Get ready to dip me in lava, because here it is, a fuckin' crack fic featuring Reed with a snz fetish! Listen, guys... idk what happened to me, I haven't written a character with a snz kink in like over 10 years, but apparently the demons got to me and I had to bang this thing out. In it, Reed tells Greyson he has a snz kink, Greyson induces for him during sex, then Greyson gets sick the next day. There is no plot. There is only my horn-brain. Is this fic actually in the canon? Mmm.... probably not lol. I'll let you all decide if you think it should be; I fear I may have written too many stories with Reed where he at least seemingly does NOT have the kink, so I'm not sure it would make sense to include it in the canon. Whatever, either way, I hope you like it and let me know what you think and whether Reed with the kink becomes canon!~
CW: 2.5k words (light as hell for me lmao) M snz/M cold, inducing, contagion possibility, though no contagion ~actually~ happens in-fic, light mess, character with the kink, character sneezing on another character. There is nudity & foreplay, but no sex.
Worth It
“Shit – is it supposed to feel like tha – HRRSHH-uh! HUHTSCHH-ue!”
Pupils blown and mouth dry, Reed couldn’t find his voice to answer; he was too busy taking in the sight before him. Greyson, stripped down to nothing, sneezing helplessly with the powder still on one of his nostrils. Reed swallowed, attempting to keep from coming right then and there.
“God, it’s like cocaine times a thousahh – HRTSHHH-ue! USHHH-ue! Shit, I feel like I snorted a line of Vick’s Vapor Rub – HRRTSHH-uh!” If the sneezing hadn’t been enough, the commentary alone could’ve taken Reed right to the edge. Above him on the bed, Greyson collapsed over and over, giving in with vigor to the continued paroxysms, while Reed felt himself get harder with each passing spasm. As Greyson geared up for another fit, Reed sat up and placed a gentle hand on his boyfriend’s chest.
“Babe,” he said, voice hoarse with desire, “if it’s not too much to ask, could you, um, do that… a little closer?”
Clearly, in the initial shock of snorting the powder, Greyson had forgotten the reason they were there. Blushing beneath rheumy eyes, the chef leaned down so he was in Reed’s full view. “Sorry,” he said, voice hitching. “Kind of forgohh – forgot what we were doihh – HRTSSH! NGTSXCHH-ue!”
These two were directed right at Reed, the spray catching his chest and face. Reed groaned in pleasure while Greyson covered his mouth with his palm entirely too late. “Fuck, sorry babe, this shit is really fucking strong. Hh-! HRSTCHHH-ue!”
“Don’t apologize,” Reed said, emboldened. He gently pulled Greyson’s palm away from his face, kissed his boyfriend as hard as he could. “And don’t you dare cover your face.”
It was Greyson’s turn to moan; he pulled away from Reed for a moment, taking in his face. “This really does it for you, huh?” he asked, sniffling. A flush crept over Reed’s face and he looked down, embarrassed.
“I – yeah, I mean, obviously,” he said, a self-deprecating laugh following the admission. “But if you don’t like it baby, we definitely don’t...”
The words fizzled out in Reed’s mouth as Greyson’s face once again crumpled with the need to sneeze. In that moment, Reed changed his tune. For now, it didn’t matter to him whether or not Greyson was into this; it was happening, and hell, Greyson had initiated it – he’d been the one to research ways to make himself sneeze when Reed had admitted to having a ‘weird kink’, had even been the one to buy the powder – and Reed was going to enjoy it. Greyson attempted to tip his head back, but Reed stopped him, grabbing his mess of blonde waves and pulling him in for another kiss.
“Baby,” Greyson panted around Reed’s lips. “I’m gonna -”
“Then do it,” Reed said into Greyson’s mouth. “But I’m not pulling away.”
It wasn’t as though Greyson had a choice; the sneeze powder had had its way with him, and there was little he could do to stop it. “HUHHTSCHH-ue!” Greyson tried turning his head to keep from sneezing directly into Reed’s face, but Reed’s hand stayed firm. When the spray hit him, Reed gasped in ecstasy; he let go of Greyson’s head to sink his nails into the chef’s back, allowing Greyson to dip into his neck for the next three – “HRRTSH! HUHESCHHOO! HTTSHH-ue!”
When the fit finally subsided, Reed could’ve been pushed over the edge with a single touch. He sat back, admiring Greyson’s stuffy-looking face, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself – he wasn’t quite ready for this to be over yet.
“Christ, sorry babe,” Greyson said again. This time, Reed laughed.
“Sorry that I held your head to sneeze on me?” he asked, prompting a laugh from Greyson. “I mean, apology accepted.”
“Yeah… yeah, alright, fair enough,” Greyson said, sniffling again. “I think I finally got it all out, but wow that is… that’s certainly something.” Reed flushed again, and Greyson lifted his chin so their eyes could meet. “You liked it?”
Again, Reed couldn’t find words; he was too busy studying Greyson’s pink nose, his watering eyes, his mouth parted slightly to breathe better. Lost for what to say, Reed simply nodded.
Greyson smiled. “Then I love it,” he said, pulling Reed’s face in for a kiss. When they pulled away, Greyson reached over to the side table to grab the powder again. “This time,” he said, sniffing it in and pushing Reed back onto the bed, “I’m gonna make it cuuhh – HRRSHH!Snrf!Count.”
***
“Are you okay?”
From his side of the couch, Greyson whipped his head towards Reed and pulled his hand away from his neck. “Huh?” he asked, distracted. Reed put the book he’d been reading on the coffee table and raised an eyebrow.
“Long night?” he prodded. “You’ve barely said two words to me since you got home.”
“Oh,” Greyson said, shrugging. “Yeah, no, it was fine just – my lymph nodes have been super fuckin’ sore all day and it’s pissing me off.” Oh.
Reed pressed his lips together, swallowing hard. “Does your throat hurt?” he asked. Again, Greyson shrugged.
“Yeah, kind of,” he said, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants and clicking it on. “Not terribly or anything.”
The back of Reed’s brain throbbed – sick, sick, sick it chanted, the least developed part of his evolution seeing immediately exactly what it wanted to see – but Reed forced himself to quiet it. Don’t be a fucking freak, he thought, moving closer to Greyson. It’s probably nothing.
“Can I…?” Reed asked, miming touching Greyson’s lymph nodes. His boyfriend nodded, barely paying attention, while Reed gently placed his fingers on either side of his neck. Inside his chest, Reed’s heart thumped hard and fast; he hoped Greyson couldn’t feel it in his fingertips.
“Well, they’re certainly swollen,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Are you feeling okay other than that? You seemed fine, uh, last night…”
At that Greyson grinned, wolf-like, and abandoned the phone to crawl damn near into Reed’s lap. “Sneezy, for sure,” he teased, kissing Reed’s cheek. “But yeah, fine other than that.”
Reed flushed. “If you weren’t feeling well yesterday, you could’ve told me,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “We could’ve waited to do… that.”
“Mmm, I don’t think we could’ve waited,” Greyson laughed, nuzzling into Reed’s neck. “But also, I felt fine last night. And I’m fine now, baby, like I said it’s just a little sore throat – no need to worry.” He swung his legs over Reed’s lap then, prompting his boyfriend to rub his aching soles.
“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he moaned, eyes closed. Reed hummed an inaudible thanks, and Greyson let one eye pop back open. “You better hope it’s nothing,” he joked. “Because you’re fucked if it’s not.”
They both laughed then – Greyson in earnest and Reed hollowly – until Greyson suddenly wrenched to the side. “Hh-! HRTSHH-uhh!”
Reed felt his mouth go dry as Greyson absently wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He shifted in his seat, the thought of Greyson’s soon-to-be cold once again bringing to the forefront of his mind the most animal part of him. That carnal part grabbed at his consciousness and threw him back to the night before – to holding Greyson’s head in place as he sneezed into his face, over his chest, and onto his neck – making his head spin and his blood move rapidly southward. Reed stood and excused himself to the bedroom.
Fucked, he thought, close to panting. Sure.
***
“Oh, you poor thing, you look awful.”
Placing his knife bag on the kitchen counter, Greyson coughed out a laugh at his boyfriend’s concerned face. “Thangks,” he said, placing a swift kiss on Reed’s cheek. The look of concern painted across his boyfriend’s face prompted Greyson to place a warm hand on his cheek. “It’s just a cold, love, ndo ndeed to freak out, okay?”
Nodding, Reed pulled out a bar stool and motioned for Greyson to sit. “I made curry,” he said, bowling the stewed meat and vegetables over rice. “You have to eat a little something at least, okay?”
“Thangk you, baby,” Greyson said, taking the bowl. “I’mb starving.”
As Greyson tucked into the meal, Reed leaned back against the kitchen island and took his boyfriend in. Reed had known when they woke up this morning that Greyson was sick, much as the chef was wont to admit it, but now, post-shift, he looked markedly worse than he had when he left. Pale, bloodshot eyes, and red-rimmed nostrils; he was the picture of cold-ridden. Greyson was always an exceptionally good-looking guy, especially in Reed’s eyes, but like this… well, Reed was having a difficult time keeping himself from pawing at his boyfriend in this state.
“Hh-!” Greyson’s breath hitched suddenly. “HRTZCHH-ue! Snrf. ’Scuse mbe,” he said, then, looking up at Reed’s face, he amended his statement. “You’re welcombe,” he smiled.
Reed pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. He’d told boyfriends about his kink before – at thirty-five it would’ve been hard to get away with keeping it completely to himself all his life – but none had ever responded quite like Greyson. Mostly, they would ignore it or pretend they had forgotten Reed had told them at all. Some would pander to him – begrudgingly, it often seemed – but never had he ever had someone seem so… down to be a part of it. Reed wasn’t sure how to respond to Greyson’s immediate boldness around something Reed assumed was so foreign to him. It felt good, honestly, to be seen and acknowledged and indulged… but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure how to respond to Greyson’s lack of timidity regarding kink. It was new territory for him.
He decided on a light joke. “You’re a brat,” he said, rolling his eyes and moving to clean up dinner’s leftovers. Greyson shrugged.
“I’mb out here giving my boyfriend exactly what he wants and I’mb a brat? Rude.” He dissolved into a short fit of coughs then, turning away to aim them into the crook of his arm. Reed glanced up from the dishes.
“You okay?”
“I’mb good,” Greyson managed, clearing his throat. “I fear I mbay be passing away, but other than that I’mb good.”
This time, Reed did laugh. “You are so dramatic,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth and moving to sit beside his boyfriend. Greyson smiled.
“You love it,” he said, picking up one of Reed’s hands and gently kissing his palm. He did love it, despite himself. Reed had staunchly refused to date within the food and beverage industry previously, simply because of the drama that surrounded it – drama that Greyson absolutely loved to be a part of. But with him, for some reason, the drama didn’t bother Reed. It was just who Greyson was, and Greyson wasn’t the type of person to hide who he was; if there was anything Reed envied in Greyson, it was that.
The warmth in Reed’s stomach spread as Greyson’s warm lips pressed against his hand. Maybe Greyson was just… different than other guys. Maybe he was finally Reed’s perfect match.
Reed felt his face flush. “I do,” he said quietly, placing the hand on Greyson’s face. Warm, but not feverish. “Kiss me.” Reed leaned in then – only for Greyson to turn his head.
“Baby, I don’t wannda get you sick,” he said when he saw Reed’s furrowed brow – the upset look quickly morphed into one of bemusement.
“Honey,” Reed said, choosing his words carefully. “I, um… I don’t know if you remember a couple of nights ago, but I think that ship may have already sailed.” Greyson pressed his own eyebrows together – then raised them when he remembered.
“Oh,” he said, making a face that somehow perfectly encapsulated the word oops. “Shit, I forgot about that. I mbean, that was before I started feeling shitty, so you should be finde, right?”
Internally, Reed weighed his options for response; after a moment, he settled on the truth. “I… I think you’re contagious before you start, um. Showing symptoms,” Reed said. Greyson’s face fell, and he rubbed his nose hard with the back of his hand.
“Shit,” Greyson repeated. “Well, uh… hopefully your immbune system is fully ramped up then – hh...hhhIGTSZCHH-ue! Fuck, excuse mbe,” Greyson stood up from the barstool and grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen, blowing his nose as quietly as he could manage.
Reed’s breath quickened as he said, “Bless you.” Greyson nodded.
“Thangk you,” he said, tossing the paper towel. He shot his boyfriend an apologetic look, rubbed the back of his own neck, embarrassed. “Sorry if I give you this, hondey.”
Without thinking, Reed barked out a laugh. “Greyson,” he said, “if anyone has ever been asking for it when it comes to getting sick, it’s me literally holding your face to my face when I know you’re about to sneeze. Let’s… I mean, let’s be honest about that.”
Greyson coughed out a giggle as well. “I mbean, when you put it that way,” he said, taking Reed’s hand and pulling him in. “I guess there’s ndo real reason for mbe not to do this.” He kissed Reed then, slow and deep, his tongue slipping between his boyfriend’s lips like a secret. A moan escaped Reed without him meaning it to.
“Baby,” Greyson said into Reed’s mouth. “Will you take care of mbe? I don’t feel wehh… huh..!” Greyson’s foreplay was suddenly cut off then by his breath hitching. “Onesec -” he breathed, turning away from Reed to crumple into his elbow.
“HRRTZCHH-ue! Hh-! HhhESTZCHH-ue!” Greyson coughed for a moment before turning back to Reed, an apologetic look on his face. “Sorry ’bout that,” he said, sniffling.
Reed was, again, at a loss for words. “Bless you,” he said again, his voice barely a whisper. Greyson grinned.
“Mban,” he said, clearing his throat. “I fuckigg love this. Easiest foreplay of mby liii – HRTZCHH!” This time, Greyson hadn’t had time to turn away; Reed felt the mist of his boyfriend’s sneeze lay over him like a light blanket as he shivered with desire.
“Fuck,” Reed whispered, pulling Greyson in for a hungry, desirous kiss. Greyson was only too happy to reciprocate; he yanked Reed’s shirt over his head and licked up his torso, sniffling when he got to the base of his boyfriend’s throat. Reed couldn’t take it any longer; he pushed Greyson to the ground right there in the kitchen, stripping himself and his boyfriend down to nothing in record time.
Before they could go any further, Reed pressed his lips to Greyson’s once again. When they pulled away, Greyson was smiling, amused.
“Well, if you weren’t goigg to get sick before,” he said, coursing his fingers through Reed’s short, dark hair, “you certainly will ndow.”
Reed, consumed by desire, began kissing along Greyson’s neck, his torso, his hips. Before going any lower, Reed turned his face towards Greyson’s, his face flushed with lust.
I have a snz request with superheroes taking care of their sidekicks or villains taking care of their henchmen’s.
*Twirls hair* 😽😽
Hell yeah, I finally finished this! This was started shortly before my job, so I never got a chance to finish up! I hope this was worth the wait~
***********************************
The Perfect Specimen
****************************************
Derek set down the last of the crates in one of the few free corners of the warehouse. He leaned against one of the taller ones, wiping his brow with the back of his massive hand.
He always hated this time of year. It was just after the holidays, so henchman turnover was terrible. All the new little grunts were standing around, eager but not at all experienced. And what was worse, winter had just ended, but spring had barely began, meaning every job had the dreary backdrop of gray clouds and freezing rain.
Today was no different. Huffing through rain and sleet, Derek had been moving boxes from a discreet supply truck all afternoon. Every trip had made him more and more soaked, and he couldn’t help but shudder in the frigid warehouse. Why the doctor could afford all his lab equipment, but not a half-decent heater, was beyond him.
But, finally, everything was unloaded. Derek only had to report the delivery to the boss, and could go back to the barracks. Despite this kind of delivery being routine, his body ached terribly, and he wanted nothing more than to get off his sore feet.
As the henchman made his way up to the lab, he scrubbed his nose. The cold weather had made it run, and the many quick swipes against his shoulder while carrying the crates had made his nostrils burn. Derek sniffled, trying to make himself at least half presentable before going to see his boss.
“Ghhh-!”
A sudden twinge in his sinuses stopped him in his tracks. His nostrils quivered, and he brought his wet shirt color to his nose.
“HP’CHHHHHUH!”
Derek groaned, his head suddenly pounding. With no other choice, he blew his nose into his shirt with a loud honk, trying to clean himself up. When’s the last time this old warehouse had been cleaned?
“Gesundheit.”
Derek started. He looked around, still holding his collar firmly to his nose.
“Ghuhuh?”
A familiar, stern face looked up at him, and Derek stood at attention.
It was the boss.
Dr. Mort — the “t” was silent, as he had reminded his henchmen many a time — required utmost effort and organization. Every piece of equipment had a purpose, every scheme had a schedule, and anyone that got in his way…
Well, let’s just say Derek had to fill out quite a bit of paperwork.
“I take it the shipment has been unloaded?” Dr. Mort asked, turning on his heel and walking down yet another of the warehouse’s dismal halls.
Derek quickly followed him, trying to keep step.
“Yes, boss, everything has been - snf - accounded for.”
“Good.”
Dr. Mort checked his watch and nodded.
“Then everything is on schedule. The live cultures have almost grown to capacity, and the canisters will provide a container for them until they can be used. The new recruits have been trained on their masks, correct? Any cross-contamination could be-”
“HAH’KSHHHHHUH!”
Dr. Mort stopped, his ears perking up. He slowly turned towards Derek, his eyes narrowed.
“…disastrous.”
Derek stammered, his knuckle under his nose.
“S-Sorry, boss. ‘S dusty, is all.”
Dr. Mort looked at his henchman for a few more seconds, then continued on to the lab.
“This is the perfect time to enact my plan. Little interpersonal traffic, cold weather, and a lack of travel will keep my virus spreading, while also being easy to track. Of course, it will require some of you to plant the canisters, but the delayed activation will mean few risks to your men.”
Dr. Mort shook his head and gave Derek one of his famous displeased grimaces.
“There’s already so few of you as it is.”
The doctor plowed through the swinging doors of his lab, one of them almost hitting Derek square in his red nose.
“I’m getting another shipment tomorrow afternoon,” Dr. Mort said. “I expect it to be completely unloaded and sorted by evening. They are glass instruments required for the final step of this very long process. If any of you in any way damage them, you will all be getting a substantial pay cut.”
Dr. Mort finally came to a stop behind his desk, which was covered with notes, charts, and not a small amount of burn marks. He laid his hands on top of them, spreading his fingers and staring ahead at Derek with hard, black eyes.
“Do I make myself clear, Mr. Hammond?”
Derek shivered — whether it was Dr. Mort’s withering look or the frigid lab, he couldn’t tell.
“Y-Yeah, boss. Loud ‘n cleheh-!”
Derek squeezed one eye shut, trying to shove his knuckle against his nostrils again. What was wrong with him? He’d been working in this hunk of metal for months now — the dust and mildew and mold and other gunk had never bothered him before. But now it was like he couldn’t take a step in this place without needing to sneeze.
Dr. Mort had sat down at his desk, and was resting his face on clasped hands, watching over the rims of his glasses.
Was he…studying him?
“‘Scuse be, boss, I gotta…I’b gonna…HAH-!”
Derek grabbed the edge of a work table, his nostrils flaring as he tried to cover with his hand. But it was far too late to contain his nose.
“HKK’SHUUUUUUUH! HMP’TCHHHUH! Huh…HAP’TCHHHHHH!”
Dr. Mort’s eyes widened as Derek continued to sneeze. Every time the henchman tried to speak, or even take a deep breath, he had to bury himself in his shirt collar — if he could even manage to get it up to his face in time.
Finally, Derek groaned, holding his aching head. It felt like he was filled with cotton wool from the tip of his scalp to his now very sore throat. He looked at the doctor blearily, who had moved to the front of the desk and was regarding Derek with a piercing gaze.
“I’b…snf!…real, real sorry, boss,” Derek snuffled, putting a large fist in front of his offending nose. “Ever since I fidished unloading th-the truck, I’ve been sdeezin’ somethin’ awful.”
He hurriedly wiped his hands on the front of his shirt.
“I-I can help ya clean up! Or I’ll get ode of the crew! Lemme go get ‘em…”
Derek turned to leave. He felt a cold hand grip one of his wrists. He shivered.
“No,” Dr. Mort said. “Please. Do stay, Mr. Hammond.”
Derek winced, but turned around. Every sore muscle tense, his body was now shivering all over, and his teeth chattered between every word.
“B-Boss, I swear, I’ll make it up to ya. You don’d gotta do anything-”
Dr. Mort gestured to a nearby steel chair.
“Sit.”
Reluctantly, Derek did as he was told, slumping into the much-too-small chair.
This was the end. He was going to die because of some damn dust. Honestly, he almost wished he had just been a mole or sold information to the Heroes Legion. At least then he could get some cool points beyond the grave. And maybe the legion could cover his funeral expenses. Though the paperwork for that was really steep, and he didn’t want his mom going through that mess. Life insurance was part of the doctor’s benefits package, but did that apply if he was killed for misconduct?
“Open.”
Derek blinked. Dr. Mort was holding a thermometer in front of the henchman’s mouth, raising his eyebrows.
Derek slowly opened his mouth, and Dr. Mort laid the tip under his tongue, at the same time measuring Derek’s pulse by his wrist.
After a minute or two, the thermometer beeped, and the doctor read the results as he walked towards his work table.
“Mhm, yes..a degree shy of one-oh-three.”
Derek choked at the number, causing a rough coughing fit. Dr. Mort, on the other hand, seemed nonplussed, and gathered a few tools from the counter.
“Sneezing, coughing, congestion, high fever. Good. Very good.”
Dr. Mort took a small pen light and shone it into Derek’s eyes. The henchman’s nostrils quivered, and he sneezed yet again into his collar.
“I-I’b sorry…” he began, but the doctor cut him off.
“Do you have any other symptoms? Aching joints, rash, nausea, headache?”
Derek massaged his pounding temples. This was all happening too fast.
“I…I really ab sick?” he rasped.
Dr. Mort’s mouth curled into a vague imitation of a smile.
“Considering your high fever, phlegm-y coughs, low range of motion, and…”
He looked down at a few papers on a work table next to them.
“…your sneezes, which were both high in force and number, I don’t believe there is any other explanation. Now!”
Dr. Mort took a small syringe out of his lab coat pocket — with no needle, to Derek’s relief — and held it to the henchman’s face.
“If you would lean your head back so I may gather a sample…”
Sample?!
Despite his confusion, Derek leaned his head back, and Dr. Mort put the end of the syringe just inside his nostril. He pulled back the plunger, filling the barrel halfway with liquid before withdrawing it again. He whisked the sample over to one of the many microscopes in the lab, beginning to prepare a slide.
“How long have you been ill?” he asked.
Derek stammered. “Uh…I…”
Dr. Mort looked up from the microscope.
“How long have you been feeling poorly?”
“S-Since I unloaded the truck,” Derek replied, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand.
The doctor bounced twice on the tips of his toes, excited.
“Such a fresh sample! Your immune system has barely had the time to fight off the pathogens — what luck! What absolute luck!”
As terrifying as Dr. Mort was angry, Derek wasn’t sure how he felt with them being so…gleeful.
“Yes, yes!”
Dr. Mort was looking at the finished slide now, drumming his fingers on the edge of the counter.
“What beautiful specimens! I knew from your symptoms this was a unique case, but I had no idea-!”
Dr. Mort straightened up and began to sway, tapping his fingers against his cheeks.
“Oh, I can only imagine what’s it’s like to be infected,” he said, to Derek’s shock, almost dreamily. “Such an energetic rhinovirus may only bring a week’s discomfort to such a large body as yourself, but to any average person…”
He bounced on his toes again.
“…at least a month! A month!”
Derek was in awe. Never, not even at the few great successes he had witnessed, had he ever seen Dr. Mort so happy.
“‘S…just a cold, boss,” he said sheepishly. “It’s dothing special.”
Dr. Mort grinned as he looked into the microscope again, as if he were a child receiving a pony on Christmas morning.
“Oh, how wrong you are!” he said. “The structure, the presentation, the energy! Who knew that the perfect specimen would come walking into my lab! Ha ha!”
Derek sniffled, offering his best placating smile.
“Yeah, boss. Maybe I’ll get sick bore often. Heh.”
The doctor’s grin suddenly dropped from his face. Derek spluttered.
“Eh…er…I bean…”
Dr. Mort’s eyes bore into Derek as he walked over to him. The doctor leaned in close, then, suddenly, put his hands on either side of Derek’s head, looking deeply into the henchman’s eyes.
“You must be miserable,” he whispered, as if he solved one of the world’s greatest mysteries.
“Nghuh?”
The doctor shifted his hands downward, feeling Derek’s upper neck.
“Your lymph nodes are very swollen,” he continued. “You’re severely congested, your fever is high, your chest is rattling, and those sneezes…”
His tsked.
“And you are only at the beginning of your infection. Your symptoms will only get worse as the infection runs its course. And not everyone has the…affinity for illness that I do. I warrant you are much less interested in the trajectory of your infection than I am. In fact, I’m sure you would rather it be concluded as soon as possible.”
Dr. Mort chuckled and shook his head.
“But you, Mr. Hammond, have quite a week or two ahead of you. Fevers so high you become delirious, a throat so sore you can hardly speak, coughing so severe breathing becomes laborious.”
The doctor started to sway again, but stopped himself. He set his used tools into either a sink or the trash, then put the newly made pedri dish in a small plastic container.
“You will stay in the lab’s quarters, of course, so that I may observe the virus’s progress for the duration of your illness. I’m sure you will find your arrangements much more comfortable than the henchmen’s quarters.”
Derek began to rise from his chair, but a dizzy spell made him sit back down again.
“B-Bud I godda…the new shibment, and the new guys, and training…and…and…”
His protests were cut off by a string of rattling coughs.
“‘Sides,” he continued, his voice hoarse, “it’ll all blow over by toborrow. ‘S just the sniffles, that’s all, boss. You don’t godda roll out the red carpet.”
“Tomorrow!”
Dr. Mort laughed, something that chilled Derek’s blood more than his raging fever.
“I suppose I’ll add ‘delusions’ to your list of symptoms, hm? Now, I shall show you to your quarters, before you become even more delirious.”
Before Derek could argue further, he was pulled out of his seat and further back into the laboratory.
“You will need to let me know of every new symptom you have,” Dr. Mort said. “Every ache, pain, every little thing that you feel — nothing is too unimportant for my research!”
“N-Ngh’kay,” Derek murmured, fighting off another dizzy spell. Dr. Mort seemed to notice this, and reigned in their excitement, walking slower.
“I know that my excitement may seem…undeserved, Mr. Hammond, even grating, but…after many years of pedri dishes and cultures, seeing a disease of this caliber infect a real human body is an opportunity that I cannot pass. However, I doubt you relish the idea of me pestering you with questions.”
Dr. Mort pushed a few numbers into a keypad, then pushed past a pair of gray doors.
“Know that I will mostly observe you, quietly and unobtrusively, taking notes on your illness. You may be subject to a few medical examinations, but your main objective is to…well, to simply be ill.”
Then, quickly added:
“A-And to recover, of course.”
After another pair of doors, the pair of them ended up what looked like a small living room, with a kitchenette in one corner and a couch against the opposite wall. Between them was a short hallway, which Dr. Mort led Derek down by the hand. He stopped in front of a door on the right side, which was painted a dark red.
“This guest room will be a temporary sick bay. My own bedroom is across the hall, and my observations will be frequent.”
Dr. Mort opened the guest room door. Inside was a simple four-poster bed, a bedside table, a large mirror, and a bookshelf full to the brim with thick medical textbooks. Not lavish, but certainly better than the stone and metal barracks Derek was used to sleeping in. And no annoying conversations about whether or not 100 lions could beat one whale from his bunkmates.
“Please,” Dr. Mort said, gesturing to the bed. “You must be exhausted.”
Derek blearily got into the bed, pulling the quilt above his shoulders. He shuddered at the sudden warmth — it reminded him just how cold he was.
Dr. Mort stood in the doorway, taking a clipboard off the wall and writing something.
“A few parameters,” he continued, regaining some of his familiar severeness. “As much of a habit as it is to do so, you mustn’t feign wellness or try to overextend yourself. You’ll skew the results.”
He pointed the pen at Derek.
“And no stifling. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Derek shifted and lifted his head to answer.
“Snnnnf…I’ll t-tuh…try…”
Dr. Mort giddily took out a handkerchief from his lab coat pocket, sensing Derek’s oncoming sneeze.
“Remember, sneeze fully!”
Derek nodded with his mouth open, snatching the handkerchief. His enormous nose wrinkled, and the goon allowed his nostrils to flare as wide as they could.
“Nnghuh…huh…HUUUH-!”
Dr. Mort bit the edge of the pen, transfixed.
“Yes, yes…”
Derek lifted the handkerchief in front of his face.
“Guh-HUHUH-! Suh…suh…sdeeHEE-!”
Nose quivering, Derek stayed on the cusp of a sneeze for what felt like an eternity. But, to Dr. Mort’s delight —
“HEEEEEEEH’TSHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUH!”
Even though Derek sneezed into the handkerchief as he was directed, a blast of spray went past the thin cloth, permeating the air with humanity’s worst head cold.
Dr. Mort stood in the spray, watching the particles fall in awe. His usually waxy face was bright red. Derek sniffled.
“‘Scuse be.”
He blew his nose into the handkerchief, sounding like a trumpet playing underwater.
Dr. Mort snapped out of his trance and pulled out a pair of large tweezers. He gently tweezed the soiled handkerchief out of Derek’s hand, found a small glass jar deep in recesses of his coat pocket, and stuffed the garment into it.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking another sample. You will be provided with more, of course.”
Derek settled back under the covers. The whole ordeal had exhausted him. Dr. Mort was looking at the handkerchief through the glass as if it were some undiscovered animal.
“I do enjoy observing these little protozoans, you know.”
Dr. Mort turned his attention back to Derek.
“I will let your department know of your absence. If you require anything, use your issued communication device.”
Dr. Mort began to leave, then popped his head in.
“And Mr. Hammond?”
“Hnngh?”
Derek saw a wicked smile cross the doctor’s face.
“As much as I would hate to waste such a beautiful specimen, I will not hesitate to…reprimand you as necessary. Do not disobey me.”
Derek swallowed. Though a mixture of confusing feelings welled up inside him, fatigue trumped them all.
Before the door even closed, Derek was asleep, letting out snore after congested, ceiling-rattling snore.
The vampire brain rot continues. A/starion once again finds himself needing T/av's assistance when he comes down with a nasty cold...
Tav had given up all hope of a productive evening.
She had withdrawn to her tent for the night, intending to work on some potions with the latest batch of herbs she had gathered. It was a task she always found calming; sitting with fragrant herbs spread before her, a book on herbalism and potion-making in her lap, enjoying the soft glow of her lantern and the background noise of the camp settling for the night.
And then Astarion had joined her. Astarion and his absolutely miserable cold.
It had been obvious from that morning that the vampire was sick. Paler even than usual, he kept his distance from the rest of the group, but not far away enough to hide that ticklish cough, those damp sniffles, those frequent shivers. During a fight the day before he had been knocked into a river, and with camp hours away, had spent most of the day trekking about in cold, wet clothes. Now he was suffering the consequences. Only Tav knew the true extent of those consequences, though…
Since their time in the Underdark, Tav had become intimately aware of a peculiar feature of the vampire’s anatomy. Certain reflexes had been dulled by his undead condition, and sneezing was one of those reflexes. Things still bothered his nose, certainly. The constant haze of spores in the Underdark, the scent of garlic, dust, and now a cold in the head. But it was rare for that irritation to bring on a sneeze; at least, not without great effort. Since helping him get relief from the spores, and accidentally revealing her own peculiar interest, Tav had more than once found herself offering to help a desperately itchy Astarion sneeze, providing great satisfaction to them both.
It was that satisfaction Astarion had come seeking tonight, Tav was sure of it. But gods forbid the stubborn vampire actually ask for help. Instead, he lounged beside her, watching her work, the very picture of misery. A blanket draped around his shoulders seemed to be doing little to ease his chills, and his lips were chapped from breathing through his mouth. And his poor nose… It twitched and wrinkled near constantly, and had turned pink from being constantly dabbed at with a handkerchief. He sniffed almost constantly, and when he spoke his voice was heavy with congestion. And, every now and then, his eyes would close, his lips would part, he would tilt his head back, chest expanding with a great, expectant breath, and… Nothing.
It was all Tav could do to keep from squirming.
“Perhaps you ought to take a nap,” she suggested, after a bout of hitching turned into a yawn instead. “You might feel better after you get some sleep.”
“I can’t sleep like this,” Astarion grumbled, rubbing his nose through the handkerchief. “Couldn’t sleep all last night, from the moment I felt it setting in. Every time I started nodding off, I… I’d start to…”
Tav swallowed dryly, watching the display. She was almost sure Astarion was doing it on purpose. He lowered the handkerchief, giving her an uninhibited view of his flaring nostrils, and wrinkled his nose, trying to bring on that desperately needed sneeze. One great hitching breath… Two… And…
“Gods damn it all! Why does this have to be so miserable?”
He blew his nose angrily, and Tav flinched at the sound.
“Don’t blow so hard! If you think you’re miserable now, just wait til you give yourself a sinus infection.”
“Easy for you to say. Ugh, I hate this! My head feels so full it could burst, and my nose is a perfect nightmare!”
For you, perhaps, Tav mused, watching him rub angrily at said nightmare. Sighing, she set down her book at last, and patted her lap.
“This is going to drive us both mad at this rate. Here. Lie down, and let me help.”
Astarion gave her a look of gratitude from over the top of his handkerchief, and did as he was told, laying down with his head in her lap. Trying to keep her mind on the problem at hand, Tav ran a gentle finger down the length of his nose, feeling it twitch irritably. Astarion sniffled and let out a gasp of irritation, and tried to bring his handkerchief to his nose. Tav pushed his hand back down, giving him a reassuring smile as she pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve. She dabbed gently at his nostrils, which had begun to look rather damp.
“Easy. Just try to relax, and let me take care of you.”
“I'll relax when I'm free of this damned itch,” Astarion groaned, and let out a few ticklish coughs. “Do hurry up and bring out that feather of yours!”
Tav shook her head, turning her attention to the herbs she’d been working with.
“You’re a bit too… damp, for a feather, I think. Let me find something a bit sturdier.”
Keeping the handkerchief pressed to his nose with one hand, feeling his nostrils twitching restlessly, Tav selected a frond of dried grass. Delicate enough not to hurt, but sturdy enough to get the job done. Astarion snuffled desperately as she lowered the handkerchief and set to work. Starting slowly, she twirled the grass across his nostrils, and was immediately rewarded with an eager hitch.
“Hhh! Hhh-Hh! Hhhnn…”
It was never that easy. Astarion’s nose was as stubborn as the rest of him. Not wanting to tease him when he already felt so wretched, Tav gently poked the grass further into one aggravated nostril. Astarion gave a flustered snuffle, and raised his handkerchief as his nose began to run. Tav beat him to it, pressing her own handkerchief lightly against his nose, rubbing gently, still twirling the stalk of grass all the while.
“Easy… Let me take care of you…”
Astarion couldn’t answer, his breath snagging on a useless round of hitches. A tear leaked from his eye, and Tav dabbed it gently away.
“HHnn… Hhm… Hhh! I… I think… it’s…”
Tav pressed the grass deeper, seeking out the point that would release all that irritation, and found it. As Astarion drew in one last desperate breath, she covered his nose and mouth with the handkerchief, just in time.
“HHhh… Hh’tshhoo!”
Astarion sniffled damply in the aftermath, nose nuzzling into the handkerchief, and blinked up at Tav, dazed. The sneeze had been a rather weak one, and didn’t seem to have scratched the itch.
“I… I think I need more, darling…”
“Of course. Let’s try again.”
Tav set to work again, trying to find a more sensitive spot. With Astarion weakened by his cold, she was evidently going to have to work harder to bring on the kind of relief he needed. Guided by her skilled fingers, the blade of grass twitched and twirled, and Astarion hitched and sniffled and gasped, but seemed unable to bring on another sneeze. Tav withdrew the grass, bringing on a flustered snuffle and a few coughs, and set about teasing the other nostril.
“Stubborn thing…”
She tickled and twitched and twirled away with the grass, dabbing occasionally with the handkerchief, and Astarion squirmed in her lap, chest rising and falling with hitching breaths, sniffling and gasping, eyes growing decidedly teary as the irritation grew. Tav began to worry she might only be able to bring on that one weak, unsatisfying sneeze. And then, finally, the grass tickled just deep enough.
“Da-ahh-rling, I… think… I… IhhhHHSHOO!”
Again Tav pressed the handkerchief over his nose just in time. As she began to lower it, Astarion took hold of her wrist, keeping it there.
“No… I… Ahhh… Hhh… HHRASSHOO!”
A shiver ran through him after that one. A shiver ran through Tav too, for rather different reasons.
“Need me to keep going?”
“No, I think… Think there’s more… Hh! Hhh-hh-hHHSHOO!”
Tav withdrew the grass and used her now free hand to wipe away irritated tears, then gently ran her fingers through white curls.
“That’s it, you’re doing well. More?”
“HhhHHSHOO!” Astarion sneezed in agreement, and gave a series of damp sniffles. Tav pressed the handkerchief more firmly against his nose, feeling it twitch and wriggle, bringing on the next desperate “HHRRASHOO!”
Sneeze after sneeze burst out. Slower than the allergic fits brought on by dust or garlic, and judging by the way Astarion was beginning to breath more heavily, rather more exhausting. At last, with a final, exhausted “Hhishhoo!”, Astarion opened his eyes, and, taking the handkerchief from Tav, wearily sat up and blew his nose.
“Thank you, darling. I feel… Well, I still feel wretched, but that’s one misery resolved. You… enjoyed that, I take it?”
Weary from his cold, his smile as he took in Tav’s flushed cheeks was more fond than seductive. In answer, Tav leaned in and pressed a gentle, featherlight kiss to his long-suffering nose, letting out a surprised giggle as doing so prompted a ticklish “Htshhoo!”.
Astarion raised the handkerchief too late, and if there had been enough blood in him, Tav suspected he might have blushed.
“Ah! Sorry about that, darling! Although, given your… peculiarities, perhaps I ought to say ‘you’re welcome’?”
Tav let out a snort of laughter, and leaned in to kiss him properly this time… Only to pull back in alarm as Gale’s voice sounded outside the tent.
“Astarion! Might I suggest you take something for that cold, rather than keep the whole camp awake?”
Tav let out an embarrassed giggle, and called back before Astarion could snap something rude in reply.
“Don’t worry, I’ll see he’s well taken care of!”
As the wizard’s footsteps retreated, Astarion gave her a rather more flirtatious smile.
“You will, will you?”
Tav leaned in closer, but instead of kissing him this time, picked up the fallen blanket and pulled it around his shoulders once more. His seductive act dropped, and he gave an embarrassed cough that brought on several more.
“I will. But not like that. You need to sleep this cold off. Let me get back to my herbs, and I can make you something to help. And if you’re feeling better tomorrow… Well, then. Let’s see what morning brings.”
So the hindbrain wrote this one. CW for: inducing, contagion, mess, stuffy-talk, character with the kink, and absolute desecration of characters from classic literature. Very glad Mr. Dumas is not around to see what I've done here. How far we've strayed from the light.
This is a marked departure from what I usually write and I honestly don't know what came over me. I'm very nervous about posting it for some reason (?) so please be kind.
“Hehh… uhhh…” For the umpteenth time that day, the sneeze which had been building and dragging Aramis to the precipice now abandoned him there, snuffly breaths hitching as he rubbed his hands over his face with a groan. “Snf!” His nose squelched as he rubbed at it, in one last vain attempt to coax the sneeze forward. He huffed miserably. “I’m so ill, Porthos.”
As attractive as it was to watch Aramis’s face go through the slow, agonizing permutations of readying to sneeze time and time again, Porthos felt terrible for him. “I know,” he said, biting at his lip. “I didn’t have it half as bad as you.”
Aramis coughed, the sound wet and congested. Porthos’s own cough hadn’t sounded that bad, had it? He thought back to when he’d been sick with this cold. The first couple days it hadn’t been bad enough to keep him from duty, so Aramis had merely hovered beside him like a worried nursemaid, urging him to drink often and offering his own waterskin when Porthos’s had run dry. Then when Treville had taken him off duty to prohibit him from sneezing on the royal court, Aramis had been with him in his every spare moment, pouring him tea and washing his sodden handkerchiefs. Really, Porthos supposed, he should have expected that just as soon as his own sniffling diminished, Aramis’s increased, as though the cold had just seeped from his head into his friend’s.
Aramis’s croak drew him back to the present. He flopped his arm around miserably on the bed. “I’m beginning to think I’ll ne-eh’hehhh—never be well again. Snf!”
Porthos couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
Aramis shot upward, curled in on himself in what Porthos was sure would end in a sneeze, only for his nose to be left a dripping, flaring, unsatisfied mess as the sensation abandoned him once more. “HEHH...ohh.” He pressed the back of his hand hard against his nose with a set of marshy sniffles. “If I could only sneeze, the world would look so much brighter.”
In more ways than one, Porthos thought, making a concerted effort to swallow down the fluttering feeling in his stomach. He felt bad enough that he was enjoying his friend’s misery in a way; he would be damned if Aramis found out about that fact. Whereas the day previous Aramis had been veritably unable to stop sneezing, each expulsion somehow leaving him sounding more congested than the last, today he was many times taunted but never satisfied. Yesterday had brought its own challenges when Porthos had come to check on him, namely the need to hide any untoward reactions to his friend’s desperately ill sneezes, but when Porthos had agreed with Aramis’s plea for the heavens to make him stop sneezing, it hadn’t been with this new misery in mind. Misery for Aramis, but also for Porthos, because these near-sneezes were hardly any better.
Aramis coughed again, rubbing at the swollen glands near his jaw. “Oh, and my throat,” he moaned with a harsh swallow. “And my ear.” He winced as the coughs continued and Porthos felt his heart split in two. No sooner did the coughs cease than did his breaths begin to hitch again–
“Hehhh…Ihhh…IHHHhh–”
–only to fade away into nothingness once more. Poor Aramis let out a hoarse, throaty groan, and that pitiful noise not only increased Porthos’s concern but also must have banished whatever sense he possessed, for he suddenly heard himself saying, “I think I know something that could help you with the sneezes.”
Luckily, Aramis’s eyes were closed as he pinched and rubbed at his leaking nose, for Porthos was sure he looked like the portrait of a mortified man. His hands shook slightly and he blinked; help him? Dear God, what was Porthos thinking, exposing himself like that? Worse, what if Aramis accepted? How could Porthos pretend to be normal in that?
A second passed in which Aramis said nothing, and so Porthos rushed in with a fumbling attempt to somehow explain his offer. “It’s something I’ve done–uhh, it’s a bit unconventional… but…” Good Lord, Porthos thought, he was merely digging himself deeper into this godforsaken hole.
“Porthos,” Aramis sighed, cracking open a tired eye at him, “at this point I would join the Cardinal’s Guard if it would make me feel better.”
Porthos gasped in mock scandal. “You don’t mean that.”
He was stalling, this much he knew, but he also knew he would rather be trampled by every horse in the garrison than continue this conversation, even though Porthos had been the fool who brought this whole predicament upon himself in the first place.
Aramis said nothing in reply, merely fished his handkerchief out from beneath the blankets and gave a liquid blow into it. He fixed his gaze balefully on Porthos when he finished, rubbing at his nose with the corner of the cloth in slow, slurpy circles. He looked so utterly miserable, his cheeks flushed, his nose chapped, his eyes bruised with purple, that Porthos knew instantly he would swallow every inch of his pride to make him feel better.
“Sit up, then,” Porthos said, and said a quick prayer to nothing at all to help him, for surely this was out of God’s domain. “I have a feeling this might help you.”
Aramis grumbled and groaned but did as Porthos bid him, dragging himself into a seated position and swaddling the thickest quilt from his bedsheets around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Porthos went to the post at the wall where he had hung his own hat and plucked one of the feathers from it. He cared far less for his hat than Aramis did, and anyway he knew that Aramis was planning to give him a new one for his birthday that year, as the man could really be horrible at keeping secrets sometimes. As such, one feather now could be sacrificed to the cause.
Porthos returned to the bed and took a seat across from the bundled, shivering Aramis. His heavy-lidded eyes fell upon the feather which Porthos twisted nervously between his fingers and he grinned, even as Porthos wished the floor would swallow him whole.
“Ahh, I see,” Aramis murmured, and Porthos nearly lept to the ceiling.
“You-you see?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’ve done this before, too?”
At this, Porthos’s heart nearly stopped. He felt dizzy, felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe what he was hearing. Aramis continued. “With a feather, I mean. I used to know a woman who was quite, shall we say, fond of sneezes.” Porthos could already feel his cheeks burning, but then Aramis’s eyes took on a far-off sparkle, glimmering with pride, and the words which accompanied them were almost his undoing.
“Especially mine, so she said.”
I’m inclined to agree with her, Porthos thought. His cheeks felt positively aflame now, and Porthos hardly knew how he managed to keep his voice from being a croak as he asked, “By fond do you mean…” He licked his lips, almost praying that Aramis would spare him completing his question. “Aroused?”
Aramis smiled. “I was trying to be discreet, but yes.” That same faraway look of pride gleamed in his eyes again, and Porthos wished he could slap the man for it. “Ah, I wonder if she’s found a better sneezer than I.”
At once, Porthos’s mind supplied him with I doubt it, and wished he could slap Aramis for prompting that, too. To hide the tremble he felt rising in his voice, Porthos scoffed. “You,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Discreet.”
“I am very discreet, dear Porthos.” Aramis laid his hand across Porthos’s, the one which held the feather, and Porthos could feel the man’s fever even through his fingers. “Notice how I have not so much as disclosed her name.” Removing his hands, Aramis pressed his thumbs beneath his eyes, near the bridge of his nose and massaged himself lightly. He groaned softly at the contact. “Snf! Now, enough reminiscing. My nose is positively stopped full and it n-n-eh-needs your help. Snf!”
If the Lord did exist, He must have been very displeased with Porthos, for He was surely testing every mite of Porthos’s resolve this day. Porthos raised the feather slowly, his hand trembling so badly he was worried he might jab Aramis in the eye with it. He was almost unable to look Aramis in the face but he forced himself to, trying to distance himself from the thought that he was really doing this, that he was really putting a feather to his friend’s blocked, sniffly, cold-ridden nose just as he’d always–
“I don’t think it’ll take much,” Aramis said thickly. “Snf! I’ve been hovering on the brink all day.” He caught Porthos by the wrist, stopping the feather a mere hairsbreadth from its target. “I might—snf!—I might sneeze on you.”
Porthos cursed the stirring he felt in his trousers. “That’s alright,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound quite as breathless as he felt. He tried to don an air of uncertainty; it wouldn’t do to seem to be enjoying it so much, for God’s sake. “I-if it was my cold first, that means I shouldn’t catch it again, right?”
“I should hope not bc I—snf!— I feel miserable and I’d feel even worse if I made you this miserable too.”
Porthos made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and worked to push aside any thought that wasn’t of concern for Aramis. The man was freely admitting to feeling miserable, for God’s sake. Porthos could help him, would help him, and would not let any silliness get in the way of that. If this is what it took to alleviate the smallest bit of his brother’s discomfort, so be it. Porthos could deal with himself later.
Porthos brushed the feather delicately beneath the red, chapped skin of Aramis’s nose, and the man gave a full-body shiver at the contact, bundling deeper into the blanket tucked around his shoulders. He coughed lightly, his nose already beginning to twitch and flare, and Porthos knew the man had been right, it wouldn’t take much. He inserted the very tip into one of Aramis’s nostrils, gave it a slight wiggle, and that was all it took before the man’s breath snagged on a ragged inhale.
The dam finally broken, Aramis sneezed and sneezed, collapsing forward with each expulsion. Porthos could see the wetness hang in the air between them, could feel it land on his cheeks. Mess trailed down in ropy tendrils from Aramis’s nose and he cupped his hand in a futile and retrograde act of containment. “Heh’KMMPPFF! Hehh’RMPFFF!”
His hands shook with the fervor of his movement, and he was not successful at keeping them plastered to his face. As they broke away they brought with them a strand of mucus, clinging to his fingers, but still Aramis was far from finished. “Heh’ZDSHHH’ooo! Ihh’GSHHH’ooo! Hehh’ihh’INGSHHHH!” He sniffled almost convulsively between each sneeze, desperate for air. Porthos felt a mist on his cheeks and for a moment he was paralyzed.
Porthos wouldn’t have minded if the man kept releasing a fountainous spray upon him, but to preserve his friend’s dignity he cast around feverishly in the bedsheets. “Damn it, Aramis, where did you put the handkerchief?”
Aramis was pinching his reddened nose, his fingers glistening with the mess which had spilled onto them. Already his hair was wild and framed his face like an unholy halo. “Udder the pill-Pshhh’IEEWWW! Pillow? Heh’DSHHH!”
It was not under the pillow, nor tangled in the bedsheets, but had rather fallen to the floor halfway beneath the bed. Porthos scrambled to retrieve it as his friend released sneeze after sneeze of the wettest, fullest sort, as though they had been building in his head the whole day. They probably had been, the poor man. He started to cough, only for more sneezes to cut him off.
“Heh’RSHHH! Heh’TSHIEW! Oh, thagk you,” Aramis sighed as he hurriedly took the cloth from Porthos. Their hands brushed, and Porthos swallowed heavily at the dampness he felt on Aramis’s fingers. He watched as Aramis took a deep breath before blowing what must have been every bit of fluid in his nose into the handkerchief. Once he had finished, he folded the cloth, turned it over, and blew again, before seeking out a dry corner and nuzzling into it, massaging his nose between the folds and making stuffy noises of relief.
He lowered the cloth for a mere moment before his eyes clouded over again. “I’ve got… sdeeze! Ahh’TSCHOO! HEHH’TSHHH!” He blew his nose again and coughed throatily into the handkerchief, before his breath crescendoed into one final, massive sneeze. “Ahh’hihh’HITSCHHOOO!”
Aramis buried his nose in the folds again and simply held it there as if to let gravity drain away the rest, shutting his eyes in the utterly exhausted aftermath of such a display. Porthos was grateful for the man’s distraction, for he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit still.
“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis groaned in a positively sinful manner as he finally lowered the handkerchief. “Snf, snf! Snf!” The sneezing had clearly shifted the congestion in his head, but already he was beginning to sound all bunged up again. His cheeks and nose were flushed scarlet, his hair a tangled mess, his eyes streaming, and before Porthos could stop himself he squirmed and gave a minute groan of his own.
Then, to Porthos’s horror, Aramis smiled at him. “Am I wrong in saying that you appear to be enjoying this quite as much as Ju—my friend?”
At once, the room began to spin. Had he really been so obvious? Porthos’s breath quickened as thoughts and curses jumbled together in his mind, his hands beginning to tremble, his legs starting to bounce in agitation. He would have to leave and hope Aramis would forget this; he was not some oddball lover who–
Aramis’s hand was back on his thigh, stilling its motion. “Porthos, mon ami,” he said lowly, and Christ Almighty, every ounce of congestion was back weighing on his voice. Porthos could not look at him. “I will not judge you. I—heh’TSHIEW!”
As if on reflex, Porthos found his head snap up at the sound, and he damned himself. Aramis had twisted away to sneeze at his shoulder, but he turned back to Porthos with a bleary sniffle. He smiled at him again, and though his eyes were tired, they held nothing but gentleness. “What a man likes in bed is between him and the parties in it.”
Porthos could hardly believe what he was hearing, could hardly believe what had happened and what was continuing to happen. He spluttered, choking over thank you for not thinking I am a deviant, and I hope I haven’t made things odd between us, until all he could think to say was, “But I–we–we’re not in bed!”
Aramis gestured to the mattress on which they sat with a laugh. “In any case, I am glad someone is eh-enjoying my… my cold. Hhhh’KSHHHH’uhh!” The sneeze burst from him too quickly to be adequately covered by the handkerchief, and so Porthos saw a heap of wetness slide out from his nose before being sniffled back. “Snf! Guhhh… Because it certainly isn’t me.”
Aramis gave his nose a haphazard swipe with the cloth. “We could do some more if you’d like. There’s still a lot—a lot…” Aramis trailed off as though forgetting his train of thought, but the true reason for the pause became apparent when his breath gave an almighty hitch and his eyes flickered shut. “Hhhh’RSHHHH!” He sniffled thickly and gave a rueful little smile. “A lot left in there.”
Warmth pulled at the base of Porthos’s belly, but he dared not hope. “Are you sure?”
“After a day of being clogged up with no respite, sneezing like that was nothing short of divine.”
You can say that again, my friend. Porthos smiled, anticipation thrumming in his veins as he picked up the feather once more, the realization washing over him that he would get to see that divine display again, that he would be able to watch his friend’s beautiful sneezes crash forth and not need to look away for fear or propriety’s sake. It was dizzying, and Porthos felt as though he might burst with it.
Again, Aramis took him by the wrist. His eyes were alight, but serious. “Tell me how to make this more pleasurable for you.”
Porthos must have been dreaming. “P-Pardon me?”
“My l-friend, she liked it when I tried not to sneeze after she’d tickled me.”
Porthos’s voice, when he found it, was naught more than a rough whisper. “I—uh—I’d like that too.” If he ever found this woman, he would fall at her feet and kiss them.
“Noted,” Aramis said with a grin. “Snf!” He slid a knuckle beneath his nose. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold back given how congested I am, but on my honor as a Musketeer I will try.” He patted his breast proudly, and Porthos thought he might love the man for it. “What else?”
And if Porthos thought he loved the man before, he was surely infatuated by that comment. What else, the man asks? As if this weren’t already everything and more. The heady thrumming pulsated in his ears, and he could hardly feel his lips as they moved. “Tell me how you feel.”
Aramis blinked at him blankly, and for a moment Porthos feared all was lost. Stuttering, he pushed ahead. “Y-your symptoms. How miserable you feel.”
“Oh, you like it when I complain?” Aramis flashed him a sparkling, devilish grin, and in that instant Porthos saw what every woman must see in him. “You are in luck, dear Porthos, because I feel awful.” He frowned, shaping his features into a dramatic pout. “Every part of me feels run-down and achy—“
Porthos danced the feather ever so lightly across the man’s septum, marveling at how much it quivered at such slight contact.
“Snf! And sh-shivery. Snf! Like I have a-a f-fehhh… a fever.”
Porthos pressed his hand gently to Aramis’s warm forehead, his fingers stroking back the sweat-damp hair. “I think you do, poor Aramis.”
“Poor me, indeed!” Aramis cried hoarsely, breaking off into a few sharp coughs directed at his shoulder. Porthos’s fingers slid to Aramis’s jaw and he guided the man’s face back to him. Porthos ran the feather against his septum again. Aramis’s entire face twitched, but he soldiered on.
“My throat… my…” His expression went lax as the feather ghosted against his skin and his eyes fluttered to half mast. He gripped Porthos’s thigh, his fingers flexing and relaxing, his nails digging into the flesh. “Oh, I have to sn-sneeze. Hehhh—“
Were it not for the iron grip of his friend’s hand, Porthos felt as though he might float away into the ether. “Keep holding on,” he croaked, sounding almost as wretched as Aramis. “Keep talking.”
Aramis doggedly blinked away the tears which had begun to form in his eyes. “Oh, snf!” His nose was red, chapped, and quivering, and yet Porthos taunted it more with the feather. Aramis squirmed. “My throat feels like I’ve choked on my sword. My ear feels hot and full. Snf! Hehhh…. Oh, and my nose. Snf! How is it possible for it to be so stuffed up and… and so runny… HEHhhh… Snf! At the same time?”
And indeed, Porthos could see the evidence of such a predicament, a line of mucus dripping from one of Aramis’s nostrils no matter how forcefully his nose twitched and sniffled. It wouldn’t be long now, and so Porthos made the final gesture, inserting the feather into the snotty nostril inch by inch with a tantalizing slowness. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, his breath already beginning to hitch. Porthos wiggled it a couple times and then withdrew it at the same pace, drawing with it a thick rope of slime.
“Ohhhh…” Aramis was trembling, his breath shaking as he fought against his body’s urge with every ounce of strength. But he was no match, this Porthos could tell; he was going to lose this battle, and lose it quickly.
“I’b really…hehhh’EHHH...huhhhh—Snf, snf!” His voice was rapidly taking on a breathier and breathier quality with each word he spoke, and Porthos’s heart raced. “Really dot feelig—HESHHHOO! Ihh’TSSCHHH! Uhh… I’b dot feelig well at all, Porthos. Heh’TSHIEWWW! Oh…”
They were both done for now, Aramis lost in a violent haze of sneezes, even more vigorous now than the first, and Porthos swirling in his own private ecstasy. “Heh’ZDSHHH! KSHHH’uhh! Hehh…Ihhh..HEHISHHH! Hhhh’ITSCHHH! Snf! Huh’TSHHHH’ooo! Nggghhh…”
Aramis rubbed at his nose with the handkerchief as he sniffled and sneezed, letting it fall to the side with a sigh of irritation upon finding the cloth utterly soaked. Mucus dribbled down his lips no matter how many times he sniffled, and the sharp inhalations made him cough.
“Let it all out,” Porthos rasped, “you’ll feel better.”
“I deed–de-heh’HESHHH’oo! Snf! Oh, Porthos… Heh’KSHHHIEW! Snf, snf! A haddkerchief–snf–please! Ahh’TSHCHH!” It was true, Aramis’s face was a mess of fluid from his eyes to his chin. Porthos dug out a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and passed it to Aramis, before flopping back against the bed and tending to himself as Aramis blew and blew. All the while, Porthos lay on his back, panting, staring at the ceiling as visions of what he had just seen danced across his view.
“Ugh, I’b exhausted,” Aramis said upon finishing, before dropping abruptly onto Porthos’s chest, pillowing his head against his breast and curling up beside him. Porthos stroked the top of the man’s head, gratified when the man let out a hoarse and congested, yet content hum at the contact. He pressed a long kiss to the hot skin of Aramis’s forehead, suffusing it with the thank yous and I love yous and my heart breaks when you aren’t feeling wells that he could not put into words. Aramis turned and pressed his nose into Porthos’s shirt, drawing a long breath in before muffling his next sneeze into the fabric, though some still spilled over onto Porthos’s exposed skin where the shirt came undone at his chest. “Ehh’KMPFFF! Oh…” He sniffled and laid his head back down on Porthos’s chest, before murmuring tiredly, “You’d best hope you can’t catch this again.”
G/eralt with: rainstorm ⛈, sneezes 🤧, colds 🦠, and cold medicine 💊 please
It had been a horrible season everywhere.
No matter which part of the continent that Geralt traveled to for contracts always seemed to be enduring an onslaught of stormy weather.
He was beginning to wonder if he had been cursed when he had arrived in a small fishing village to pick up a couple contracts on Drowners and it was, yet again, raining as if the sky had held back a great tide until this very moment.
It was as he was packing up the saddle bags on Roach when the slow and overwhelming pull of a tickle rose up at the back of his sinuses and brought forth tears unbidden to his eyes.
He paused momentarily to grasp Roach’s saddle as he felt his breath catch and his chest swell with a mighty inhale.
The tickle held fast and left him in a strange and agonizing purgatory until it finally reached it’s peak and his voice swooped sharply higher as he ducked into a punishing trio.
He staggered slightly in the after math, the crease high on the bridge of his nose threatening a fourth before after long last the feeling faded, leaving the poor Witcher unsatisfied and sniffly.
He heaved a sigh, one would have been easily explained away but three was almost unheard of. He gave Roach a thoughtful scratch behind the ear as he listened to the rain pounding on the stable’s roof.
In the end, with a thick burbling sniffle, he decided it wasn’t worth the crowns a few Drowners would bring to go out in the storm as it was.
He had a few herbs he could mix into a medicine to help expedite this process along, but he figured it would only take a day or two at most for his Witcher constitution to eradicate the virus.
“Looks like we ged the nighd off, eh Roach?”, he said, his voice catching as it scraped uncomfortably from his throat. He made a face and began to unsaddle her as he tried valiantly to hold back the tide of mucus that threatened to interfere.
Would you guys believe me if I told you this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble? Hahahahah who the hell do I think I am??
This is a Matt & Mark fic, told in Matt's POV, which I don't think I've ever written in before. In it, Mark is sick and tries to hide it from Matt, which works exactly as well as you'd think it would. Guys, I have been writing this one alllll week which is so unlike me, and I think working on it over an extended period paid off because I honestly like it quite a bit. Matt's head was SO fun to get into, and Mark is SO fun to write miserable because he's awful at being miserable. It's a bit of a behemoth and there's no snz until over 2k words in (apologies), but I really think it's one of my better fics. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, please let me know your thoughts :) :)
CW: Male snz, male illness, coughing, fever, dizziness, illness denial, chance of contagion. Sappiness. Whump. Angst. The usual. Unedited for the most part because I need to get it out and have no more time this week to look at it lol. 6.5k words under the cut.
Nowhere to Hide
Bzz, bzz.
On a Monday in May, five months after making their relationship official, Mark texted Matt to cancel their date that night. From the second he glanced at the text, Matt knew something was up.
10:21AM
Mark
hey babe, can we reschedule tonight? forgot I promised ben that I would help him with promo materials for the gig they have next week :/ I know its last minute, im sorry!!
Matt furrowed his eyebrows at his phone, the inside of his cheek held between his top and bottom teeth in concentration. Huh.
10:22AM
Matt
ofc we can reschedule :) but im also happy to help with promo stuff!! I took that graphic design class in highschool, remember? and I mean ive been hoping to meet ben, since hes like. your only friend lmao
Mark didn’t respond; generally, he was the type to answer immediately, the bubbles on the bottom of their chat popping up almost the second that Matt’s message was sent. Today, though, the message didn’t even get read for almost five minutes. Again, Matt’s face pinched with worry. His boyfriend was absolutely not the type to cancel a date and then abandon his phone – quite the opposite, honestly. If anything, Matt figured Mark would have responded quicker than he usually did, falling over himself with unnecessary apologies and berating himself for forgetting something like this. After seven minutes went by, Matt unlocked his phone again and stared at their chat. Mark had read his message.
Patience was not one of the virtues Matt possessed. When the bubbles didn’t pop up a minute after Mark read his text, Matt pressed the video button to FaceTime his boyfriend.
Within three seconds, the call was rejected. Matt gave his phone a look of disbelief – no shot Mark rejected his call. No way. He pressed the video button again.
Brrm, brrm. Boop. Rejected.
What the fuck.
10:37AM
Matt
???
10:37AM
Matt
did I say something wrong? why are you ignoring my calls?
The texts were read immediately. This time, Mark started typing.
10:38AM
Mark
no!! im sorry, im just out right now, im driving. lets have you meet ben another day, if thats ok baby? I just know he wants to lock in on the promo stuff and I don’t want him like ignoring you or smthn and then you both hate each other
Matt read the text over twice. Was Mark high or something?
10:38AM
Matt
ur driving? since when do you have a car?
The text stream went silent again. Beneath the pajama shirt he was wearing – Mark’s old shirt, a Duluth tee that was near threadbare and smelled like his shampoo – Matt started to sweat. What was really going on here? Mark never canceled anything with Matt, not even if he was busy. They’d run errands together, been to Restaurant Supply in the middle of a date for Elijah and Greyson. Hell, Mark hadn’t even canceled a date post an all-nighter helping Elijah do inventory after a crazy service. Now he couldn’t do a date because he was going to be helping Ben? He was driving in Manhattan? Or… was he not in the city, did Ben live in the burbs? Matt couldn’t remember any details Mark had given him about his high school buddy, the only guy Mark ever hung out with outside the other restaurant employees. Had they had some sort of… fling in high school?
Was… was Mark cheating on him?
The thought sent a pang through his chest that felt like he’d been pierced by an arrow. A lump formed in the back of his throat, and immediately tears welled in his eyes. He was moments away from calling again, when a new text from Mark popped up in their chat.
10:41AM
Mark
sorry, I meant im on the train. little out of it today lol, I guess anothee reason to reschedule?
And now he was sending texts with typos. Mark, Matt’s Type-A boyfriend (was there something beyond Type A? Type Pre-A? Type A-Plus?) was hastily sending misspelled texts and mistakenly saying he was driving when he wasn’t. Something here didn’t add up. Sighing heavily through his nose, Matt typed out a message back.
10:42AM
Matt
are you ok?
Sure, they’d only been together officially for a few months, but Matt and Mark had known one another for years. Matt figured they’d been close for long enough that he could cut through the bullshit. And this? This situation was fucking bullshit.
10:43AM
Mark
im ok baby, sorry for canceling and being confusing. everything is fine, pls don’t worry :) ill see you at work tommoro ok?
At this second typo, Matt closed their chat and stood from his bed. He pulled on the closest pair of jeans he could find, keeping the sleep shirt on and donning a hoodie over top it. He needed some air.
***
“Wow, one day off in the last ten days and you’re calling me. I’m honored, really. I didn’t realize you loved work this much. Care to come in tonight?”
Matt, twenty blocks from his house at a patio table at his favorite coffee shop, rolled his eyes so hard he was sure Greyson could hear it through the phone. “Fuck off, Chef,” he said, sipping his latte. On the other end, Greyson laughed.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” his boss asked, the bustle of the kitchen preparing for service a constant hum behind him. Matt sighed through his nose, tracing the outline of his coffee cup with a finger.
“I think Mark might be cheating on me,” he said, his voice low. Before he could even really register what he’d said, Greyson guffawed.
“Mark? Are we talking about the same Mark who can’t keep his hands off of you for three seconds to get through a service? The one who leaves those gay-ass little poems in your apron every day? That Mark?”
“I don’t think you can say ‘gay-ass’ like that, Chef. I think people frown on that now.”
“Why? I’m a gay-ass. You’re a gay-ass. Mark’s a gay-ass. The poems are gay-ass.” Greyson said, the sound of a Kitchenaid being thunked on the prep table obnoxiously loud behind him. “It’s a descriptor at that point. Not a slur.”
Matt couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “You’re certainly an ass,” he said, prompting another laugh from his boss.
“Whatever,” Greyson said, turning on the noisy Kitchenaid and yelling into the phone. “All I’m saying is I would sooner bet on the moon being made of fucking brie before I’d bet on Mark cheating on you. What the fuck even happened?”
Leaning back in the patio chair, Matt squeezed his temples between a thumb and forefinger. “He’s being fucking bizarre, that’s all. He canceled our date for tonight, said he’s doing some random thing with his friend, and when I asked if I could just join him he started acting weird. He’s ignoring my calls, avoiding me. Texting fucking typos, if you can believe that. It’s just all…” Matt blew air out from between his closed lips, a soft pbbtt sound escaping them. “It’s just… weird. I dunno.”
For a moment, the other end of the line was silent, save for Greyson steadily chopping and Elijah coming up to ask who’s on the phone?
“Tell Elijah I said hi,” Matt said.
“Matt says hi.”
Why the fuck is Matt calling you?
“He thinks Mark is cheating on him.”
In the background, Elijah snorted out a laugh. Put him on speaker. Then, more clearly, “Matt, Mark is not cheating on you.”
“Greyson, can you not keep anything to yourself?” Matt asked, frustrated. “Seriously.”
“Sorry,” Greyson laughed. “I figured Elijah didn’t count as telling someone.” A thunk in the background, then an ow! as Elijah smacked Greyson. Matt groaned. Again, he relayed the story while Elijah listened on.
“Hmm,” Elijah hummed, thinking. “Have you gone to his house?”
Matt rolled his eyes. What a boomer, he thought, though he kept it to himself. “No, he said he isn’t home,” he said. “He was on the train or in a car or in some guy’s bed.”
Elijah huffed out another laugh. “Yeah, so you said. But I mean… Mark isn’t known for being a great liar. And while you’re right, this all sounds like a lie, I agree with Greyson. Mark would rather eat glass than cheat on, like, a spelling test. I think he’d pass away before he’d cheat on you. So I mean… maybe just like… go there? See if he’s there? Because I’d assume he’s just, like, having a freak out over something. Panicking over whether you really like him or whatever, you know how he is. I doubt he’s even left the apartment today.”
While Matt hated to admit it, that did sound like something Mark would do. He let a beat go by before he answered the two older men waiting on the other end. “Alright,” he said, standing. “Okay, yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll… I’ll head over there.”
Greyson made a noise of approval. “Good man,” he said, his voice becoming clearer as he took Matt off of speakerphone. “And hey, he lives so close to the restaurant, if he doesn’t answer you could always pop in and run middle for me!”
At this, Matt snorted. “Yeah, Chef, sure. Thanks, asshole.”
“Welcome!” Greyson sang. “Good luck. Tell Mark we said ‘mwah, mwah.”
Matt rolled his eyes, hung up the phone. He pulled up his his uber app and typed Mark’s address in. It’ll be fine, he thought to himself, everything will be fine.
***
This is a mistake.
As Matt’s uber pulled up to Mark’s apartment building, he felt his insides twist like they were being coiled into a balloon animal. He nodded to the driver and stepped out of the car, his heart thumping wildly, and stood silently at the front door, trying to work up the nerve to push the call button for Mark’s apartment. Why had he done this? Why did he listen to his old-ass bosses?
“Just go to his house,” Matt mumbled mockingly under his breath. “The hell is wrong with me.”
Instead of pressing the call button, Matt took a picture of the call box outside of Mark’s apartment and sent it in their text stream. Surprise? He typed out under the picture, and sent that as well. In his chest, his heart hammered ever harder.
Unlike this morning, the three dots popped up in their chat immediately after Matt’s picture went through.
Mark
12:32PM
?
Mark
12:32PM
are you at my apartment?
“Fuuckk,” Matt muttered, pulling a hand down his face. Of course Mark would be pissed; who just showed up at someone else’s house, unbidden? This wasn’t the fucking eighties. Leaning on the wall of the apartment building, Matt attempted to fix what he’d done.
Matt
12:33PM
uhhh, maybe? lol.
Matt
12:33PM
you seemed a little weird this morning over text...i just wanted to make sure ur ok
Matt
12:34PM
sorry, I know that’s kinda weird. but could I come up? just to say hi?
He waited. The bubbles took a moment to pop up after he sent his last text, but – finally – pop up they did. It took a few tries, but eventually Matt heard the bzzz of the front door unlocking. On his phone, Mark replied.
Mark
12:36PM
ok. juust don’t judge the mess. hjaha
Matt clicked his phone off, the lump of worry resurfacing as he clocked more typos from his boyfriend. Maybe Mark was drunk? Elijah may have clocked it; some sort of mental health crisis day might have been underway. Maybe it’s good I came, he thought, climbing the stairs two at a time to the fifth floor. Maybe this is what he needs.
When he got to Mark’s front door, though, he hesitated. It was still weird, right? That he’d come? And when Mark asked why he’d really shown up here unannounced, what would he say? I’m a jealous little baby who wanted to make sure you weren’t fucking around on me? That didn’t sound great, honestly.
But also… he was worried. This was part of it, right? Part of loving someone. Part of being serious – you checked on each other. You reached out to each other. Matt pulled in a deep breath through his nose; he was here. Mark knew he was here. No choice but to follow through now. He knocked on the door.
It took a moment, but eventually the door clicked open to a Mark unlike Matt had ever seen him before. He was so shocked by his boyfriend’s appearance, Matt couldn’t help but mutter an “Oh,” as they made eye contact.
“C’mbon in,” Mark muttered, clearly embarrassed. “Sorry againd.”
Matt stepped inside and took in both his boyfriend and the surrounding apartment. Mark’s impossibly tall frame was stooped, his hair unwashed and greasy in his face. Around them, the apartment was certainly a mess; takeout containers and gatorade bottles littered the kitchen, the blinds were half-drawn, and on the couch there were a mess of blankets that Mark had clearly just emerged from.
Matt had never seen Mark like this; was this a mental health crisis? He took in his boyfriend’s face, the two of them not moving from the entry of the apartment. His bright blue eyes were watery, like he’d been crying, and he was deathly pale; shit. What am I supposed to do?
“Are… are you okay, baby?” Matt finally asked, a question that felt ridiculous given the state of his boyfriend. Mark attempted a smile, before his face faded into a look that Matt didn’t recognize. Oh, fuck, is he about to cry? Fix it, dumb ass, fix it!
“I’m sorry,” Matt said, “I mean, it’s fine if you’re not okay, I was just -”
“HUHTZCHH-uhh! NnGTZCH-ue!”
Mark wrenched into a crumpled tissue Matt hadn’t realized he was holding, the sneezes tearing out of him painfully. He stayed there for a moment, turned away from his boyfriend, as a flurry of congested coughs escaped him. When Mark righted himself, his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, the tissue hidden in a fist. Ohhh.
“Bless you,” Matt said, carefully. Swallowing hard enough for his adam’s apple to bob up and down his throat, Mark nodded. “You’re sick,” Matt mused, not moving from his spot. Mark coughed out a laugh.
“What gave it away?” he managed, swaying lightly on his feet. Feeling bold, Matt took three steps across the entryway and slid an arm around his boyfriend’s waist. Their height difference was always comical – Greyson loved to make fun of them for it – but today, it felt almost dangerous. Mark was really swaying, clearly unable to stand for much longer, and Matt wasn’t sure if he’d be able to catch his boyfriend if he came toppling down. He held tight.
“Can we sit?” Matt asked, sagging under Mark’s weight. Mark nodded slowly, groggily.
“Yeah,” he said, untangling himself from Matt’s grip. “Sorry, yeah, let’s sit.”
Carefully, Matt guided Mark back to his blanket nest and sat him down as gently as possible, flopping down next to him in the process. “You mbay wahh – hh… ngh. Wandt to sit a little further awahhh – hhETSZCH-ue! Snf. ’Scuse mbe,” Mark grabbed a tissue from the box that was set on the coffee table in front of them, turned away to quietly blow his nose.
“Bless you,” Matt said again, ignoring his boyfriend’s warning. “Baby, why didn’t you just tell me you were sick?”
Mark attempted a smile, wiping the tissue beneath his nose gently. “Didn’t, uh… didn’t want to worry you,” he managed, clearing his throat. Matt scoffed.
“Babe, I hate to break it to you, but you sending cryptic-ass texts with typos galore was far more worrying than knowing that you’re sick,” he said, pushing Mark’s sweaty hair off of his face. Christ, he was burning up.
Beneath Matt’s hand, Mark visibly relaxed. “Feels good,” he muttered, eyes closed. Matt moved his hand down his boyfriend’s face, cupping his hot, dry cheek. They really needed to get that fever down.
“Have you taken anything?” Matt asked, voice low. Mark shrugged.
“Didn’t have andything,” he said, sniffling. “Onesec – hhhITSZCH-uhh! HIIITCH-uee!” Again, Mark collapsed into the near-ruined tissue, pained coughs on the tail of even more painful-sounding sneezes. Matt winced at the pinched, crunching sound.
“You sound fucking awful, babe,” he said, rubbing Mark’s back in slow circles. “We really need to get you something for that fever. How did you get so fuckin’ sick, like, overnight? You seemed fine at work yesterday.”
If it was even possible, Mark’s fever-reddened face deepened in color. “Umb,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “I, uh… I’mb pretty good at, like. Hiding it?” He pushed his palms into his sweatpants, avoiding Matt’s gaze. “I’ve felt off for, umb. I dunno. A couple days?”
Matt blanched at this admission. “A couple days? Baby, seriously, why would you hide that from me? Or Elijah or Chef? I mean, if Elijah knew you were sick I’m sure he would’ve sent you home. Did you feel this shitty yesterday?”
“Ndo. I felt okay, today is the worst so faahhh… snrf. So far – hh-! HhNTSZCHH-uhh!” This time, Mark didn’t have the wherewithal to fold into the tissue, opting instead to sneeze into his own lap and wipe his hands over the spray left there. Against his better judgment, Matt pulled a handful of tissues out of the box; a few to hand to Mark to clean himself up, and a few for Matt to wipe off his boyfriend’s pants. Mark flinched at the touch.
“Don’t,” he said, gently pushing Matt’s hands away. “You’ll get sigck.”
“Baby, I don’t care if I get sick, I think that’s what you’re not understanding. I would rather get sick a thousand times over than know you’re alone in your apartment with no medicine, sick as a dog. I’d rather get sick as fuck than know you’ve hidden feeling shitty from me for days on end. That hurts, Mark. I don’t give a fuck about getting sick, Greyson infects the rest of us like once a month, minimum.” He held his boyfriend’s face between his palms then, the heat radiating into his hands. “I really just want to be there for you. Okay?”
Mark opened his mouth to answer, but his face dissolved into a now-familiar one before he could. Before Matt could remove his hands from the other man’s face, Mark crushed his nose into his own shoulder, attempting to stifle. “Hhh-TXCH! NGTSH-uhh! HRXTSH-ue!” Another gurgling, helpless sniffle. Another grating, congested cough. Matt sighed; this conversation was going to have to wait until Mark was medicated, that much was obvious.
“Bless you, babe,” Matt said, handing the box of tissues on the coffee table to his boyfriend. “Okay, enough of this conversation. I need to go to the pharmacy and pick you up some shit. You’re fuckin’ dying.”
This snapped Mark out of his stupor; his head shot up, bloodshot eyes locking desperately with Matt’s. “Ndo, ndo babe you don’t ndeed to get mbe anything. I’mb fine, really, please don’t -”
“Mark,” Matt interrupted, a gentle hand placed on his boyfriend’s bouncing knee. “Honey. I say this with love: chill out. I’m not being put out by you or whatever. I want to get you medicine. Alright? Where’s the closest pharmacy to here?”
Defeated, Mark shrugged. Helpful, Matt thought, pulling out his phone and -
“Fuck, you live close to, like, nothing,” he muttered, scrolling through the results google pulled up. “Why is it all fancy-people areas have nothing helpful around? There’s not even, like a grocery store within a ten-block radius.”
“Butlers?” Mark offered, prompting a snort from Matt.
“How could I forget about butlers?” he asked, clicking through the apps on his phone. “Okay, either I can order a doordash that’ll be here in… fuck, two hours? This area, I swear to god… okay, not that. I can walk to this Duane Reed, and be back in like… an hour and a half?” He glanced up at Mark, whose white face and wet eyes betrayed exactly how he felt about Matt leaving for an hour and a half. Pivot, Matt thought to himself.
“Or…” Suddenly, an idea popped into Matt’s head. He sat up straighter, smiling at Mark when it did; perfect.
“Or,” he said, “I can just run next door to Elliot’s and raid the cabinet Elijah keeps there.”
At this, Mark paled even further. “Ndo,” he said, adamant. “Babe, Elijah is goigg to be so annoyed if you show up there to steal mbedicine for mbe. I’mb okay, I promise, I’ve mbade it this long without anything, just… just stay with mbe.” He held tight to Matt’s hand.
In his chest, Matt’s heart ached like a vice was gripped around it. He pressed his lips together, folding his other hand over the one Mark had taken. “Honey,” he said, carefully, “I want to stay with you—I will stay with you – but we have to get your fever down. We have to get your cough under control. And Elijah won’t give a fuck, he buys all that shit for this exact situation. It’s literally either this, or urgent care.” He shrugged in a way that he hoped conveyed this is the best idea I can come up with, please just go with it. Mark sighed, defeated.
“Okay,” he said, voice small. “But I - I really don’t wandt to be alonde. I’mb sorry for trying to keep you away.” He looked up, feverish tears threatening to fall. “But please don’t leave mbe alonde.”
Matt pushed a hand through his hair, the lump in the back of his throat reappearing. “It’s a short walk,” he said, finally. “Just… let’s get you bundled up. If you can walk, you can come with me.”
***
Any hope Matt had that they could make this a quick, quiet trip was dashed the moment they stepped in the back kitchen doors.
“Hh-!” Mark’s breath hitched audibly, his glazed-over eyes fluttering closed as he tucked into his elbow away from Matt. “Hhh-ITSZCCH-ue! Huh -! HHITSZCHH-uhh! ITSZCHH-uee!” The sneezes ripped out of him, loud enough to make Matt flinch in sympathy. Around the corner and across the kitchen, Elijah’s voice rang out as Mark attempted to recompose himself.
“Jesus fucking christ… who’s back there?”
Mark’s face colored, embarrassment further flushing his pink cheeks. “We should just go,” he whispered to Matt, voice thready and congested. Matt shook his head; they’d made it here, somehow, despite the fact that Mark was swaying on his feet and couldn’t get a word in edgewise without sneezing or coughing so hard he nearly fell over. They’d walked the two blocks over here – a five-minute stroll that had drawn itself out into a forty-five-minute diatribe – and they’d made it in the doors. Matt wasn’t leaving until Mark was medicated, whether everyone here liked it or not.
“No,” Matt said, guiding Mark slowly through the kitchen. “We made it here, we’re getting you medicine. Plus, you need to sit down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Unable to argue with that point, Mark just huffed out a sigh that immediately turned into a coughing fit. The spasms wracked his body, tore him in half and into his elbow right in the middle of the kitchen, unwilling to let up until he was nearly gagging with the effort. Slowly, carefully, Matt rubbed small circles into the small of his boyfriend’s back while Elijah and Greyson popped their heads out of the office in concern.
“...Mark?” Elijah asked, standing from his desk chair and walking towards the younger two managers. “Good lord, what are you guys doing here?”
Finally, when Mark was able to get a hold of his lungs, Matt helped him stand to his full height and answered the question for the both of them. “Um… well, Mark isn’t cheating on me,” he said, an attempt to make light of the situation that immediately backfired when Mark’s head turned on a swivel to give his boyfriend an incredulous look.
“You… you thought I was cheatigg ond you?” he asked, voice breaking mid-sentence.
Oops, Matt thought, cringing. “I… no, baby, I was just worried because you wouldn’t call me back, I didn’t actually think you were cheating, I-”
“I would ndever cheat on you, Mbatt,” Mark interrupted, tears welling in his eyes. “Ndever. I… I cand’t believe you would thingk -”
“- I didn’t think it, baby, I was just worried, I-”
“Okay,” Elijah cut in, placing a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. “Maybe we save this conversation for later, hmm?” He looked at Matt, then Mark, then back to Matt. “Let’s stick with the original question: what are you fucking doing here? Mark looks like he’s about to keel the fuck over, and neither of you even work today. I know we’ve instilled some bad habits in you both,” at this, he looked to Greyson, still seated in the office, who held up both of his hands in feigned innocence.
“Why am I catching strays?! I’m not even a part of this conversation!”
“Because you Pavlov’s Dogged our management team into thinking that they have to come to work when they’re sick, whether they’re on the schedule or not, apparently,” Elijah answered, turning back towards the younger men. “Anyway,” he said, “don’t you think you should be… home?”
Matt sighed, Mark still leaning heavily into him. “We were at Mark’s place, but he doesn’t have any medicine,” Matt explained. “And this stupid rich people area isn’t exactly rich in pharmacies, so we figured we’d come and use the in-home pharmacy.”
Elijah raised an eyebrow, confused.
“The office,” Matt explained, gesturing that way. “We figured it’d be easier to come here and steal some Nyquil than try and make it across town to buy some.”
“Ahh,” Elijah said. “Got it. And… you couldn’t come by yourself?” He gave Mark a once-over, taking in the chills wracking his body, his pallor and red, running nose. Mark looked down, while Matt lowered his voice to explain.
“Um… he didn’t want to stay home alone,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a long walk.”
Finally, Elijah seemed to understand. “Oh,” he said, face softening. “I see.” He turned to Mark then, grabbing him gently by the shoulder and leading him towards the office. “Let’s see if we can’t get you doped up.”
While Elijah sat Mark in his office chair and began perusing the medicine drawer, Greyson exited the office and approached his sous.
“So I was right,” Greyson bragged, slapping Matt on the back. “Per the usual.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “You knew he was sick? Since when?”
“Not about that,” Greyson said, cringing as they watched Mark dip into the elbow of his sweatshirt to sneeze again. “You’re going to be down so bad in a couple days, fuck. Take some Zicam or something, I’m not letting you stay home this weekend.”
“I’ll be fine,” Matt deadpanned. “What do you mean you were right?”
Greyson shrugged. “That he isn’t cheating on you. I mean seriously, Matt, did you really think Mark of all people would cheat? The man worships the ground you walk on.”
The lump that had made its home in Matt’s throat all day dissolved into tears that filled his eyes; he worships the ground you walk on. It wasn’t an overstatement, not really, and Matt knew it. From the moment they began seeing each other, Matt began receiving flowers almost weekly, had been taken on near-constant dates, and was always getting little messages from his boyfriend about how beautiful he was, how lucky Mark was to have him. There was almost nothing Matt could do wrong in Mark’s eyes, it seemed – Matt was a chef, quick to anger and frustration, and Mark never took the bait to fight, always stayed cool and collected. He never made Matt feel like he was lesser than, the way Matt had always felt from the time he was a kid, never flaunted the money his family clearly had, never made Matt feel weird about the fact that he barely spoke about his fucked-up upbringing. Mark was good. Mark was everything Matt knew he didn’t really deserve, but got to have anyway. He swiped under his eyes quickly, hoping Greyson wouldn’t notice the tears falling.
“Yeah,” Matt said, voice thick. “Hey… do we still have that beef stock from the wedding over the weekend?”
Greyson knit his eyebrows, glancing over at his sous. “Yeah, it’s in the freezer. Why?”
“Would you mind if I took some with me when we go?”
Before he could answer, Mark pulled both their attention back to the office. “HNTSZZCHH-uhh! Fuck, ’scuse mbe, sorry,” he muttered, pulling a few tissues out of the box on the GM’s desk.
“Bless,” Elijah said, placing the Nyquil in front of his floor manager. “Don’t take that til you get home. Greyson, can you go into dry storage and get the Lysol spray?”
“Let me amend,” Greyson said to Matt, “we’re all going to be down so bad in a couple days.” He sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Yes, dear, I’ll go get it,” Greyson called to Elijah. Before heading to the back, he turned to face Matt. “You can have the stock,” he said. “Go. Take care of your guy.”
Matt nodded. Take care of your guy. He would certainly try.
***
“Okay,” Matt said as they walked in the front door, “go lie down.”
For the first time all day, Mark laughed in earnest. “What amb I, a dog?” he asked, the laugh quickly turning to an angry cough. In lieu of trusting his boyfriend to follow any instructions in this state, Matt guided him to the couch and gently lowered him down.
“Not a dog,” he said, pulling a blanket up over Mark’s middle and turning the TV on to the Great British Baking Show. “Just bad at being sick. Obviously. This or What Not to Wear?”
“This is good,” Mark said, eyelids already drooping. “Sit with mbe?” he asked, voice giving out on the last word. Matt bit his cheek at the raw sound of his boyfriend’s voice, then leaned down and kissed his warm – not hot, thank god the ibuprofen was starting to kick in – forehead.
“Soon,” he said, holding up the Trader Joe’s bag filled with supplies from the restaurant. “Just give me a bit to put this all away. Close your eyes, love.”
Mark nodded, nearly asleep before the words even came out of Matt’s mouth. “Love you,” he muttered, swiping mindlessly under his nose. Matt’s heart ached.
“Love you,” he said back, though Mark had already begun to snore.
In the kitchen, Matt quickly and quietly got to work. The bag from work he’d filled with medicine, and more tissues, and, at Greyson’s insistence, Lysol wipes, but he’d also filled it with everything he’d need to make beef stew; carrots, potatoes, celery, even some filet scrap that he was fairly sure Greyson wouldn’t notice was missing. Working his ass off in a kitchen had to come with some perks, he reasoned with himself.
Last out of the bag was the beef stock he’d made for a demi they’d included on the filet set from the wedding over the weekend. Matt had spent hours babying the stock, feeding it beef bones and veal bones and fortifying it with some older stock they’d been trying to use up. What had been borne of his babying was a rich, deep broth that frankly he could’ve just gone at with a spoon and a piece of bread. The demi it made was unreal.
Now, standing in Mark’s tiny kitchen, Matt uncapped the stock and set it to the side. With an expert hand, one that had spent thousands of hours doing it at this point, he peeled potatoes, chopping them into equal-sized chunks, then moved on to thinly slicing the celery and carrots, mincing the garlic. He carefully picked and chopped thyme, his hands moving quickly and with practiced ease. When he was younger – younger even than anyone knew, about fifteen – Matt had begun washing dishes, doing prep at a diner; grating potatoes for hashbrowns and par-cooking bacon and chopping so many onions that the skin under his eyes was constantly red and raw from weeping. It was hard work, but it was everything to him. It kept his mind busy, gave him a reason to step away selling pretty good weed and horrible coke. Cooking wasn’t what he wanted to do when he grew up, but in all honesty the idea that he would even grow up past his teen years had been a long shot before he got the diner job. Cooking gave him a lifeline, it changed all that. It gave him the gift of considering the future.
And when he was nineteen – again, younger than Greyson, who thought Matt was into his mid-twenties when he brought him on, realized – and he saw that a new restaurant, a buzzy, hip restaurant that just screamed James Bear Award Winner, Michelin-bait, as it were, had opened up clear on the opposite side of town from where he worked and lived in a studio with three friends, he knew he had to work there. He got the job on the spot; the first time he knew he was worth something. Cooking hadn’t been his dream, but in a lot of ways – ways different than he even knew at the time, he thought, looking over to his snoring boyfriend – it had been his destiny. And who was Matt to argue with destiny?
Matt turned the stove down, allowing the flavors to meld together, and cleaned up the small area. While the soup simmered and English people talked about soggy bottoms quietly on the TV, Matt checked his phone. One new message.
2:37PM
Chef
lij said to tell mark to stay home tomorrow, if u could let him know plss!! hope hes feeling better soon. don’t get sick, ur still comin in whether u want to or not LMAO. love ya kid. enjoy the filet scrap ;)
The tears he’d been fighting all day finally coursed silently down Matt’s cheeks. Fucking Greyson. If he weren’t such a player, the man would’ve made a great dad.
Matt took a deep breath, clicked off his phone, and turned off the soup. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, composing himself as much as he could before looking for a vessel for their meal. The bowls Mark had were cereal bowls, not soup bowls, but they would do; Matt ladled out the soup and headed to the couch, gently rubbing Mark’s shoulder to wake him.
“Mmm?” Mark startled awake, a hand pressing deep into his eye socket beneath his glasses. “Sorry, did I fall asleep?”
“Yes, but don’t apologize,” Matt said, setting the bowls down on the coffee table. “You’re sick, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”
Mark huffed out a little laugh. “I guess,” he said, sitting up slowly. “Did… you mbake mbe soup?”
Matt blushed. “I mean, I made both of us soup. Because I figured if I just made you soup, you wouldn’t eat it.”
“You kndow mbe well,” Mark managed, taking Matt’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that. I have food here.”
Matt raised an eyebrow, amused. “Protein bars aren’t food,” he laughed.
“Proteind bars aren’t good food,” Mark corrected him. “But they are technically food.”
This time, they both laughed, Mark’s ending once again in a soupy, productive cough that he muffled into his sleeve. “Sorry,” he said again, “gross.” Matt handed him the water bottle on the coffee table, rubbed his back in slow circles.
“Can you please stop apologizing for not feeling well?” he asked, earnest. “Please?”
“Ndo prombiseehh – hh – HRTZCH-ue! Huh -! Hh… hhITSZCCHH-ue!” This time, Mark folded his hands over his nose and mouth, grimacing at what Matt assumed was the mess he left behind. Matt walked over to the kitchen table where he’d left the medicine and supplies, opened a box of tissues. Handed it silently to his boyfriend.
“Sorry,” Mark said once again, after he’d cleaned himself up. “God, I’mb a fuckigg mbess.”
Matt tilted his head in a little half-nod. “Kinda,” he said, prompting another laugh from Mark. “But baby… that’s okay. You’ve seen me a fucking mess. Hell, you’ve taken care of me as a fucking mess like, twice since we’ve started seeing each other. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you sick.”
Mark scoffed. “That’s ndot true. We’ve worked together for years, you’ve definitely seen mbe sigck.”
“I mean, yeah, I’ve like, seen you with a cold at work a couple times. But even then, you like hide from everyone. Half the time no one even knows you’re sick until you’re like forced to call out. I’ve never seen you… I don’t know, ill. Like this.”
Shrugging, Mark began to pick at the blanket over his lap. “I mbean… yeah. That’s kinda by design.”
“But why?”
Mark sighed stuffily. “I just… I don’t kndow, baby. I wasn’t, like, allowed to be sick as a kid. My parents weren’t exactly… the warmbest. It’s just what I’mb used to. Sweat it out, alone. Put on a brave face.”
“Apologize for normal bodily functions.”
A laugh. “Yeah. I guess that, too.”
They sat in silence for a moment after that, letting the words sink in. Finally, Matt said, “I’m sorry for thinking you were cheating on me. I’m not used to having things work out. Or be good. Or whatever.”
Mark looked at his boyfriend. Gave a little smile. “You deserve good things,” he said. The lump reappeared, and Matt looked down while Mark placed a hand over his. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’mb sorry for… hiding. Ndot telling you. I should’ve told you.” He squeezed Matt’s hand then, and Matt squeezed back. “I’mb sorry.”
Matt looked up at his boyfriend – his miserably ill, pale, red-eyed boyfriend. His sweet, tender boy. Never had he ever felt such affection for someone. It was scary, to feel this much, to have something to lose. He knew that Mark felt that, too.
“It’s okay,” Matt said, pulling Mark in for a hug. Against what Matt knew was his boyfriend’s better judgment, he hugged back, held Matt tight until he was once again forced to pull away to -
“HRTSZCHH-uee!” Unable to get to his elbow, Mark sneezed into the space between the two men, their laps misting with spray. “God, you’re gonna get so fuckigg sick,” Mark muttered, swiping under his nose and looking up at Matt with those big, apologetic eyes. “Like so fuckigg disgustingly sick.”
Matt shrugged, leaning in to kiss Mark’s hot, wet lips. “Oh, well,” he said, a hand placed on his boyfriend’s cheek. “At least I’ll have someone to ride it out with.”
Without pulling away, Mark closed his eyes, a smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “You will. You always will.”
Ok I pushed through and finished it before I grew bored and abandoned it (please clap)! 😂 In this, Greyson insists the cold he has is one he caught from Elijah, and he is wrong lol. There's some drama, but it's mostly misery for Greyson lmao. Listen guys, I'm feeling a little rusty since I haven't written in over a month, and the ending is not my favorite but I'll be honest with you, I just didn't have another scene in me. I was in danger of the ADHD taking over and making me scrap it, so the ending is what it is. I really like most of this, so let's all join hands and pre forgive me for an unsatisfying ending, k? K. Please enjoy, let me know what you think, etc etc.
Ok, onward!
CW: male snz, illness, coughing, contagion is mentioned but definitely not graphically. 4k words under the cut
Had It
“Hhh-IGTSZCCHH-ue!”
“Bless you.”
“Huh -! Hh..NGTSZCH-ue!”
“Bless you.”
“HRRTSH! Hh’ETSZCH-uhh!”
“Jesus Christ, Greyson,” Elijah turned in his computer chair to face his counterpart, moving his reading glasses to the top of his head to address the situation in full. “Bless you, asshole. You sound like fuckin’ shit.”
Across the tiny office, Greyson yanked a handful of tissues from a rapidly-depleting box, his eyes half-shut and hands raised to catch another sneeze. It took a minute, but – “HRTSZCH-uhhh!” – eventually he got there.
“Bless you,” Elijah said, deadpan. “Again.”
Gently blowing his nose, Greyson rolled his eyes at the man next to him. “Thangks. Dick,” he said, voice waterlogged and hoarse. Elijah winced.
“Seriously, I have never met an adult who gets sick more than you. It’s honestly a feat of accomplishment at this point,” Elijah said, sarcasm masking the worry in his voice. The chef had been at work for a whopping twenty-five minutes, and had hardly been able to get a single breath in without sneezing or coughing; how he planned on working his shift was anyone’s guess. As Greyson yanked another tissue from the box, Elijah continued to press. “Where the hell did you pick this shit up from?”
A confused, hazy look crept onto Greyson’s face. “Dude,” he said, coughing into a fist. “Obviously I caught whatever you and Mbark had.”
Before he could even register it, Elijah let out a bleat of a laugh. “You do not have what Mark and I had, Grey,” he said, sizing the chef up. Greyson’s eyebrows knitted together, his head cocked slightly to one side. He cleared his throat as well as he could.
“Yes, I do. Where the hell else would I have gottend sick?”
“Greyson, I don’t know where you got sick, but I know for a fact that you have something different than Mark and me. Unless it somehow mutated ten times over before it made it to you, I am sure it’s something different.”
The week previous, Mark had come in with what could barely be called the sniffles. Because they worked practically on top of each other, he gave it to Elijah almost immediately – but in all honesty, it was hardly anything. The two of them had dealt with sticky throats and stuffy noses for a few days before quickly returning to normal. Matt had also succumbed to, and recovered quickly from, the cold Mark passed around with little fanfare; it was a nothing-burger, the kind of illness that you barely even registered until you were back to normal and realized maybe you’d spent a couple of days feeling out of it.
In stark contrast, Greyson had spent the night before coming in with his current illness downing cups of tea, complaining of a wicked sore throat and an ache in his chest, and that was before his symptoms truly set in. Elijah knew he’d be worse for the wear today when he’d slunk out of the kitchen last night at nine pm without saying goodbye, though he hadn’t realized quite how much worse. This certainly wasn’t the barely-a-cold he’d had the week previous. This was, in the parlance of Greyson, a Whole Thing.
“Well, I’mb sure it’s the same thing you had,” Greyson said now, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. “I don’t go andywhere else, Lij. Like, I haven’t beend to a club in mbonths.”
“What about Reed?” Elijah asked, backing his chair up as Greyson coughed near but not into his elbow. “Has he been sick?”
Greyson shook his head. “He’s in LA for sombe sort of writer’s conference. He left the ndight before last, he was finde.” The chef sucked in through his nose, the sound painfully congested. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re patient zeee – hh – HRTSZCH-uhh! Snrf. Zero.”
Was he though? Elijah took in Greyson’s appearance again, doubtful. He was sure he hadn’t felt as badly as the chef looked, hadn’t had a fever or a cough, hadn’t been fatigued. The reality was that Elijah, ten years older than Greyson, just didn’t bounce back that quickly when he was down with something more sinister than a little cold. If Greyson was as sick as he looked, Elijah was sure he wasn’t the culprit.
And he really, really didn’t want to catch this… whatever it was.
“Okay,” Elijah said, backing off. “Fine. You think my stuffy nose got into your body and morphed into the flu, that’s your prerogative. But Grey please, for the love of God, at least act like you have something we haven’t all had yet. Okay? We have a busy weekend. I can’t have all of us out sick.”
A huff of a laugh from Greyson quickly turned into a series of productive-sounding coughs. When he regained control of his lungs, Greyson stood and placed a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “Have andy of us ever beend out sick?” he asked as Elijah shrugged his hand off. The GM rolled his eyes.
“You know what I mean,” he said, squirting some hand sanitizer into his palms. “And don’t touch me.”
Greyson shrugged out of his sweatshirt, pulled a chef’s coat off the back of the door, shoved his arms into it, and caught Elijah’s eyes with his red-rimmed ones. “Relax, Lij,” he said. “You’ve already had it.”
***
At twelve fifty-six Greyson walked into his and Reed’s apartment, and by twelve fifty-six and twenty two seconds, he was dosed with Nyquil and under the covers in their bed. Before he had a chance to fall asleep, he pulled out his phone to call Reed – if anyone could salve the burn of the evening, it was his boyfriend.
It had been a trying night at the restaurant, to say the very least; not only was Greyson sick as a dog, but it seemed like his cooks were just completely incapable of doing their jobs without constantly fucking up. A steak that was supposed to be mid-rare got sent back for being very clearly well done. Two salads had hairs in them – two fucking salads, what was this, the Golden Corral? – and at least three tables waited a full forty minutes for their food.
“Grey,” Elijah had said, gently placing a hand on Greyson’s shoulder as the chef laid into his team post-service. “Chef, it’s alright. It was one bad night.”
Greyson had spun around, still fuming, and pushed Elijah’s hand off of him. “We’re a Michelin starred restaurant, Elijah,” he said, his voice breaking on the word starred. “Tondight was completely unacceptable and they,” he turned back towards the cooks, who were looking down, cowed, “need to realize that.”
He didn’t turn back around to face Elijah again; instead, he’d screamed the house down, told his cooks that he could have cooked circles around them back when he was in their shoes, that they were treated better than any cooks he knew when he was coming up, paid more and given time off, treated with kid gloves, really. The dressing down continued until, finally, Greyson was forced to turn away to cough into his elbow.
“Okay, Chef,” Elijah said as Greyson attempted to regain control of his lungs. “I think that’s enough.”
“Chef,” Matt said, slipping out from behind the line, “go home. I’ll make sure everyone deep cleans, okay? You… I mean, you sound really awful. You should go get some sleep.”
Invigorated by anger, Greyson had turned to face Matt, then swiveled to look at Elijah. “Ndo,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’mb not leaving until this place fuckigg sparkles. You,” he said to Matt, poking his number-two in the chest, “will ndot be overseeing, you will be pulling the oven out and sweeping behind it. You think you get off easy for what happened tonight, Mbatt, think again. You wanna run your own kitchen one day? Be the big boss? Then you ndeed to be sure that every plate that goes out is perfect. You’re the mbiddle. It’s your responsibility to mbake sure they -” at this, he pointed to the cowering cooks “- aren’t fucking up. Show meeeh – snrf – show mbe that you are better than tondight. We are ndot equals in here, Mbatt. We just got our star. I ndeed you to show mbe that you’re serious about – about… hh…” Greyson’s rant was slowed only by the incessant fucking buzzing in his sinuses. He attempted to keep it at bay, pawed at his nose with the back of his hand, but it was for naught. “Hh -! NTZCH-uhh!” He attempted to stifle it, a mistake that backfired immediately.
“HRRSCHH-ue! Snf, guh – hh...hh’ITZCH-ue! Hh -! HhETSZCH-uhh!” Greyson collapsed in on himself again and again; when the fit was finally done, he was beyond spent. If he could have taken it all back, the screaming, berating Matt in front of everyone, he would have. He’d admit he was actively dying, needed Nyquil and sleep. But pride prevailed.
“Bless you, Chef,” Matt muttered, eyes cast downward. Swallowing the flurry of coughs Greyson knew were on the tail of the sneezes, he stood to his full height and pointed behind the line.
“Go clean,” he said, the fire gone from his voice. “I’ll be in the office.”
Forced to keep it together to maintain the Big Bad Boss Who Was Very Angry vibe, Greyson sat at his desk and stared at the computer, willing himself not to sneeze or cough or make himself look like a fool in front of his staff again. After a few minutes of stewing, Elijah came in and closed their office door.
“What the hell was that?” he asked, sitting in the chair opposite the chef. “Who are you, Gordon fucking Ramsey? You never yell at them like that. I think Matt may be out back self-flagellating as we speak.”
Slowly, Greyson turned to face his friend. “He better ndot be,” he said, coughing into the back of his hand. “I told himb to clean behind the oven, did I ndot?”
“You know what I mean,” Elijah huffed, rolling his eyes. “Greyson, you can’t berate your staff just because you don’t feel well. It isn’t their fault that -”
“What the fuck are you saying, Elijah?” Greyson cut his boss off, newly invigorated. “Can’t berate themb because I don’t feel well – they fucked up tondight! I’mb not yelling because I have a fuckigg stuffy nose, I’mb yelling because I give a shit about this place! They fucked up all ndight long and I’mb just supposed to let that slide? In a Mbichelin-starred restaurant? You worked at fucking EMP, would tonight fly there? They should kndow -”
“-You fucked up, Greyson,” Elijah exploded, poking Greyson in the chest the way he had Matt. “You are the Executive Chef. It’s your job to make sure the food goes out the right temperature, or sans hair. It’s your job to keep an eye on ticket times, and I know you know that, and in normal circumstances you would acknowledge it instead of blaming your staff like some old-school prick. I was trying to give you an out out there, trying to let you off the hook because I know you don’t feel well and that can give us an off night, but now you’re just being an asshole. So I’ll be the one to let you know that tonight was a failure because of you.”
“Wow,” Reed said now, as Greyson recounted the evening over FaceTime. “So what did you say after that?”
Greyson sucked in uselessly through his nose and pulled a hand down his face, shrugging. “I mbean, what could I say? He’s right. I was an asshole for no reason. I basically just turned away and waited for the cooks to be done cleanding.” Again, he attempted a sniffle, which only ended in a soupy-sounding cough. “God, hold ond, I ndeed to blow mby fuckigg nose.”
As he put the phone down to trudge to the bathroom, he heard Reed say, “Perfect timbing, so do I.”
Greyson stopped in his tracks – wait, what? “Hold ond – are you sick, too?” he asked, picking the phone back up, tissue-be-damned. On the other end, Reed was missing from the frame.
“Yeah,” his boyfriend’s voice called from what was clearly across the room. “I felt it coming on on the plane; yesterday I was a mess at the conference.” He reappeared then, picking up the phone and shrugging. “I thought I texted you that? Mbaybe not, though. I was pretty out of it last night.”
At this, Greyson groaned. “What?” Reed asked, eyebrows knitting together.
“Ndow I’mb going to have to fuckigg double apologize,” he said, flopping back on the pillows and wiping his nose on their comforter in lieu of getting the tissue box. Reed coughed out a laugh.
“I’m lost, honey. What does me being sick have to do with you apologizing?”
Pressing a thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, Greyson sighed heavily. “Well, I mbay have also told Elijah that he was the one who got mbe sick, so I didn’t have to worry about, like, infecting himb. And the rest of the staff.”
“When was Elijah sick?”
“Last week, he had a cold. Or sombething. Hh - !” Greyson pressed his wrist into the side of his nose, an attempt to squelch the oncoming sneeze.
“Bless you,” Reed said, preemptively. Like it always seemed to, the early blessing left Greyson sans-sneeze, eyes watering and sinuses throbbing. “I don’t remember him being sick when I went in for drinks last week?” Reed said as Greyson rubbed at an aching eye.
“It was sombe tiny thing,” Greyson muttered, eyes closing. “Himb and the boys had it.”
“Matt and Mark had it? Were they sick whend we went to dinner on Monday?”
“I don’t kndow. I thingk so. Whatever it was, it wasn’t this garbage. ” Greyson coughed into their pillows, the movement reigniting the feeling of needing to – “Hh -! Hh’ITSZCHH-ue! HRTSZCH-ue!” – sneeze.
“Bless you,” Reed said again. “You sound miserable, baby.”
“Mmmb. Thangks,” he said, opening one eye. “Anyway. Ndow I’mb also going to have to apologize for getti’g everyone sigck.” Even to his own ear, Greyson could tell he was nearly-indecipherable for the congestion in his head. “Ultimbate bad guy, Greysond Abbott.”
Reed coughed out a laugh. “You can blame mbe, if you want. I’ll be your fall guy.”
“I’ll take it under condsideration,” Greyson mumbled, eyes closing again. “Fuck, I was a dickhead tondight. Do you thingk I should call Elijah ndow and apologize?”
“Did you already take Nyquil?”
“Yeah.”
“Then no, I think you should probably wait,” Reed said, laughing again. “If it mbakes you feel better, I’m a day ahead of you and I felt way better today than I did yesterday. So hopefully tomorrow you feel a little mbore human.”
A hum of approval was all Greyson could get out now. His phone was propped up only by the pillow, his consciousness quickly fading. On the other end of the line, Reed tsk’d, concerned. “Go to sleep, baby. You can figure out your apology tour in the mborning.”
“Stay ond the line til I fall asleep?” Greyson croaked, already nearly there.
“Of course,” Reed said. By the time he laid down in the hotel bed, Greyson was already snoring. “Sweet dreams.”
***
The first positive was that Greyson apologized for his temper tantrum the evening previous with the best bagels and coffee in the city.
“Jesus Christ,” Elijah said when the chef came in with two dozen bagels in a massive paper bag. “The hell time did you get up to buy them out of bagels? Don’t people start lining up there at like four a.m.?”
Greyson shrugged as he sipped his latte, placing the bagels and box of coffee on the prep station in the middle of the kitchen. “I kndow Barry who owns the shop. He owed mbe a favor for cooking his family’s turkey last Thanksgiving,” he said as explanation. Elijah nodded slowly, taking the chef in.
The second positive was that Greyson seemed at least somewhat less ill than he had been last night.
“You’re looking more human today,” Elijah said as Greyson pushed past him into their office. “Did you get some sleep, princess?”
Rolling his eyes and coughing into his elbow away from Elijah – wow, he even learned manners overnight – Greyson sat in his chair. “Yes, mbom. I also doped mbyself up pretty good this mborning.”
There it is, Elijah thought, nodding again. Though certainly not as sick, Greyson still seemed… weird. Cowed, even. As if reading the GM’s mind, Greyson turned towards his friend to word-vomit out an apology.
“I’mb sorry about last ndight,” he said, sniffling. “I was a dick. You’re right; the fuckups are on mbe. I’mb sorry for that, too.” Greyson’s nose twitched, and he pressed the back of his hand to it, frustrated. This was a battle he wasn’t about to win. “God, sorry, I – HITTSZCH-ue! Hh-GTZSHH-ue! Snrf. ’Scuse mbe,” he said from the crook of his elbow. Polite, Elijah thought to himself. Maybe he really is sorry.
“Bless,” Elijah said as Greyson blew his nose quietly. After a beat or two, he nodded. “Alright,” he said.
“Alright?”
“Alright,” Elijah repeated. “I forgive you. I mean, you have to apologize to Matt. And your staff. Obviously. But I forgive you.”
A smile ghosted across Greyson’s chapped lips. “Thangks, Lij,” he said, coughing again into his elbow. Elijah’s eyebrows knit together at the crunching, stifled coughs.
“You still sound shitty,” he said as Greyson regained his composure. “Are you going to be good for tonight?”
Without missing a beat, Greyson nodded. “Yep,” he said, clearly attempting to brighten his voice. “I’mb all good. Sounds worse than it is.”
Again, Elijah nodded – something was still… off. “You’re sure?”
“I’mb sure.”
There was nothing else to be done about it; Elijah shrugged and again said, “Alright” before turning to his computer to begin the day’s work. And Greyson kept to his word, apologizing to Matt and the team the moment they walked in, prepping quietly with them between stifled sneezes and coughs. The thing was, something still felt weird; Greyson clearly still didn’t feel well, he was congested and pale and couldn’t stop coughing for more than a few minutes at a time, but he refused to complain. If anything, he seemed to be wont to pretend that he wasn’t still under the weather.
“You’re acting weird,” Elijah said, cornering Greyson post preshift. “Do you have a fever or something?”
Greyson ducked out of the way of Elijah’s hand. “I don’t have a fever,” he promised, rolling his eyes. “And I’mb ndot being weee – hh… Hh - !” Greyson brought an arm to his face, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation, and turned away from Elijah. “Hhh… hnngh.” It had evaded him, it seemed, but Greyson stayed turned away to clear his throat into his elbow.
“Bless you,” Elijah mocked, prompting an eye roll from Greyson. “That. That’s weird.”
“Mbe ndot being able to sndeeze?”
“No,” Elijah rolled his eyes in return. “You’re, like… being super polite about it. The sneezing, and coughing and whatever. What happened to ‘you can’t catch it, you already had’ – oh.” As Elijah said it, Greyson’s face burned red. Caught. “You’re fucking kidding me,” Elijah said.
“I said I was sorry -!”
“Not for fucking infecting us, you didn’t,” Elijah moaned, pulling a hand down his face. “Goddammit, Greyson.”
“I thought it was what you had, really, but thend I was on the phonde with Reed last ndight -”
“I fucking knew it wasn’t what we had, but you always have to be right, Christ -”
“I’mb sorry,” Greyson said, hanging his head. “It didn’t feel like the right timbe to be like ‘oh, by the way, sorry for being a dick yesterday, but also I probably gave you all the flu’ -”
“It’s the flu? Jesus christ, Greyson -”
“Ndo, that’s not – it’s ndot the flu, I prombise -”
“Oh, you promise, perfect, your promises mean so much to me right now -”
Before Greyson could respond again, his face crumpled and – “HITSZZCH-ue! HRTSXCH!” Greyson sniffled, coughed, wiped his nose on his sleeve away from Elijah. “’Scuse mbe,” he muttered, clearing his throat.
“Bless -”
“HRRSHH-uhh!” From behind both of them, on the line, Matt wrenched to the side once – “ETSCHH-ue!” – twice – “HRRTSCH-uh!” – three times. Greyson pressed his lips together while Elijah bleated out a laugh.
“I hate you,” he said, the laughter unable to abate. “Sometimes, Grey, I really fucking hate you.”
Greyson tipped his head back and forth, as though considering something. “I thingk that’s fair,” he said. “Would it mbake you feel better if I said I’ll buy you a dringk… when everyone feels better?”
The chuckle from before evolved, then, into a guffaw, a laugh so hard that Elijah felt tears stream down his cheeks, felt everyone in the kitchen’s eyes on him, until he was sure someone would have to fucking sedate him for it to stop. “Should I take that as a yes?” Greyson asked as the GM attempted to calm himself.
“Greyson,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, “after the past few days, you’re going to have to buy me the entire bar.”
A smile flitted onto Greyson’s lips. “That could be arranged,” he said, sniffling. Still smiling, Elijah shook his head. “Sorry again.”
“It is what it is,” Elijah said, sighing. “I assume I should stock up on Dayquil?”
“If I were you, I’d spring for the good Sudafed. The onde they mbake meth with.”
Again, Elijah couldn’t help but laugh – this time, Greyson joined in, his laughter pock marked with crunching coughs. He couldn’t help it; Greyson was his best friend, despite it all. His flawed, often fucked up best friend. Though he wished he could stay mad, as the two of them laughed until they had to sit on the floor, Elijah knew amends were made. He would get Greyson’s awful cold, they all would, and the scene would play out again and again, but still he wouldn’t be able to stay mad. Greyson was who he was; flawed, and gregarious, and too caring and too bullheaded. And always, at least by Elijah, forgiven.
Ok so we're heading in the way-back machine today! This story takes place 6 months after the restaurant first opens, and Elijah and Greyson aren't really very close yet. Greyson happens upon a sick Elijah at the drugstore aaand that's basically it lol. It's a lot of unhealed boys being unhealed lmao. This is one of those stories that I finished editing and almost tossed directly in the trash so I hope you guys like it more than I did 🤣 we're calling it good enough, I think maybe I just looked at it for too many hours in a row. Let me know what you guys think 🙂
CW: male cold, coughing, fever, contagion. Split POV. There's also some couple-fighting (Collin and Greyson). 4k words under the cut. Enjoy!
Don't Mention It
Outside the taxicab window, the first snow of the season began to dust the car roofs. It was one of Greyson’s favorite sights; the powdery, light snow that only occurred at the beginning of winter, when the idea of snow itself was magical and festive. As he watched, he fell deeper into the anger well he’d been silently digging for the past thirty minutes.
“I just have a question,” Greyson said suddenly, turning towards Collin in the back of the cab. “What in the ever-living fuck did you think was appropriate about starting a fight at one of the nicest restaurants in town?”
From the other side of the cab, Collin rolled his eyes hard enough to burst a blood vessel. “I hardly started it,” he said simply. Heat built from the top of Greyson’s head down; he was sure that any minute, smoke would begin billowing out his ears like a cartoon character.
“‘Hardly started it’? Collin, are you out of your fucking mind? You ask me if I’m fucking my boss at a two-Michelin restaurant, and that’s not starting something?”
“Well, are you?” Collin asked, turning towards Greyson with infuriating calm. Pressing his hands into a prayer stance and placing them to his lips, Greyson took a deep breath, eyes closed. Up front, the driver kept glancing at them in the rear view mirror, clearly waiting for the moment that Greyson would snap so he could kick them out of his cab. Can’t blame him there, Greyson thought.
“For the last time,” Greyson said, keeping his voice low and steady, “no. Collin, I work so many hours because it’s a brand-new restaurant, I told you that when we first met. Elijah uses his connections to get us a lot of press, so it’s busy, which is good, because if it wasn’t busy then I wouldn’t have a job.” He could feel his voice raising, the pitch inflecting upwards, his cheeks burning in frustration. Collin's face stayed blank, like a smooth river rock ready to be tossed into the lake. Wish I could fucking toss him in the lake, Greyson thought.
Arms and legs crossed, Collin simply shrugged. “Fine,” he said, prompting Greyson’s muscles to loosen a little. “Just know that if I find out I’m right, I will make your life a living hell, Greyson.”
Enough was enough. “Stop the car,” Greyson half-yelled. The cabbie did as he was asked, pulled the car off to the curb and unlocked the doors. Greyson pulled a fifty out of his wallet and tossed it over the seat before kicking the door open.
“Christ, you’re so fucking dramatic,” Collin muttered, stepping out of the car behind his boyfriend. “There’s still like twenty blocks til we get back to my place, genius,” he called to Greyson’s back. Enraged, Greyson whipped around and stomped back towards Collin.
“You treat me like fucking dog shit,” he snarled into Collin’s face. “You embarrass me, you belittle me, you act like I’m some kind of charity case you’re dating to pay off some sort of karmic debt. You ruined a dinner I’ve been looking forward to for months. I’m not fucking going back to your house to fuck you, Collin. You’re an asshole.”
Still reeling, Greyson turned on his heels, not waiting for Collin to respond. “Whatever, Greyson,” Collin called to Greyson’s back. “Take your little prowl – I know you’ll be back.”
Not fucking likely, Greyson thought, before turning the corner and running out of earshot of Collin’s voice.
***
When Elijah decided six month ago that the restaurant would be closed the first weekend in December, a Christmas present to his tiny team to thank them for their hard work in helping him open a new restaurant, this was not how he assumed he’d spend it.
“Ughhh,” Elijah moaned – a little dramatic, don’t you think? he found himself thinking – as he turned over in bed. Fuck, he felt like hell.
The evening previous, he’d attempted to mind-game himself out of getting sick; he told himself the tickle he felt in the back of his throat was in his mind, the post-nasal drip an allergic reaction to the new hand soap he’d put in the bathrooms. That would also, he reasoned, explain -
“Hhh...NTSZCH-uh! GXTSH-uhh!” Elijah’s sinuses throbbed in response to the attempted stifles. Next to him in the office, Mark's eyes darted warily over to his boss. “Ndot a word,” Elijah muttered, not making eye contact with the younger manager.
Somehow, despite the stress, and the new-team germs, and the drinking and the no sleeping and the all-around just not caring for himself, Elijah had managed to keep from getting sick the whole first six months of opening. He was simply too busy to get sick; between photoshoots and events and sold-out evenings, Elijah was riding high on the buzz of attaining his dream. There was no time to take inventory of how he felt, and definitely no time to stop long enough for his body to catch up with him. This was it, this was everything he’d worked towards all thirty-five years of his life. Cancel an interview for a cold? He’d simply rather die.
Of course, the moment his body had an inkling that they’d be taking two days off, of course that was when he finally started to come down with something. And come down was putting it lightly.
He’d made it through the evening previous via sheer force of will, and with the help of a few shots taken behind the bar every time he felt his voice giving out or his nose start to run. As far as he knew, no one was the wiser – well, maybe Mark, but Mark would never admit to seeing Elijah ill, that much he knew.
Now, though, with the restaurant closed and two days spent alone looming before him, Elijah had fully crashed and burned. He’d fallen into bed last night fully clothed, miserable enough to not even brush his teeth or take off his shoes, and hadn’t stirred until the sun was halfway down in the sky. Elijah reached towards his bedside table, downed an old glass of water sitting on it, and immediately fell into a fit of coughing. When it finally subsided, he placed a hand on his own face, an attempt to keep the room from spinning. God, he really needed some medicine.
The thought was washed away as unconsciousness took him again, only loosening its grip when the sky had completely darkened. Christ, had he slept all day? Elijah blinked hard into the dark of his bedroom; he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, he was still in his clothes from work yesterday, and his head and chest pounded and ached in time with each other, begging for the relief of some ibuprofen. It was during these times and only during these times that Elijah allowed himself to wish for a partner – someone who would’ve forced him into the bath this morning, force-fed him soup this afternoon, stole away this evening to the bodega for Nyquil.
Marred by the embarrassing daydream, Elijah pushed himself out of bed. He peeled the sweat-soaked work clothes off and forced himself into some sweats; he didn’t need a girlfriend, he didn’t need anyone. Dizzy and coughing and dressed in an inside-out hoodie, Elijah grabbed his keys and shoved his way out the front door. If anyone could care for themselves, it was him.
***
Ding-ding-ding.
The heat of the drugstore slapped Greyson across the face like a jilted lover, and he nearly collapsed in relief at the sting of it. Post-fight, he hadn’t wanted to face even the possibility of Collin following him, so he’d run nearly fifteen blocks – sprinted them, really – until his lungs felt apt to explode and his teeth chattered from the cold. This store, with its quiet aisles and antiseptic anonymity, was the most welcoming spot he could imagine stopping into.
After a few moments of catching his breath, hands on his knees, Greyson stood up, avoiding the confused look the cashier at the front of the store was giving him. He was sure that Collin wouldn’t be able to follow him, yes, but he certainly wasn’t ready to brace the cold again, find the subway, get home to his apartment where he could stew over the fight for the remainder of the evening. Instead, Greyson slowly marched himself up and down the aisles.
Fucking Collin, Greyson thought as he looked blankly through greeting cards. Fuck him. He wasn’t sure, really, why he stayed with the guy, why he let him treat him the way he did. At first, when Greyson first moved to the city, when he started at Elliot’s, Collin had been beyond kind – buying him dinners and gifts, insisting Greyson stay the night to cuddle on the couch, fucking him on every surface of his apartment – but over the past couple of months, things had begun to sour. It began when Collin finally met Elijah, who he immediately, clearly, was intimidated by. Since that initial meeting, Collin insisted that Greyson was a cheater, that he spent so much time at work because he was fucking his boss in the back, despite the thousand times Greyson had told him that not only was Elijah straight, the man literally didn’t have time to even use the bathroom during the day, let alone carve out time to fuck his Executive Chef.
Nothing would placate Collin, though; not more date nights, not allowing him to track Greyson’s phone, not tears or promises or begging his boyfriend to believe him. He’d grown more distant, more angry, he’d started saying shittier and shittier things to Greyson, things that Greyson would stay up at night and ruminate on. You’re a fucking slut, just like the rest of the guys I’ve been with. An ache formed in the back of Greyson’s throat, and he swallowed around the tears he could feel forming. All he wanted was to go back to the beginning of their relationship, to date the sweet guy he’d met when he was shopping in the fancy grocery store near work for caviar. Was that so much to ask?
Suddenly, a sound from across the store yanked Greyson out of his pity-pool. When he heard it, he cocked his head to the side – that sounded… familiar.
“HHRSTZCHH-uee! Hh -! HhhITSZCHH-uhh!”
Was that…?
Greyson abandoned the greeting card aisle in favor of following the sneezes coming from the cold-and-flu section of the store. There was no way that was -
“Huh-RRSHH-ue! HRTZCH-ue! Hhuh -! Hh – hh..!”
There, in the medicine aisle of this random-ass drugstore, stood Greyson’s boss, his face tipped back in anticipation of another sneeze. Greyson’s eyebrows furrowed at the sight of Elijah – or, rather, the sad amalgamation of what once was Elijah.
“Bless -”
“HUHTSZCH-ue!” The final sneeze tore out of him as Greyson attempted to bless his boss. At the sound of Greyson’s voice, Elijah whipped around, making eye contact.
“Bless you,” Greyson said again, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Elijah was… well, he was certainly a sight. Usually, his boss was the pinnacle of style; crisped button downs, tailored pants, his dark hair slicked back and his sleeves rolled up to reveal the hundreds of perfectly-lined tattoos up and down his arms. Today, though? Today, Elijah looked not like he’d just rolled out of bed, but like he’d just rolled out of the alley out back of the restaurant. His hair, sans-gel, was wet with flop sweat, and his eyes were sunken, his nose bright red to match the high spots of color on his cheeks. Greyson was fairly sure that his boss’s sweatshirt was on inside-out.
A look of horror passed over Elijah’s face. “Greysond,” he said, his voice a thin, mangled mess. “I -” his boss broke away again, this time to cough into his sleeve, the sound barking and painful. Greyson grimaced.
“Christ, boss,” he said, stepping closer to Elijah to thump him on the back. “Who the hell let you out of the house?”
After a moment, Elijah managed to stop the coughing; he stood as well as he could to his full height, taking a step away from Greyson. “I’mb okay,” he said, eyes cast downward. Silence fell over them; after a beat, a laugh bubbled out of Greyson that he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Are you okay?” he snorted. “Because I heard you sneezing from literally across the store.”
Elijah’s face burned bright red. He managed a shrug as Greyson got a hold of himself. “I’ll mbake it,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “What are you doigg here?” he asked before Greyson could say anything else. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a daaay – hh – HRTSZZCH-ue! Fugck.” Elijah swore into the elbow of his sweatshirt; silently, Greyson snagged a box of tissues of the shelf in front of them and tore it open for his boss.
“Here,” he said, handing Elijah the box. Gratefully, begrudgingly, Elijah took a few tissues out, turning around to clean himself up. “Bless.”
“Thangk you,” Elijah muttered, embarrassed. He looked up at Greyson again, sniffling fruitlessly. “Seriously, aren’t you supposed to be at that ndew place in Uptown?” He looked behind Greyson then, his confusion deepening. “Where’s Collind?”
It was Greyson’s turn to feel his face flame. “Yeah,” he said, “I, uh, I was. On a date.” He smiled a sad, defeated smile. Shrugged. “Went a little off the rails. I’m not sure where Collin is.”
Elijah blinked slowly, as if trying to decipher a riddle. “Okay,” he said, coughing into a fist.
“Yeah,” Greyson said again. “But, uh, hey! Let’s make the most of happening upon each other, huh?” He peered into the basket hanging limply off of Elijah’s arm – thus far, it had exactly nothing in it. “I assume you’re here for… medicine?” He pulled a few things off of the shelf – Nyquil, Theraflu, ibuprofen, more tissues, cough drops – and dropped them into Elijah’s basket. “Were you feeling shitty yesterday? You coulda told me, I always have shit in my backpack, just in case.”
Behind him, Elijah said nothing; when Greyson turned around to place a box of Mucinex in the basket, his boss’s eyes were cast downwards. “Y’okay?” Greyson asked, gently taking the basket. “Boss? You gonna like… pass out or something?”
“I’mb ndot sigck,” Elijah croaked, snatching the basket back. Greyson’s eyebrows pressed together, his mouth opening and closing in confusion.
“I, uh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, boss,” Greyson said, slapping a cool palm on Elijah’s forehead. “But you are most definitely sick.”
Elijah shook him off. “I mbean, okay, yes, I’mb under the weather but – it’s ndothing, Greyson, I certainly don’t ndeed your help pickigg medicine, I can handle mbysehh – NGTSZCHH-uh!” An attempt to stifle a sneeze into his fist sent Elijah into a full coughing fit, one that only subsided when Greyson stepped out of the aisle to grab him a water bottle from the coolers. “Thangk you,” Elijah said, begrudgingly adding the bottle to his basket.
Holding his hands up in mock-surrender, Greyson took a step back, surveying his boss. “Hey, listen, boss, I’m not trying to overstep here, I’m just trying to help.” He smiled at Elijah then, a smile of admission. “And if I’m being totally honest, Collin and I had a fight. A big fight. So, if I can at least, like, walk you back to your apartment… to be honest, you’d be saving me from going home and punching my walls or some shit.” Greyson rubbed the back of his own neck, the painful truth like a knife lodged into his shoulder blade. “I mean, I make a mean soup, too, if you’re interested.”
With their two unfortunate situations laid plain, the GM and Executive Chef stood in the cold and flu aisle, looking down at the speckled tile. “Okay,” Elijah said, finally. “You cand walk mbe back just… just please don’t bring it up at work, okay?”
Greyson felt the lump in his throat from earlier rise again at the raw ask from his boss. He nodded, swallowing it down. “Yeah, of course, boss, I… I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Elijah nodded, haphazardly grabbing a few more things off the shelves and throwing them into the basket. “Okay,” he said, trudging towards the front of the store. “Let’s go.”
***
By the time Greyson and Elijah made it through Elijah’s front door, the GM assumed he was going to step inside and keel over then and there.
An angry cough tore from his lungs as he placed his keys in the bowl by the door; a cough that, fortunately, Greyson ignored in lieu of checking out Elijah’s apartment. “Wow,” he whistled. “Nice view, boss.”
“Thangks,” Elijah muttered, dropping his bag of supplies and collapsing onto the couch. As Greyson turned around to acknowledge him again, Elijah ripped to the side – “HNTSZCHH-ue! Hh… hhhETSCHH-ue!” He swallowed around a groan; fuck, this was fucking miserable.
“Bless you,” Greyson, Elijah was finding out, was a prolific blesser; the man couldn’t seem to let one sneeze go without saying it. As if Elijah needed any more reminder that he was a disgusting mess.
“Thangks,” Elijah muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “And thangk you for getting mbe home, you’ve certainly earned your scout badge for the day.”
Greyson laughed, moving towards the kitchen table to unpack the supplies that Elijah had left there. “Perfect, I lost out on my getting-a-little-old-lady-across-the-street one, so I was hoping to make that up somehow.”
Elijah chuckled, leaving the two of them in a silence only broken up by the soft swishhh of Greyson removing medicine from bags. Elijah realized that this was, without a doubt, the longest he and Greyson had ever been alone together. Most of their conversations were about two minutes long – do you think this taste okay? Needs salt. Are we still doing that event on Saturday? No, it got canceled – a fact that Elijah suddenly felt badly about. But the fact was, he was busy. He didn’t have time to be best buds with Greyson, he barely had time to take a shit during the day. It was unfortunate, sure, but wasn’t that what Greyson had Collin for? Companionship?
“Have you texted Collind?” Elijah called from the couch, rubbing his aching throat. Behind him, Greyson bleated out a little laugh. He came around to the couch, handing his boss a bottle of Nyquil and a tissue box. Shook his head.
“Nah,” he said. “Best to wait it out with him. Give him some space to, y’know, breathe before I apologize or anything.”
“Do you ndeed to apologize?” Elijah asked, pushing maybe a little too far past the bounds of employee-employer that he held so tightly to at work. Greyson shrugged, sitting opposite his boss on the couch.
“Probably,” he said. “I said some shitty things.”
“What about himb?”
Greyson paused, tipping his head side to side. “He didn’t say anything he hasn’t before,” he said, finally. “Nothing I’m not used to.”
Silently, Elijah considered this; his fever-adled brain wasn’t exactly parsing things correctly, but that statement didn’t really sound… right. “Greysond,” he said, blinking rheumy eyes at the chef, “there are worse things thand being alone.”
At this, Greyson pressed his lips together, taking his boss in, and Elijah realized how ridiculous he must sound. He’d barely made it to the store to get himself cold supplies, and in fact hadn’t made it back by himself. His one weekend off maybe ever was being spent soaking in his own fever sweat with not even a neighbor to check in to make sure he hadn’t passed away in the night. If ever there was a sign that he should try to work it out with his boyfriend, Elijah was sure that Greyson seeing his lonely boss laid up with no one to even make him soup when he was sick was that sign.
“There are worse things,” Greyson said, finally. “But… I don’t know. I love him. And, I mean… not all of us are so good at being alone.”
They both sat with that, silent, until Elijah wrenched painfully into his elbow again – “HRTTSCHH-uhh!” Greyson chuckled.
“Bless, boss,” he said. “Why don’t you let me make you that soup?”
***
“HUHETSCHHH-ue!”
“Christ, Chef, a little louder next time. Don’t think they heard you in fuckin’ space.”
“Oh, shut up, Mbatt,” Greyson said, yanking another tissue out of the box on the prep station to blow his nose. “A little embpathy would be ndice.”
“Mmm, not in the cards, sorry, Chef,” Matt said, laughing.
Greyson laughed along, his throat aching and head pounding. God, he felt like fucking trash; he wished more than anything he could go home, sleep it off, but - after some admittedly excellent post-fight sex - Collin had stayed the night last night at his place. If there was one thing Collin hated, it was taking care of Greyson. According to him, babying a man when he was sick was the ultimate ‘ick’ – and Greyson knew he was already on thin ice after what he’d said on Saturday. So instead of being allowed to sleep it off in his own bed, Greyson had awoken early that morning, run downstairs to his local bodega and left fresh-cut flowers and a warm bagel on the bedside table for a sleeping Collin. Hopefully, that would keep him from feeling the other man’s wrath when he came home later with a cold.
As the two chefs went back to prepping, the back door to the kitchen creaked open; within moments, Elijah was in the doorway of the back kitchen.
“Morning, Chefs,” he said, his voice almost completely back to its normal timbre. Impressive, Greyson thought, rubbing his throat. Though he wasn’t exactly surprised; Elijah had made it pretty clear he wasn’t about to let his staff know he’d spent the weekend ill.
“Morning, boss,” Matt said, saluting with his knife. Beside him, Greyson smiled a little placidly at Elijah.
“Mborning,” he managed, voice dipping on the word. A quick look of panic passed over Elijah’s face, one only Greyson could see. Greyson shrugged a tiny bit, a what can you do? shrug that he hoped conveyed that he wasn’t upset with his boss.
“Chef’s sporting the plague, don’t get too close,” Matt said, taking a tray and dipping behind Elijah to get to the walk-in cooler. Greyson rolled his eyes as his sous chef walked away.
Once Matt was out of earshot, Elijah addressed Greyson. “You okay?” he asked. The chef coughed out a laugh, nodded.
“I’mb okay,” he said, sniffling. “You okay?”
Elijah nodded as well. “Did, um… is everything okay with Collin?”
Greyson sighed, his chest rattling. “Everything is good,” he said after a moment.
They both stood quietly for a moment, the bubble quickly burst as Greyson’s face collapsed into the sleeve of his chef’s coat. “HRRTSHHH-uee!” From his elbow, he cleared his throat, painfully. He could hear the tissue box he’d been rapidly depleting being pushed across the table by his boss. Greyson took one, sniffling. “Thangks.”
Before Greyson could blow his nose, Elijah blurted out, “Thank you. For helping me.”
From over the tissue, Greyson raised his eyebrows. Matt reentered the back kitchen then, breaking the spell. Greyson quietly blew his nose and tossed the tissue, heading to the sink to wash his hands. Finally, before getting back to his work, Greyson placed a gentle hand on his boss's shoulder. The two of them exchanged a small, understanding smile, and Greyson cleared his throat.
