks at the party, he's definitely getting them now.
He only has to make it through six stops, he tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his symptoms to cease for only a minute. Unfortunately, they don't, and the shifted pressure in his sinuses that comes from scrunching up his face only worsens matters. It produces a faint and familiar buzzing, one that he'll have to give in to sooner or later. It's no use fighting his body at this stage.
His right hand is holding one of the bars in the center of the car, jammed into a cluster of people that he won't be able to retract it from until they stop again. He doubts he'll be able to take out a tissue from the packet in his right coat pocket, left-handed, and especially not in time before the twinge in his sinuses becomes something more. Slightly panicked, Kip raises his left hand and pulls his scarf higher over the lower half of his face, the soft material brushing his nose.
Unable to turn away, Kip ducks into his scarf, muffling what turns out to be a very wet sneeze into its folds. "hh'hih… hh'MPHHShh'iue!" His usual ability to stifle seems to be no match for this cold. Trying to ignore the dirty looks directed his way when his breath hitches a second, and then a third time, he squints up at the harsh fluorescent lights. "'Scuse meehh'hH— GSCHh-ue! hah'ISSHHI'UEe!"
Every part of his face, underneath all of the layers, is now thoroughly pink and covered in moisture, and all for different reasons. Kip blinks through the sneeze-induced haze as the train comes to a halt, jostling him against a fellow passenger. His eyes burn with embarrassed tears as he hastens to get off the train, deciding that walking a few blocks from this station to his apartment is more considerate (and less mortifying) than continuing the rest of the way to his stop.
+
Kip has now spent years watching his boyfriend play hockey. He loves how passionate Scott is about the sport and admires that he can be a figurehead for healthy masculinity while also being incredibly jacked. No matter how he looks or acts, Scott will always praise him, telling him how perfect he is, how good he is. However, he can't help but feel a little inferior right now.
While Scott, his drop-dead gorgeous, Gillette-sponsored, NHL superstar boyfriend, skates around onscreen, surrounded by adoring fans, Kip sits on the couch, surrounded by used tissues.
He makes it through the first period without difficulty, peppering his and Scott's texts with intermittent messages about the game. It's after he's finished dinner, his plate on the coffee table, and his feet under a blanket, that he starts to feel drowsy. Tired in a way only brought on by illness or hard work, or in this case, the two combined.
He watches the second period through eyes that drift in and out of focus, his head resting comfortably on a white, fuzzy throw pillow. He keeps a tissue clasped in his hand, more for comfort than anything else. Mouth-breathing seems to be the best option at this point, if he wants the skin around his nose to remain semi-intact.
By the time the third and final period rolls around, the Admirals tied with the Penguins at 2, Kip has drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
+
It's not late, by any means, when Scott returns to the apartment. The game had gone on until a little after eight, with overtime, and he had managed to make it out of the arena just before nine.
It had been a good night, all things considered, the Admirals scoring a winning fourth point in OT. He was pleased with this, of course, had avoided as much of the press as he could (being the captain, and all, there's a lot of it), and opted out of any celebrations the younger guys on the team had planned. Tonight, the reward was not moving up in the Metropolitan Division standings of the Eastern Conference; it was getting home to see and take care of his boyfriend. His boyfriend, who, judging by the video call they'd had earlier, is in much worse shape than he's letting on.
What had begun the day prior as an offhand comment about a sore throat seemed to have developed into much more by the end of Kip's workday. Even over the phone, Scott could hear how strained his voice was and how desperate his previously manageable sniffles had become. And no, he didn't look bad, exactly: Kip could never look anything but beautiful to him, but the chapped skin around his nose and his watery pink eyes suggested that he at least wasn't feeling his best.
His teammates had been exceptionally understanding regarding the situation, urging Scott to go home and "take care of his WAG." Many had been privy to the video call earlier that night, and it didn't take a detective to hear how miserable he sounded.
Scott tries his best not to worry too much, but the fact that his past few messages have been sitting unread by Kip is making him uneasy. Kip is typically all over his phone, on top of answering everyone as soon as their communication comes through. He especially prides himself on having zero emails in his inbox, a feat that Scott doesn't believe he could manage.
He unlocks the door and slips inside, the air inside the apartment warm but not stuffy. The lights are dim; the only source Scott can see is a floor lamp in the living room. He can just make out a dozing figure on the couch, slumped against a pillow.
Scott drops his bag by the door and quickly makes for the couch, his socks on the hardwood floor making almost no noise. The television is still playing at a low volume, a commercial quite aptly advertising an extreme cold and flu relief drug. The couch is littered with crumpled-up tissues and a large pile of blankets, but under all that is Kip, sound asleep and looking adorably flushed.
"Kip," Scott whispers, kneeling down beside him and cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing across his pink cheek. He's not eager to wake him up from what looks like such a cozy spot, but he knows Kip's muscles will thank him in the morning if he's transported to a real bed. "Kip, baby."
Kip snuffles and pulls away from Scott, curling deeper into his nest of blankets. "Cold," he murmurs, his eyes remaining closed. Scott's heart melts.
"I'm sorry that my hands are cold," he says, rubbing them together in an attempt to warm them up. "C'mon, we need to get you into bed. Can you stand up for me?"
Kip shakes his head with a petulant, "No."
"You can take your blankets with you," Scott offers, slipping a hand under Kip's shoulder and pushing him into a sitting position. "You're going to feel like crap in the morning if I let you sleep in this position."
Kip blinks and looks up at him with bleary eyes, which are suddenly filled with more love than Scott thought possible for one man. "Mm," he hums, lifting his arms and wrapping them around Scott's neck. "I missed you."
"I missed you, too," Scott says, pressing a soft kiss to the other man's forehead. It's not overly warm, but the paranoid part of him wants to take out a thermometer. "I think you might be running a temperature, baby."
"Not sick," mumbles Kip, a sleepy, automated response.
"Not sick, huh?"
The younger man shakes his head, nuzzling into Scott's shirt. "The Christmas trees…"
The Christmas trees? What is he talking about? "I'm going to carry you to bed if you won't cooperate," Scott says, hooking both arms under Kip's thighs.
"You promise?" Kip asks sleepily, a stupid smile on his face as Scott hoists him into the air. His hands scrunch the back of Scott's Admirals hoodie.
While Kip is heavy, Scott carries him to the bedroom with ease, expertly depositing him on the bed. The former stretches out like a cat in the sun, yawning and pulling a pillow to his chest. His curls, mussed up and sweaty, brush against Scott's hip when he sits down to tuck Kip in. He's vulnerable in a way that the older man doesn't often see, the carefully crafted customer service persona stripped away.
"Normally, when people want to get a good night's sleep, they go underneath the covers," says Scott, all but manhandling Kip to get him to roll over, so he can pull down the sheets and comforter.
"You're so meann," Kip whines, but still looks perfectly content to cuddle into the blankets. "So mean to me.. hh'ih…" His eyes still shut, Kip begins to scrub his nose against the nearest thing he finds: in this case, Scott's pant leg. Scott considers moving it away, knowing how embarrassed the man will be when he's more lucid, but decides against it, carding his fingers through Kip's hair and holding his hand to the back of his head. "I nhh'need to snee'hHH—"
"Bless you, baby," Scott says preemptively, watching the helpless, ticklish expression completely overwhelm Kip's face. His head twitches in his palm, slowly tilting up. Scott tightens his grip.
"hhA'ISGHHsh-iue!" Kip pitches forward into Scott's lap, the latter's black sweatpants clearly displaying the resulting droplets of spray. He scrunches his hand where it sits in Kip's hair as his breath hitches again, for once desperate and unrestrained. "Fugck… ihh.. hhih.. iGSHH'uh! h'KISHHh'ue!"
"Wow," Scott says, his voice amused but caring as Kip, now with a sheer gloss coating his irritated nostrils, brings up a hand to squish at his nose, rubbing the tip of it in circles. The cartilage clicks with wetness. "And again?"
"I thihh'idk… iihhh.. snfL! hh'ih— hih"IIHGSHhhiue'uh!"
Scott grabs the nearest box of tissues and pulls out a handful, which he immediately presses to Kip's nose. He's firm enough not to start another tickle, but light enough that it shouldn't be at all painful for the man. Once he's sufficiently cleaned up, Kip's mouth opens again, but not with the intention to sneeze. Instead, he yawns and burrows in Scott's thigh, mumbling something unintelligible.
"I don't have a game tomorrow," Scott whispers, only half-sure that Kip hears him. He adjusts Kip's head so it's on a pillow, then stacks another one under that pillow so that his head is elevated and he might be able to get some air into his blocked nostrils. "We'll just sit around here all day. And get you better."
Kip hums contentedly. "Mm... g'night. I like you."
Scott leans down, trailing kisses from Kip's hairline to his ear.
Summary: S/cott comes down with the flu and has to leave a game early. K/ip picks him up. S/cott adjusts to being cared for, for the first time in years. Set fairly early in their relationship.
*******Warning: Does contain one non-descriptive instance of emeto. It is encased in asterisks, same as shown here, so it can be avoided as needed.
*******
Player down in 3… 2…
*
The bell ringing as S/cott entered Straw+Berry was a welcome distraction from the textbook K/ip had been poring over since 6am.
K/ip looked up, already smiling at the familiar shape of his boyfriend. As S/cott approached, though, K/ip found his smile dropping as he got a closer look. “Hey,” he said, not bothering to hide the concerned frown on his face, “you okay?”
S/cott looked out of breath. That wasn’t totally unusual, since he mostly came by the shop after his morning runs. Except today, S/cott was in a sweater and jeans—not running wear. And the out of breath factor was almost certainly due to S/cott looking like he’d been run over by a truck.
Despite the aforementioned sweater, Scott looked freezing. He had dark circles under his eyes indicating a sleepless night and a headache. He also had a slight flush to his cheeks that probably wasn’t just from the cold winter breeze. And his nose… Kip cringed. Scott’s poor nose looked like he’d been messing with it all morning, all pink and puffy and irritated.
Scott sniffled as he made it to the counter, which Kip might not have noticed, were it not for all the other signs that Scott was clearly sick. “Hey, baby,” Scott said thickly, clearing his throat like that would help. Since they were alone in the shop this morning, it was fine to use pet names and be a little more affectionate than they usually would be in public. “I’m good, how are you?”
Kip raised an eyebrow and looked Scott up and down. “Well, when I left my boyfriend at his apartment two days ago so I could study for my tests without any gorgeous distractions, I was great! But now I’m realizing that was a major mistake, since he apparently caught the plague while I was gone.”
Scott did another little throat clear that seemed like it was intended to cover up a cough. “Kip, I really am—hkkm!—good.”
“I don’t think so,” Kip said tentatively. It was weird. He and Scott had been dating for a while, long enough to know the ins and outs of each other’s behavior, but he’d never seen Scott sick before. He wasn’t sure exactly how far he could push on this before he risked pissing Scott off. “You look like you feel pretty awful, sweetheart.”
For a moment, Scott’s eyes looked a little glossy. Then he blinked and looked down at the counter, and when he looked back up, his eyes just seemed tired. “I’m really fine, Kip, I… appreciate the concern. I’m just ready for this season to be over, I think. Been a rough one.”
“Yeah,” Kip nodded. “I heard a lot of guys on all the teams have been passing a bad flu around. Making it harder to play, huh?”
Scott narrowed his eyes at him, smiling a little. “I know what you’re doing, and I’m not sick.” He sniffled again, not seeming to notice the contradiction between his words and his actions. “Just need my smoothie fix and I’ll be good to go.”
Kip waited a beat, trying to figure out where to go from here. But Scott was a grown man who could determine for himself if he was sick enough to need a day off. Besides, other than the shivers and the sniffling, he didn’t seem to be feeling too bad. Maybe it looked worse than it was, and maybe Kip was just too eager to fuss. “Okay, I’ll set it up,” he said finally. “Want to have a seat while I get it ready?”
“Thanks,” Scott flashed him a grin, and Kip recognized it as the fake one Scott used for interviews, “but I don’t want to get too comfortable. Last-minute practice in an hour, then the game tonight. Will you be watching from the bar?”
“You know it,” Kip promised. He usually attended home games when he could, but Elena had begged him for a night out at the sports bar, and when he’d asked Scott about it a couple weeks ago, Scott had said it would be fine.
He set about making the smoothie while Scott sniffled and cleared his throat in the background. While the blender worked, he made up another cup of a less popular beverage on the menu. “Here,” he said, pushing both cups forward for Scott to take. “This one’s just a hot tea. The wind’s pretty biting today, might be nice to have, huh?”
Scott took it, looking mildly surprised but not offended, which was what Kip had worried about briefly before deciding, Fuck it, better to ask forgiveness than beg permission. He’d even stuck a drizzle of honey in there. Good for sore throats, he figured.
Scott’s mild reaction had Kip feeling brave, so he asked with a wink, “Am I meeting you at your apartment tonight after the game?”
Scott hesitated, holding the cup of hot tea in both hands as if to warm himself up. “I don’t know, babe. I know you’re meeting your friends tonight, and it’s gonna be a long game. I… I might not be much for company, afterward.”
“Oh.” Kip couldn’t help the obvious disappointment in the one word, but he smiled up at Scott anyway. “No worries, we’ll figure out another day, right?”
“Right.” Scott paid, slipping an extra $20 in the tip jar when Kip wouldn’t let him pay for the hot tea. “See you later.”
“Bye, sweetheart. Kick ass tonight, huh?” Kip teased, winking again. He leaned against the counter waiting for a kiss.
But Scott just stepped away, both cups in hand. “Sorry, I—I don’t wanna be late. Love you, bye!”
Kip watched as Scott walked quickly out of Straw+Berry. He watched as Scott stepped outside into the whipping breeze—Kip hadn’t been lying about the wind earlier—and then abruptly froze on the sidewalk.
“What is he—?”
Quickly, Scott transferred his smoothie into the crook of the arm that was already holding his tea. His eyes were closed and his chest was visbly gasping as he tilted his head back, waiting for what was clearly an oncoming sneeze. After a second of hitching, he crashed forward into his free elbow, nearly bending in half and almost dropping both cups with the force of the explosion.
Through the glass windows, Kip couldn’t hear anything, but based off the way a nearby pedestrian jumped, it had been loud as hell.
“Okay,” Kip muttered to himself as he watched Scott shake himself off and walk away. “This might be pretty difficult.”
*
“Your man’s not looking too good tonight, Kip.”
“Shh!” Kip hissed, looking around at the mostly-empty gay bar around them. He looked up at the TV from his barstool and squinted at the game coverage. “Firstly, he’s not my man, not when we’re in public. Secondly, he looks fi—oh… wait, shit. He does look kinda bad.”
If Scott had looked rough this morning, he looked even worse out on the ice, with heavy lights and high-quality cameras trained on him. His eyes looked exhausted, and he kept bending down with his hands on his knees to brace himself to cough. Before the game even fully started, he was having to crumple into his jersey elbow to cover a couple of sneezes. They looked huge and heavy, shaking him so hard that he would slide on the ice a little with the force of them.
He’d been non-responsive to Kip’s texts all afternoon, but Kip had hoped he was just focused on his practice. Now he was worried that Scott had been too sick to even think about checking his phone.
Elena shrugged. “I never lie, babe. Did he swing by for his morning smoothie? You didn’t notice then?”
“He looked pretty peaky and sniffly, but wouldn’t really let me fuss. I made him a tea, that was all he’d let me do.” Kip took a swig of his beer and winced in sympathy when Scott took a hit pretty early in the game. “Fuck, he looks like shit.”
“Getting hit probably won’t do him any favors if he’s already sick,” Elena agreed.
They watched as Scott picked himself back up from the hit and rejoined the game. Kip couldn’t help but notice things; he’d never been much of a hockey expert, but he was starting to be. He noticed how Scott was moving slower than usual, missing shots he should’ve made, skating with less precision than normal. When the camera focused specifically on Scott, he could see the sweat dripping down Scott’s neck, way too early in the game for that.
Most of all, he could see the way Scott’s nose was running. That wasn’t unusual for the players while they were on the ice; thick, heavy padding plus a cold environment was a great place for a persistently runny nose. But Scott seemed too tired and sluggish to even swipe at his face.
Elena sucked her tongue and muttered a curse. “Poor guy. Flu season is rough this year.”
Kip couldn’t remember if Scott had gotten his flu shot this year. The team probably made him, right? But those things were never 100% effective. “He didn’t want to let me come over tonight,” he told her. “Guessing now he probably wants to lick his wounds in private.”
“Might not be an option,” Elena said, a little distress peeking through in her tone. “Look.”
*******Kip looked up at the TV just in time to see another player from the opposing team smash Scott into the boards. It was a rough hit, and Kip could tell that Scott had mostly taken it in the chest and stomach. Scott fell to his knees, gagging while he clutched at his ribs, and—
The TV cut away quickly to another angle of the game, but not before Kip could see the thin stream of puke falling from Scott’s lips. The subtitles on the bottom of the screen were slow to catch up, but eventually the transcription showed up.
[COMMENTATOR: Uh-oh, and it looks like Hunter just took a rough fall on the ice. He got checked real hard by Santos over there. Vomit on the ice—that’s never fun. They’ll have to close down for a minute to clean up, and—uh-oh. Things keep getting worse for the Admirals. Hunter is not getting up on his own. Looks like that hit really got to him.]
*******
Kip could feel the panic swell in his throat like a stone. “Fuck,” he said emphatically. “Oh my god, that looked so rough.”
Elena put a hand on his arm, gentle. “Probably some messed up ribs, just by the way he was holding them,” she said. “I’m thinking you’re going to have to spend the night at his apartment after all.”
Kip watched two teammates help escort Scott off the ice, where a medic was waiting at the bench. “I think you might be right. Are you okay if I…?”
“Go,” Elena told him. “Go get your man.”
*
He was getting close to the arena when his phone started buzzing. He answered without checking the caller ID. “Scott?”
Scott’s voice was even more congested than it had been this morning, sounding tight with pain. “Hey. Umb…”
“I had the game on at the bar,” Kip said, saving Scott from using up any energy to explain. “I saw you go down. Are you okay, sweetheart?”
He could hear Scott swallow over the phone. “They said I have bruised ribs,” he answered, avoiding the actual question. “And, uh, a positive flu test. They won’t let mbe drive myself home. Could you…? I’mb sorry to even ask.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Kip said automatically. “Besides, I’m already in a cab on the way to get you and we’re about five minutes out. I thought I could drive you back to the apartment in your car, once I get there. I figured they’d send you home early after that hit, and you could use a pickup.”
“Th-thanks… hih—HIHH’TSSHHGHH!” Scott burst with a thick, messy sneeze, the sound reverberating loudly over the phone. He panted for a second, groaned at presumably the pain in his ribs, and sniffled. “S-sorry again. Hope I didn’t deafen you.”
“Bless you, sweetheart,” Kip said. He could feel the sympathy leaking into his voice. Poor thing sounded so sick. And now with bruised ribs on top.
There was some silence on the phone, interrupted by periodic sniffling. “Thanks for coming to get mbe,” Scott said finally. His voice was so hoarse, sounding like it was over halfway gone. “Umb… mbedical cleared mbe to go hombe, I can just tell themb a friend is combing and wait outside. Gambe’s still going so there’s ndo mob of traffic at least.”
“All right. Just hang tight, Scott. I’ll be there soon.”
*
The cab dropped Kip off at the players’ parking lot, and it only took him a minute to find Scott, hanging around his car, looking listless. The expression on his face was pained, and he had one hand hovering protectively over his middle.
“Hey,” Kip murmured when he walked up. He leaned up for a kiss.
Only for Scott to back away a step, his back hitting the side of the car. He winced at the impact. “Sorry,” he said, looking miserable. His voice sounded like his throat was made of gravel now. “I don’t want to give you the flu.”
“Oh, baby,” Kip said sympathetically. But he didn’t see the point of arguing it right now. “Where are your keys?”
Scott handed them to him, and from there they got in the car and started on the way to Scott’s apartment—the place Kip was already calling “home” in his head. It had felt weird to go back to his dad’s for a few days to study, but Scott had encouraged it, joking that he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off Kip if he stayed. “I don’t want to be a distraction,” Scott had said at the time, cracking a grin. Scott so rarely wanted to be a distraction or a bother or a burden. It made Kip’s heart hurt a little.
Kip reached across the console to touch Scott’s hand. His skin was too warm. “Did the medics take your temperature?” Kip asked.
Scott had pressed his forehead into the coolness of the passenger seat window before the car had even started. It took him a few seconds to lift his head, and he blinked over at Kip like he was trying to parse through all the words. “Umb,” he said after a long moment, “I kndow they did, but I… I can’t really remember it, sorry.”
“That’s okay. You have a thermometer back at your place?”
Scott nodded, then winced in the way that indicated a headache.
Okay. Headache, definitely some fever, sneezing, congestion, coughing, sore throat. Plus bruised ribs. Kip bit his lip. Scott was in for a rough few days. “Do you have medicine, too, or should I stop and pick some up?”
Scott shrugged. “I don’t… really get sick that often,” he said, sounding unsure of himself. “When I do, it hits hard. I know I have, like, Tylenol.”
“You need some real cold and flu medicine, though. Okay if I stop and get some?”
Scott just shrugged again, pressing his forehead back against the glass. His eyes slid closed, and it was hard to tell if he was actually dozing or not.
Kip stopped at a pharmacy near to Scott’s apartment. He left Scott in the car with the heat running, Scott still resting his head against the window and looking mostly asleep. Kip made it as quick of a trip as he could, picking up the things he knew almost for sure that Scott wouldn’t have: NyQuil and DayQuil, tea, tissues, cough drops, Vick’s. He hesitated, then got some anti-nausea meds. It had probably just been the hit to his ribs that had made Scott sick, but there was no point in taking chances.
As he approached the car, he could see Scott sitting up in the passenger seat, definitely awake now. He had both hands hovering in front of his face, his chest heaving. The look on his face, even from farther away, plainly showed imminent, ticklish need.
He opened the car door, and at the same time, Scott crumpled into his hands with an explosive, painfully stuffy-sounding sneeze. “HGHH’TSSHHH!”
Kip rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder once he had sat down and shut the car door. Scott’s face was still buried in his hands, panting with the force of the sneeze, and he didn’t quite look like he was done. “You okay?”
Scott shook his head, still not withdrawing his face from his hands. “Did… did you get tissues?” he mumbled, and Kip could see his ears turning red from embarrassment, even in the dark.
Kip scrambled for the bag in his lap and extracted a box of Kleenex. He opened it and grabbed a handful, passing them over to Scott. He tried to ignore the wetness on Scott’s hand when their fingers brushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve already had them ready for you.”
Scott blew his nose as softly as he could, which sounded like it wasn’t doing much. “Ndot your fault,” he croaked out. “I can’t… ugh, c-can’t—huh… huh’USSHHHOOO! Fuck, I can’t stop.”
The second sneeze was wetter, looser, and Scott blew his nose again, this time sounding like it was actually helping. Kip patted his shoulder again. “Good, get all that crap out of you. It’ll help.”
“But I’ve been doing it all day,” Scott groaned, voicing a real complaint for the first time. “It hasn’t h-helped… herrUSSHHOOOHH! Ugh.”
“Bless you,” Kip said. He tossed the bag of supplies into the backseat, and drove them the rest of the way home.
Scott kept sneezing throughout the drive, loud, soaking explosions that made a heavy dent in the tissues. Kip was glad he’d bought more than one box. When he wasn’t sneezing, he was coughing, each muffled convulsion sounding like it scraped at his throat and tore at his busted ribs.
“I can’t believe you were able to go out on the ice like this,” Kip said as they pulled into their parking spot at the apartment complex. “Nobody on your team noticed?”
“Not the only one sick,” Scott rasped out, fresh out of a bad coughing fit. “I hate they sent me home in the first fucking period. Everybody else had to play through it.”
“Everybody else didn’t have bruised ribs and a fever,” Kip retorted. “You don’t need to be playing right now. I’m worried about you, you sound rough.”
Scott didn’t say anything immediately, just looked at Kip with tired, feverbright eyes. “Okay,” he said finally, sounding like he had more to say, but the one word immediately triggered another coughing fit.
While Scott got his lungs under control, Kip got himself out of the car, got the bag of supplies, and circled the car to open the passenger door. Scott was still coughing into a fist, looking pained while he braced his ribs with his other hand, so Kip reached around him and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, once Scott’s coughing reached a lull. “Let’s get you inside, this cold air can’t be helping.”
Scott braced himself wordlessly on Kip’s arm while they walked inside—which was good, Kip was insistent on being a support and hadn’t wanted to argue about it—and into the elevator. They didn’t run into anybody, but Kip could still feel the tightness of anxiety in Scott’s shoulders. Once the elevator doors closed on the two of them, Scott automatically relaxed and slumped down, resting his cheek against Kip’s arm. He felt heavy and too-warm. Scott muffled a cough into Kip’s shirt and mumbled an apology, and Kip only petted the back of his neck, the short hairs back there cool and stiff with dried sweat, a wordless forgiveness.
Kip guided Scott into the apartment and into the bedroom. Scott moved like he was sleepwalking, mindless and reliant on Kip’s touch to get him there. He sat on the edge of the bed hard, already coughing again as soon as he sat down, and his expression was pained.
“They didn’t give you anything for your ribs?” Kip asked.
Scott shook his head tiredly. “Jus’ said take Tylenol for the pain.”
That sounded like bullshit medicine practice to Kip, but he didn’t say anything. He left Scott to rest on the bed and went to run the bath. He came back into the bedroom with the thermometer he’d found tossed into a drawer, looking like a relic from the 90s, which it probably was. “Temp time,” he said, waving it cheerily.
Scott looked at it warily, but let Kip put it under his tongue. Kip resisted the urge to tell Scott how cute he looked with flushed cheeks and a thermometer sticking out from his pouting lips. It probably wouldn’t be well-received, even if it was true.
“And then I thought a bath might be nice,” Kip said, stacking his purchases on the nightstand where they’d be within easy reach during the night. “You’re kind of sweaty, no offense, babe.”
The thermometer beeped, and Kip turned to take it, only to see Scott’s eyelids fluttering shut with an air of finality, from a tickle that had evidently been torturing him for a few minutes now. Scott managed to fling the thermometer out of his mouth and onto the bedspread, but he wasn’t able to get any tissues up to his face before he was sneezing, loud and harsh and painful-sounding.
“heh’RISSHHHIEWW! hh’GTSSCHHH’uhh! heh…” Scott’s breath caught, the hitch toying with him, and he brought his hands up to his face to cover just in time. “heh’DJSSSCHHH’huhh! Ohhhmbygod…” he groaned.
Loud, harsh, painful-sounding, and wet. Kip cringed at the snuffling noises Scott was making into his hands. He pulled a handful of tissues from the box and pushed them into Scott’s hands until Scott took them and pressed them to his nose. “Bless you. Jesus, baby, your ribs,” Kip said worriedly.
Scott used one hand to mop up his face and sniffle into the tissues. He used the other to knead at his ribs, trying to force away the pain. “Yeah, they’re ndot too happy with mbe right ndow,” he said, face tight with pain when he pulled the tissues away. His nose twitched, threatening another fit, and he scrubbed at it mercilessly with the tissues. After a few seconds of unsteady breathing, he lowered the tissues. He seemed to have staved off any more sneezing, for now at least.
Disaster averted, Kip picked up the thermometer from where Scott had hastily thrown it on the bed. He studied the number and winced. “Just over 102. Definitely high enough to make you feel like shit.”
“I’ll take somb Tylenol,” Scott said with a low sigh. He continued to knuckle at his sternum, discomfort plain on his face. He kept darting looks at Kip and then glancing away, like even the eye contact was uncomfortable. “I’mb sorry you had to combe get mbe… I’mb finde whendever you have to go.”
Kip could tell he was making a face, although he wasn’t sure if it appropriately expressed his disbelief. “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere. Nice try,” he said, scoffing a little. “Come on, let’s dose you up, then you can get in the bath.”
“But—”
“No arguments, sweetheart,” Kip said. He stood in front of Scott and touched his chin, gently directing his gaze up until they were locking eyes. Scott’s looked exhausted, watery and red-rimmed. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself. You need a little caretaking, okay? That’s what I’m here for.”
Scott closed his eyes and let out a little huff. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”
Kip leaned down and kissed Scott’s temple. “No ‘have to’ about it,” he responded. “I’m right where I wanna be. Now, meds?”
Scott’s shoulders slumped as soon as the kiss connected. It was like a string holding up a marionette broke. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, eyes downcast.
Kip fed him NyQuil and cough drops and half a bottle of Gatorade—Glacier Cherry, Scott’s favorite flavor—and then sat on the edge of the bed with him for a minute, just petting his hair. “Okay, sweetheart, time for that bath,” Kip said, when he started to worry that the tub was going to overflow soon. “I’ll wash your hair, okay?”
Scott shuffled into the bathroom, stifling coughs the whole way, and let Kip do just that. It was kind of alarming, watching Scott deteriorate from an embarrassed, stubborn independence, into a half-awake obedient quietness, giving no protest at all.
Kip didn’t mention it for a while, because he wasn’t sure Scott could explain it either. Instead, they sat—Scott in the tub, and Kip on the step-stool they’d had to buy for him to reach Scott’s ridiculously high cabinets—and breathed in the warm steam of the bath. “Okay?” he asked finally, after he’d washed Scott’s hair and done a cursory scrub of his body.
“Mm.” Scott was curled forward, head resting in his knees and arms wrapped around his legs. He looked and sounded half asleep. “Yeah. Tired. Water feels good.”
“Okay. Good. You’re just… kind of worrying me, baby,” Kip said, unable to keep a tinge of that worry from coloring his voice. “Are you feeling okay, like, emotionally? You’ve been kind of weird all day.”
Scott muffled a cough into his legs, and Kip rested a hand on his back before he could stop himself. The touch made Scott shiver a little. “I’mb sorry,” he croaked out. “I wasnd’t trying to worry you.”
“Honey. It’s okay, really. Just tell me what’s going on, yeah?”
Scott was still for a minute, forehead still pressed into his knees, his eyes hidden from Kip.
Then, “I guess I’mb… just ndot used to it,” Scott said, his voice more of a rasp than anything. “No one’s really… taken care of mbe since mby parents. I, uh… was kind of expecting you to go back to your dad’s house after this. Avoid the creeping crud. Which,” he added, a little audibly anxious, “is still okay, if you wandt to go do that.”
Kip ran his hand up and down Scott’s back, a few times, light, slow touches. Just enough to make Scott feel his presence. “Sweetheart,” he said gently. The pet name that always made Scott crumble, and he used it without mercy when it came to convincing Scott it was okay to accept help. “I am not going to leave you here alone when you need me. And even if you don’t really ‘need’ me, I am still not going to leave you here alone when you’re sick. Okay? I just… don’t think I have it in me to do that. If I left you here, sick and alone, when I could be taking care of you, I would feel… horrible. I won’t do it. Now,” he added firmly, “for the last time, I’m staying, okay?”
Scott was silent for a moment, then gave a sudden rush of an exhale, face still hidden.
Kip couldn’t tell if that was a sigh or a sob. He trailed his hand up and down Scott’s back a few times, leaving it to rest on the back of Scott’s neck. “Nobody’s really taken care of you since you were twelve?” he asked, unable to help himself from asking.
The thought of it broke his heart. Scott, alone at boarding school with freshers’ flu. Scott during his first hockey season, down with strep. Every road trip with a cold, every off-season bug. Alone. There had been nobody to even make sure he took more than a Tylenol? Nobody to wash his hair or buy him tissues?
Scott didn’t answer, but his breaths rose and fell so unsteadily that that was an answer in and of itself. He sniffled a little.
Kip also felt like crying a little. “Okay,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. He had to be the steady one right now. “Well, I’m taking care of you today, and every day after. Got it?”
Sniffling some more, Scott lifted a hand back behind his head and laid it over Kip’s, still resting on the back of his neck. “Thanks,” he said, voice hoarse. He lifted his head off his knees, and his eyes were damp. His smile looked wrecked but sincere, and his whole demeanor gave off exhaustion.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” Kip said, and his voice almost broke from how much he meant it. He cleared his throat and tucked a wet strand of hair out of Scott’s face. “Come on, the bath’s gonna get cold in a minute. I bet that NyQuil’s kicking in, too. Time for all beat-up hockey players to go to sleep.”
Scott moved with Kip’s direction and assistance, sticking close by as he got out of the tub and toweled his hair dry. Scott let Kip change them both into sleepwear, looking at Kip with sleepy, trusting eyes. What Kip had thought of before as Scott acting like a sleepwalker, he now recognized as Scott being… clingy, and a little feverish. It was adorable, though still a little worrying. He liked when Scott was clingy, though.
Kip guided Scott to bed, where he crawled in and promptly gave Kip the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. “Okay, okay,” Kip laughed. “I will join you, once I’ve made you some tea. And you need an ice pack for those ribs.”
Scott nestled into the blankets, looking domestic and snuggly and threatening to make Kip’s heart explode. “Liked the tea you made this morning,” he murmured, eyes closed. The bath seemed to have helped with his congestion, loosening his consonants.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Scott answered, sounding half-asleep. “Smoothie hurt my throat. Tea was warm, though.”
Kip smiled and made himself walk away before he could no longer stop himself from joining Scott in bed. He brewed the fastest cup of chamomile tea he’d ever made in his life, drizzled some honey in it, and grabbed a few bottled waters and the aforementioned ice pack, before returning to the bedroom.
Still seeming barely awake, Scott watched him silently as he organized the nightstand. Kip put all the medicine together, followed by the drinks. “Come on, sit up,” he said, easing Scott to rest mostly-upright against the pillows. “Drink some tea before you sleep. It’s good for sore throats.”
“Thank you,” Scott said, reaching for the tea. The taste must’ve been fine because Scott drank most of it, only handing it back when the steam made him sniffle and cough. “Sorry. It’s good, I promise,” he said, rubbing at the red, tender area at the tip of his nose. His eyes watered.
“You’re fine, baby,” Kip said. He prepped a handful of tissues for good measure, recognizing the look on Scott’s face. “Gonna sneeze?”
Scott took the offered tissues with a nod, cut off by a sharp inhale. “hehh—!”
The sneeze didn’t come. Instead, Scott kept hitching, little, tiny, unproductive things. Unsatisfying.
“Uh-oh,” Kip said fondly. “Stuck?”
Scott’s nostrils flared, and he plied them with tissues, scrubbing hard at his septum.
“Easy, easy,” Kip said, pulling Scott’s hands away from his face. “You’re too rough, Scott, jeez. You’re going to chase it away.”
“S’fine,” Scott mumbled, with the same frustration as before. “Just want it to go away.”
“You need to be gentler,” Kip told him. “Let me?”
Either as a sign of trust or immense weariness, Scott did in fact let him. Kip took the tissues and brought them back up to Scott’s face, tracing them gently under his reddened, angular nose. “Gentle,” he said again. “You’re gonna give yourself a sinus infection.”
Scott hitched again, helpless, and Kip tried to repeat the motion that had caused it, stroking his septum. “M’gonna,” Scott said, a bit of urgency entering his voice. His eyes fluttered closed. “hehh…”
“Okay,” Kip said. “So sneeze.”
“HEHT’SHHIEWW!” Scott burst out, a lighter, wetter noise than his sneezes before had been. It had been damp in the handful of tissues Kip still held to his face. Scott raised a hand as if to take them himself, but Kip ignored it. Scott didn’t have time to argue the point, since his breath was already catching for another one. “huh’EHHTTSCHHIEWW!”
“Bless you,” Kip said, when it seemed like two was going to be enough. He wiped gingerly at Scott’s nose, not trying to trigger him again.
Scott barked out a hoarse laugh. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“What? Caught your sneezes like the perfect, loving boyfriend I am?” Kip joked. He disposed of the tissues in the nearby wastebasket and collected another handful, for next time. He grabbed the ice pack, too, and helped Scott ease it against his ribs to help with the pain.
“Yeah,” Scott said, coughing into a fist. When he was done, he laid back down, curling up into Kip’s arms. “You are perfect, y’know,” he said sleepily, eyes already closed. “And I always need you. For the record.”
Kip carded a hand through Scott’s mostly-dry hair and kissed his forehead. “Glad to hear it,” he said softly. “I need you, too. Love you, sweetheart.”
Scott didn’t say it back, because he was nodding off.
Kip kept stroking Scott’s hair until he was definitely asleep, then removed the ice pack and turned off the lamp, ready to fall asleep himself. Between the flu and the busted ribs, they were going to need all the sleep they could get—it was going to be a miserable few days.
But he couldn’t bring himself to want to be anywhere but here.
I've got a request for you🥰 Maybe Rowan with sinusitis?
I do love making Rowan suffer, so here you are ^-^
Blaire took the thermometer out of his mouth, then shook her head. "102.3. I'm calling it now, babe. You've had this fever for over four days now, and you're not getting any better. You need to go to the doctor," she said, stroking his hair.
Rowan whined in complaint, pulling the blankets tighter around him. "I don't want to," he whimpered, his voice hoarse and congested. "I'm okay, I swear, I just- heh- heh’iTSCHOO! heh'SCHOO!"
Blaire clucked her tongue in response. "I told you, if your fever hadn't broken by today, you would go to the doctor. You promised, remember?" She couldn't keep the worried expression off her face, and gently stroked his cheek with her free hand. "Please? I just wanna know that this isn't something bad."
He sighed, coughing a couple times into his fist. "I know, I know what I said," he panted, looking up at her with sad eyes. "But I- jesus, Blaire, I don't think I'll even be able to make it out of the building…" He was so exhausted, and just rolling over in bed or sitting up felt like massive tasks.
She frowned. If she hadn't been worried before, she definitely was now. "Alright, uh… I think the student clinic does virtual appointments. Can you try one of those?" She was desperate, and was willing to run down to the clinic herself and not leave until she was able to bring someone back.
He nodded, struggling to sit up, and allowing Blaire to help him and prop the pillows up for him to lean against. He sniffled, wincing at the pressure in his sinuses and groaning. He took his laptop from Blaire when she handed it to him, struggling to make his bleary eyes focus on the screen. He rubbed his eyes, which only added to his discomfort, then looked at Blaire. "Can- can you..?" He turned his laptop towards her, giving her a pleading look.
"Of course." She sat beside him, kissing his fevered temple before searching for the student clinic website. She found it after a couple minutes, and stood from the bed after entering Rowan’s information. "There you go, you're in. Just wait for someone to see you and tell 'em what's going on. I'm gonna pop down to the store real quick while you're doing that. Text me if they say I have to pick up anything extra for you before I head back."
"Wait, you're leaving?" Rowan asked, his eyes big and sad. He understood why, and he didn't want to stop her, but he didn’t want to be alone.
Her eyes softened in sympathy, and she smoothed his hair back before leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. "I'll be back soon. But we're running out of decongestants, and I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be listening while you're talking to the doctor," she said with a soft chuckle.
He whined, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her stomach. He didn't mind if Blaire was listening in, but he could use those decongestants. "Heh- heh’iSCHUU! heh'TCHUU! heh'TSCHUU! h'iTSCHUU! h'SCHUU!" He sniffled breathlessly against her, his body shaking. "Ow…"
Blaire held him for a moment, running a hand up and down his back. "My poor baby," she cooed, peppering kisses on the top of his head. She placed a hand under his chin after a while, and guided his face up, gazing into his eyes. She leaned down to press a soft kiss to his lips, undeterred by the snot dribbling down his lips. When she pulled away, she plucked a tissue from the box, and gently dabbed beneath his nose with it. "I should get some more of these while I'm out, huh?" She asked, more to herself than to him. Reluctantly, she stepped away from him. "I'm gonna head out now. Text me, alright?"
Rowan nodded in response, coughing into a fist. He watched Blaire walk out of their dorm, then sighed to himself as he gazed at the laptop, waiting for someone to see him. He hoped it would be soon; anything that could make the misery he felt lessen, he would take.
It took Blaire a bit to reach the store, and she checked her phone for a text from Rowan the whole way there. She slowly made her way around the store, placing something in her shopping basket every now and then, until finally, her phone vibrated. She quickly unlocked her phone to see that it was from Rowan, and tapped on the message.
'Sinus infection :( they didn’t prescribe anything I'm not already taking'
She grimaced in sympathy, texted him that she would be back soon, and quickly finished up her shopping. Plastic bag in hand, she briskly made her way back to their dorm, much faster this time than she had been on her way to the drug store. She climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway, unlocking the door before stepping in. "Ro? You still alive in here?"
"Barely," came the muffled reply and he poked his head from beneath the blankets. "My head hurts…"
"I bet your face hurts, too," Blaire murmured, sitting beside him on the bed and smoothing back some of his damp hair that was plastered to his face and forehead. "Come on, sweetheart, sit up for me. Let's get some meds in you."
He groaned, barely mustering the energy to prop himself up on his elbows. He was grateful that Blaire was there to help, and took the pills she offered him, swallowing them down with the water she placed against his lips. "You're so good, bear," he told her, his voice hardly above a whisper. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"You existed," she replied, giving him a warm smile. "Now, let's see what we can do about this sinus pressure. Hang on a sec." With that, she was up again, disappearing into the bathroom.
Rowan could hear the sink running, and was confused as to what Blaire could possibly be doing. "Heh- heh'tSCHUU! h'iTSCHUU! h'SCHUU!" More sneezes rocketed out of him, scraping his throat on the way out and making him cough. He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose, though it didn’t do much to make his sinuses any clearer.
Blaire hopped out of the bathroom after a few minutes, steaming bowl of water and a hand towel in hand. She set the bowl on the edge of Rowan’s desk, making sure it was within reaching distance from his bed. She dipped the rag in the water and wrung it out a bit, then settled herself down on the bed again, her legs straddling Rowan. "Here, this should help a bit." As carefully and gently as she could manage, she pressed the warm cloth on the bridge of Rowan’s nose and on his cheekbones.
He sighed in relief, his eyelids fluttering shut. He couldn’t feel it working immediately, but the heat felt amazing on his aching face. “Mmm… just leave it right there,” he sighed, sinking deeper into the pillows.
“Does it feel alright? Not too hot?” She asked, smiling when Rowan only hummed in response, too relaxed for words. She was silent for a long while, simply wetting the rag again when it started getting too cold and placing it on different spots on his face.
The hot rag combined with the medicine he’d taken early was doing wonders for his congestion, but it was making his nose run horribly. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand when Blaire pulled the cloth away.
“Oh, here.” She covered his nose with the cloth. “Blow.” Even through the coolness of the damp rag, she could feel the warm snot that came gurgling out of his nose. “Is that any better?”
He nodded, giving her a weak smile. Rowan leaned into her cool touch when she placed the back of her hand on his forehead, then her palm. He gazed up at her as her hand slid down to his cheek, and she used both her hands to cup his face. He hissed and winced slightly when her thumbs lightly brushed over his cheekbones, which earned him a whispered apology.
Blaire’s thumbs rubbed gentle circles on his cheeks, and she frowned slightly. "Oh, sweetheart, I can feel how stuffed up you are," she said, trying to massage some of his congestion away. Her poor boyfriend had to be in so much pain, and she felt bad that there was nothing more she could do for him apart from that.
Her thumbs softly kneading at his swollen face hurt a bit, and he whined in discomfort. “Blaire…”
“I know, I know,” she murmured, kissing his warm forehead as she continued massaging his cheeks. “Just give it a minute, alright? I promise, I’ll stop in a couple minutes if it still hurts.”
He whimpered in response, and tried to relax. He soon discovered that Blaire was right, though, when some of the pressure seemed to be dissipating. He could feel her switch from her thumbs to her middle and index fingers as she moved up to his forehead, slowly massaging little circles down to his temples.
Blaire smiled in relief when he relaxed under her touch. At least something was helping a bit, no matter how small it was. She moved her hands to run her index fingers down the sides of his chapped, red nose, trying to relieve some of the pressure. His nose was streaming, snot dribbling down his lips, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care, so Blaire kept massaging his poor nose.
Rowan sniffled and scrunched his nose, the loosening congestion making his nose rather itchy. He didn’t have time to react before the urge to sneeze suddenly crashed over him. "Heh- heh- h'iTSCHUU! h'SCHUU!" Thick, sticky strings of snot exploded from his sinuses, and right onto Blaire’s face. His cheeks flushed with mortification. "Oh god, darling, I'm so sorry, I- I- h'iTSCHUU! h'iSCHUU! h'SCHUU! h’iSCHUU! h'SCHUU! h'iCHUU!" More sneezes tumbled out of him and onto Blaire’s face and chest, followed by a jumbled string of apologies.
"Hey, hey, it's alright," she assured him, her voice soft and gentle. "I don't care. It's better you're getting all this gunk out, anyway." She pulled a few tissues from the box beside his bed, and dabbed the mess from beneath his nose before cupping them over his nose.
After a few loaded, productive nose blows, Rowan’s nose felt clearer than it had in days. “Thanks,” he breathed, shifting a bit in his bed to allow Blaire to sit beside him. He wrapped his arms around her, planting a kiss on her cheek as he pulled her close.
“Hey, come here.” Blaire pulled him on top of her, making sure she stayed sitting upright so Rowan could breathe a bit easier. “Why don’t you try taking a nap? We can try a nice, hot shower when you wake up if your fever’s down a bit and you have more energy.”
“Mmm… sounds nice,” he mumbled, shutting his eyes and nuzzling his head against her chest. “Heh- heh- h’iTSCHUU! h’TSCHUU! h’TSCHUU! h’SCHUU! h’iSCHUU!” He rubbed his nose against her collarbone with a sigh, not bothering to open his eyes when he felt a small hand cover his nose with a tissue, and simply blowing.
Blaire wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling her chin against the top of his head. She could hear him snoring softly after a while, and was glad that he was getting some much-needed rest. She ran a hand rhythmically up and down his back, her other hand holding a tissue in case she needed to mop up some of the mess that pooled beneath his nose. She glanced over at her desk; she had assignments to work on, but she supposed those could wait. She shifted her focus back to Rowan, and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. She had a sick boyfriend to take care of first.
