I can picture sooooo many of those Feveruary prompts for your guys! (8, 13, 24, 26, kinda 6 and 19)
Buuuut... I think the ones I most would like to read are 16 and/or 28. Consider those my request if they suit your fancy ^_^ as always, no pressure though!
oh hell yeah i absolutely LOVE 16, so that's what we went with! elijah is sick in this 'drabble' (a little over 900 words OOPS), aaaand that's basically the whole plot lol. it'll be under the cut! thank you for sending this!! i hope you like it!! it was a fun little write :)
Prompt: "Is it me, or is it really warm in here?"
cw: male snz, fever (duh i guess haha), coughing
Heat
The heater went out on a Friday because of fucking course it did.
“Yeah… yeah, I know it’s a Friday, but this is an emergency. Don’t you have, like, an emergency guy?” Greyson pulled a gloved hand down his face in frustration. He’d been on the phone with the company that put the heater in for over an hour now, and the woman on the other end, God love her, just couldn’t seem to find it in her heart to push him through to a higher authority.
“We do, but he focuses on residences, not businesses,” she said, curt. “I’m very sorry, sir, we’ll put an order in, but like I said it probably won’t be filled until Monday.”
Monday. Three days without heat in the restaurant – three days around the holidays, when they were booked solid through the new year. Three days of lost revenue during their busiest part of the year. Fuck, Elijah was going to be pissed.
“Alright,” Greyson said, defeated. “Okay. Yeah, please put in the order. Appreciate it.”
The woman confirmed the address and hung up, leaving Greyson with his head hung between his legs staring down at his phone. Elijah still hadn’t texted him back – where the hell was he?
“Christ, it’s freezing in here,” a voice from behind his startled Greyson back into reality – Mark.
“Heater’s out,” Greyson said, turning in his seat. Mark cringed.
“Elijah’s gonna be pissed.”
Greyson nodded. “Yeah, he will be, if he ever answers my fucking texts.”
Mark’s brows knitted together. “Shouldn’t he be here? It’s almost ten.”
As Greyson was about to shrug his misunderstanding, they both heard the back door blow open and slam shut. “Speak of the devil,” Greyson muttered, pulling his coat tighter around himself. “Let’s go ruin his day.”
The chef and floor manager made their way to the back of the kitchen, bracing for Elijah’s anger, only to be stopped cold in their tracks. “Uh,” Greyson said, on seeing his boss. “Are you… okay, Lij?”
Elijah’s face crumpled into his elbow before he could answer, but Greyson had seen enough. His boss was as pale as he’d ever seen him, lips chapped, nose rimmed red. He assumed Elijah didn’t know that he was shaking. “HHRSTTHH-ue! HITSZCH-ue! Fugck, snrf.” The GM wiped his nose on the sleeve of his button down and nodded. “Yeah, finde. Is it kinda warmb in here, or is it just mbe?”
Mark and Greyson, clad in winter coats and hats, exchanged a look before glancing back at their boss. “Uhh, it’s definitely you,” Greyson said, attempting to stifle a laugh. “Elijah, where’s your jacket? It’s twenty degrees outside.”
“Not to mention the fact that it’s like… thirty degrees in here,” Mark mumbled.
Elijah shrugged. “Wasn’t cold, so I left it at ho- ohh… hhhITSZHH-ue! Huh-! HHRSH-ue!”
Taking the opportunity while Elijah was once again collapsed into his sleeve, Greyson stepped forward, yanked one of his gloves off, and placed a cool hand on the other man’s forehead. Elijah tried to pull away but – “HTSHH-uh!” - remained preoccupied.
“Yikes,” Greyson said, pulling his hand away to try to avoid the back-splash. “Were you getting sick last night, or did this somehow come on in the last twelve hours?”
“I’mb okay,” Elijah croaked, punctuating the statement with a cough. “Mbaybe a cold or something. Why’re you guys so… bundled up?” he asked, pushing past the two of them and heading for the office. It was an interesting way to continue a conversation, asking a question and then immediately walking away, but Greyson figured Elijah wasn’t exactly in his right mind at the moment, so he just followed behind with Mark on his tail.
“We’re bundled up,” Greyson said, quickening his steps to get in front of his boss again, “because the heater is broken in here.”
“The what?” Elijah asked, stopping in his tracks to whip around to the thermostat next to the office. The gauge had stayed at a nippy fifty-one degrees all morning, but Elijah still couldn’t seem to believe it. “It’s ndot even cold in here,” he mused, mostly to himself.
Enough was enough; Greyson took the reins and helped Elijah into an office chair. He unzipped his outer coat and placed it over Elijah’s shoulders. He sat across from his boss and once again placed a hand on his head. “Elijah,” Greyson said, voice low, “you’re burning up, man.”
Elijah blinked, rubbed his eye, and coughed – a gravely, productive sound that made Greyson wince. “I… yeah, I guess that mbakes sense,” he said, finally. Greyson couldn’t help but laugh.
“Like I said, the heater is broken,” Greyson said, turning back to look at Mark, who shrugged, not knowing what to do. “The repair service can’t come out til Monday. But I mean… we should probably get you to, like, urgent care or something. I think it would be best if Mark called and canceled the reservations. At least for tonight.”
The GM was almost certainly about to protest – say he was fine, he’d take some ibuprofen and be good as new, blah, blah, blah – but instead his eyes fluttered shut and he wrenched into his elbow once again. “Hhh-! HRTSHHZ-ue! ITSZHH-ue! Huh… huhhhETSHZH-ue! Fuck, sorry Grey that definitely got ond your jacket.”
Greyson closed his eyes and shook his head, lips pressed together to keep from laughing again. “I’ll take that as a yes to closing for the night. We’ll figure out tomorrow… tomorrow. Let’s get you out of here.”
For some reason, I really want to see a worried Cr/owley cradling a feverish shaking Az/iraphale, trying his best to seem calm and reassuring but having an internal freakout because Angels aren’t suppose to whimper and feel poorly.
“Keith! I’m heading out!” Shiro called up the stairs as he laced up his second boot. It was Christmas eve and Shiro had been invited to the Holt Christmas festivities. Originally Shiro had turned the invitation down, claiming that he needed to be with Keith. This time of year had been especially hard for Keith since their parents’ passing three years ago, Shiro explained.
Matt understood, of course, despite his small pout that formed on his lips. He’d hoped they’d be able to spend the holiday together, since it was the first Christmas they would have as a couple. Hopefully the first of many. But he knew Shiro’s bond with Keith was a force to be reckoned with, so he let the subject die there. Maybe next year, he hoped.
But when Shiro told Keith about the invitation, Keith insisted that Shiro go. He didn’t want to be the reason that Shiro didn’t get to spend Christmas with his boyfriend. Especially since Keith had come to loathe the holiday entirely. “Honestly, Shiro, I was just planning on relaxing and playing video games. You love Christmas, go spend it with Matt.” The two went back and forth at it for nearly an hour until Shiro caved and texted Matt that he would be there.
So when the day finally came, Shiro was more excited than ever. Matt had been hyping up the celebration all week - the food, the music, the atmosphere. Shiro hadn’t had a real Christmas in years, despite his best efforts. He was really looking forward to it. Of course, he was a bit disheartened that Keith would spend the night by himself; but he seemed to want it that way. Keith was an adult. He could take care of himself. He’d be fine.
Shiro stood at the base of the steps waiting for any kind of sign that Keith heard him shout. Usually he would yell back some form of okay or hummed a response. But there was absolute silence. Shiro tried not to assume the worst, maybe Keith just had headphones on. He gave it a few more seconds before trekking up the stairs and over to Keith’s room.
He knocked lightly three times before opening the door. Creeping inside, he noticed the lights were turned off and there was a covered lump in Keith’s bed - presumably Keith. It was nearly 3 in the afternoon; Keith shouldn’t be sleeping. Shiro tiptoed closer, heart racing as he became aware of the soft painful moans slipping through Keith’s mouth. Finally at Keith’s bedside, Shiro gently shook his brother’s shoulder. Keith whimpered in response.
Shiro pressed his hand to Keith’s forehead and was only slightly surprised by the dry heat that tinged his finger tips. He let out a low sigh. When Shrio pulled his hand away, Keith started to stir. His eyes shot open and as he scanned the room, Shiro could tell just how clouded and dazed they were.
Keith made an attempt to sit up in his bed; and though it took longer than it should have, he managed. “I thought you were at Matt’s.” He forced out, voice still tired from sleep.
“I was just on my way out when I came to check on you.” Shiro tried to keep the scolding concerned-brother voice to a minimum. “How long have you had this fever?”
Keith rubbed at his tired eyes. He really concentrated on his answer, “Since this morning, I guess. But it’s fine. I took some advil.” He stated like that made up for the fact that he hadn’t told Shiro.
Shiro mentally cursed at himself. He mentally recapped his day, trying to figure out why he hadn’t noticed Keith’s absence. Their mother always had a knack for knowing when Keith was sick, like a sixth sense or something. Shiro hadn’t inherited that fortune-telling gene, much to his own dismay. “Hang tight, Keith. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna call Matt and tell him not to expect me. Then I’ll be back with the thermometer and something for you to eat.” He was already reaching for his phone in his pocket.
“No,” Keith argued weakly. “You don’t have to take care of me. I’m sure Matt’s already waiting for you.”
“Keith, I’m not leaving you sick and alone on Christmas Eve.” Shiro countered.
“And I’m not going to be the reason you don’t get to enjoy the holiday this year. Look, I’m tired. I’m just gonna go back to sleep. You don’t need to sit around and watch me sleep. If you want to help me, please just bring me whatever you think I need and then go have fun with your boyfriend.” His voice was distant and disoriented, but he made a good effort getting his frustration across.
Shiro hesitated. But he knew that Keith likely wouldn’t budge on the issue. So he complied. “I’ll cut you a deal, how about I go, but make sure I’m back by tonight. And you have to eat something before I leave.”
Keith pouted, but eventually accepted the offer. It was better than him missing out on everything he supposed.
Shiro went right to work on collecting supplies and heating up some soup. While he waited by the microwave, he shot Matt a quick text explaining the situation and why he wasn’t there on time. The microwave beeped and Shiro carefully carried the bowl up the stairs. As he stepped back into the room, he noticed that Keith had drifted back to sleep in his absence.
This time, the sleep seemed to be much more uneasy. Keith had streams of tears fall down the sides of his face and he was mumbling about something. When Shiro got closer, he could make out that he was crying for their mother. He must have been having a very vivid fever dream. He quickly set the soup down and ran over to console his brother.
There was a slick layer of sweat on Keith’s brow and Shiro assumed that his fever had suddenly spiked. Was it because of their little argument? He hoped it was just circumstantial, but he couldn’t shake that feeling that it was somehow all his fault. After a decent amount of consoling, Keith awoke even more dazed than before.
“Mom,” He called out aimlessly, “Mom.”
Shiro hushed him, “It’s okay, Keith. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” But no matter how much Shiro tried to comfort him, Keith still called for their mom. Eventually, Keith’s screams died down and he noticed Shiro’s presence.
“Sh-Shiro, I don’t feel good.” Keith pouted, new tears spilling over the brims of his eyes, “I want mom.”
Shiro’s heart instantly broke in two. He had no idea what to say, what to do. To be honest, he wanted mom too. Rather than respond, he just held Keith tighter, encouraging him to fall back to sleep. The thermometer could wait. The soup could wait. They just had to ride out this spike.
@taylor-tut said: FMA PROMPTS?! YES. Okay, so what about something where Ed and roy have to go on a mission together and the evening before, Ed starts to feel sick. He tells Roy, but he doesn't believe him and thinks he's trying to get out of the mission. He chalks Ed's listlessness and lack of focus up to a hissy fit. But eventually Ed is like "I cant--it's hard to think" while they're talking and roy realizes that he's burning up, and worse, they're in a motel with no air conditioning and it's hot as hell.
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE FMA PROMPTS. I have like 4 on the go and still tried to do this one short’n’sweet but it got longish and ????
Thank you so much for the prompt! It was really fun to get to sit down and see something from start to finish again. I hope its enjoyable!
“Are you sure we can’t put the mission off for like, another week or two? C’mon Mustang,” Ed said holding his hands apart. “Al and I have to fix up where we’re staying and take back all these books before Winry gets here-”
“You really should just keep on top of your responsibilities. Honestly, by now the military’s schedule in your life should be making some difference. Its been how many years?” Mustang leaned back in his chair with crossed arms. Beside him, Havoc reached across the table to grab a copy of the next day’s itinerary.
“Says you,” Ed snorted harshly through his nose, “you’re name is more synonymous with ‘procrastination’ than any other word I’ve ever heard. Seriously, Winry’ll kill me if she gets here and its a mess.”
“More so than ‘bastard’?” Mustang slapped at Havoc’s arm and the man’s laughter lapsed into a rough hacking cough.
“Don’t encourage him. Fullmetal, this mission is unavoidable. I’ve had direct paperwork handed to me from General Grumman,” Roy smacked the back of his hand at the reports he held, “These rebel attacks can’t keep going this way.”
“So surprise them in a week. Make them think they got away with it, then wreck their shit. I don’t see what is so damn hard about changing the day.”
“Suck it up, Ed. No way, no how is Mustang going to be able to change it. The General kicked his ass in a match last week, so he- OW!”
“That’s quite enough, Havoc. Take your notes and go pick up something for the office, on my tab.” Mustang waved Havoc on.
“Alright,” Havoc pulled out a smoke as he walked past Ed. He gave Ed a solid nudge, “I know everyone’s go-to orders but yours, want anything special Ed? The Boss is paying.”
“I don’t care, whatever is fine.” Ed folded his automail hand under his chin as he stared down at his papers. He sighed through his nose and shut his eyes, eyebrows scrunching together. Havoc slapped his palm on the top of Ed’s head and gave him a gentle shove.
“Alright, geeze don’t work too hard, you’re putting me to shame.” Havoc gave a half-assed salute and left, “See ya .”
--------
“Memorized it yet?” Ed groused, chin on the table inches away from his unopened take-out.
“Have you?” Mustang snarked, “Or are you still hoping I’ll let you slack off?”
“Oh yeah, committed it to memory,” Ed sneered. “Stupid ass idea, they’ll be expecting us. It’s a straight retaliatory action- its insulting. Jump, boy, jump.”
“You’re getting it,” Mustang shook his head at Ed, who dropped his forehead to the table and snarked under his breath into the wood.
“Can I go now? This is stupid, we’re just going there to hand their asses to them and get rocks thrown at us, again.”
“Finish the briefing, and finish your dinner. Honestly- boy genius, smart enough to transmute without a circle. And you still need to be told to eat your vegetables.” Mustang nudged Ed’s food towards him. “Its boring, but its procedure. Trust me, it’s a lot less fun with every other Colonel out there.”
“I don’t want it, I just want to go.” Ed whined, but pushed himself off the table anyway. He opened the container and poked at his food. “Can we just put it off a couple days? I really don’t…“
“Don’t what, Fullmetal?” Mustang sighed. The rest of the office had broken into their mission groupings and were going over the details, and he and Ed were to be the main attacking force come the next day. Ed fidgeted under the silence; he pushed his bangs off his face and let his eyes dart around. After a few false starts, Ed finally answered.
“I really don’t feel right,” he finally mumbled leaning across the desk as much as he could. He kept his eyes down. “Not- not about it being a stupid military tantrum response, just- just in general.”
“Right,” Mustang kept his stare level with Ed’s despite the young man’s desperate attempt to hide between his own shoulders. His voice was flat as he continued, “Tomorrow. Eleven A.M.- go get yourself sorted for it. Break up all those ‘things’ you an Alphonse need to do, I’m sure he can deal with some chores and Miss Rockbell for the few days we’ll be gone.”
“Huh?”
“Go on,” Mustang was leafing through his papers with little interest. He flicked his eyes up and lifted Ed’s takeout to hold it out to him. “I’m not dealing with your tantrum while I have to plan.”
“F-fine,” Ed glared as he snatched the box from Mustang and stomped away.
“Eleven A.M. sharp; you show up late, I’m putting you in charge of garbage disposal for the entire floor.” Mustang didn’t even blink as Ed slammed the door behind him.
---------------
“Eleven-twenty-three, Fullmetal,” Ed slammed the car door after he sat down. “What did I say last night?”
“Shut up and just drive, okay?” Ed stomped his foot and gestured out the front windscreen, “Go! Drive! If its such a big hurry, go.”
“You’re really testing me,” Mustang threw the car into gear. The tires squealed as they lurched forward and sped off.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ed slunk down in his seat and planted his feet on the passenger-side dash. He crossed his arms and plonked his forehead against the window to watch the city speed by.
“Punctuality is a core value in the military. How many times do I need to spell it out,” Mustang slapped the steering wheel with each sentence, “Are you trying to embarrass me? Make out our team as a joke? You went to the briefing, and were nearly half an hour late to the mission start.”
Ed snarked quietly, mocking Mustang’s rant while the Colonel dragged his hand down his face.
“I am not a babysitter. Do you hear me? I am not dealing with you being a brat. Curb your attitude before we get there.” From the edge of his vision Roy saw Ed roll his eyes and scooch further down into his seat.
“Sorry, geeze.” Ed mumbled, his words barely louder than the engine’s noise.
--------------------------
“…Damn brat. He shows up late and throws a fit.” Ed stretched as the conversation nearby flitted into his awareness. “The delay wasn’t too bad. We’re just a few blocks away now, at a payphone. You’re set?... And Havoc’s group? Good.”
Ed stretched his neck to let him look out the window. The sun hung low in the sky; a mess of oranges and purples bleeding between the buildings. Mustang stood a few feet away with the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear.
“Hey,” Mustang half turned at Ed’s voice. “Hey, are we there now? ‘wanna get out n stretch.”
“A few more blocks,” Mustang turned back to the phone, “Yeah that’s him now. See you tomorrow.”
Roy made his way back into the car. Ed groaned, all his muscles were locked up from sleeping in the car and his ports ached fiercely from inactivity. He gave a longing look to the sidewalk as the car rumbled to life, but couldn’t find it in him to ask to get out now.
‘Just a few more blocks, right?’ Ed shut his eyes as the car drove. The lingering haze of sleep and zooming scenery made his head spin. He hoped tomorrow morning would be smoother than the mess this morning, and nap, had been. The world was still askew when Mustang parked the car, but the freedom to stretch and walk off some of the aching held more power than the dizziness.
“You aren’t even listening, are you?” Ed startled and whirled around. “I’ll take that as a no. I’ll go over it, again, once we’re checked in.”
The check-in process was easy enough. Ed stared at a spot on the floor, zoned out until Mustang gave him a light push forward towards their room. The far corner of the first-floor hallway, a square little room with small windows high up on the cream walls.
Ed chucked his bag on top of one of the hand-stitched quilt covered twin beds in the room. Mustang dropped his to the top of the dresser and turned to Ed. He found Ed laying with his head hanging upside-down off the bed staring at him and picking idly at his bag beside him.
“Theres been some construction that is going to complicate the mission. Why it wasn’t in our intel is beyond me. It may drag it out a day or two more,” Ed huffed and rolled onto his stomach and pillowed his head on his arms. “We’re going to meet earlier tomorrow to try and plan around it. I’m- really at a loss. The one main road is out due to flooding from that last attack, and now the other is under construction. For now, we need to figure out what to do about that.”
“Mmmh.”
“Focus, Fullmetal.” Ed lifted his eyes to glare at Roy. Mustang leaned back with his arms crossed loosely. “I’m banking on more than just your ability to fight here.”
“I can’t-” Ed dropped his head to the bed again and stared at Mustang sidelong.
“Can’t?” Roy stood up from his lazy lean against the dresser. His brows furrowed and he sighed, “The longer you ‘can’t’ the longer the mission will be. I’m trying to work it out-I don’t want to waste the time or resources either.”
“No, not like that. Everything just-” Ed squinted and waved his flesh hand in a strange little wiggle. He let his hand fall and silence stole the room for a short moment.
“I don’t feel right.” Ed finally said in a small voice. “I can’t… I can’t see straight, let alone think.”
Mustang dropped his shoulders and stepped towards where Ed was laying. He dropped to a crouch beside the blond. Looking closer, Ed’s eyes were glassy and dark despite all the sleep on the drive over. He looked almost greasy with a thin layer of sweat- not entirely unwarranted in the summer heat- across his tense brow. Mustang reached forward to help pull Edward up to a sitting position. Ed groaned but pushed himself up with little prodding.
“What now? I am listening, I’m laying down but I’m listening.” Roy bit the tip of the finger on his left glove and slipped it off while steadying Ed with his right. Ed complained to himself until he noticed Mustang’s hand in his peripheral and flinched away. “What are you doing?”
“Sit still for a second,” He pressed his palm to Ed’s forehead only to have it pushed away immediately with the mismatched pair of Ed’s hands. “Fullmetal, so help me- if you’ve got a fever I need to know how bad it is.”
“I-I-!” Ed stammered and backed up. Ed pressed the back of his fingers to his own cheek. “One second. I’m just- I’m tired. I don’t know, do I have a fever?”
“Yeah,” Roy pressed his palm to Ed’s forehead again. Ed let his hand drop to hold on to the edge of the bed and leaned forward. Mustang shifted to crouch on his one knee on the floor and moved his hand to the Ed’s cheek, and finally to the back of his neck. Ed’s face and neck were damp with sweat and the head was constant Roy frowned, “Damn. And here I thought you were just being a brat to annoy me. Wait here.”
Mustang stood up and Ed slouched further. Ed shrugged his shoulders as a chill washed over him and pulled his legs back onto the bed. Mustang shut the door behind him as he left and Ed laid down on his side.
Ed curled into himself; using his bag as a pillow he shuddered through another chill with his eyes scrunched closed. He let them drift open slowly and took in the swirling mess of the surroundings. When his vision stopped twisting, the room and modest decoration focused. He let out a groan of frustration. Everything ached and his head felt so slow and useless.
“Back. Here,” Roy opened the door to Ed curled up tight on the bed in the smallest ball he seemed to be able to manage. He stood there; casual shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows with extra towels draped over one arm and a glass of water in hand. Ed rolled to glare at the Colonel before pushing himself up again.
“I really thought you’d get yourself ready for bed, or at least move your things while I was out.” Mustang watched Ed’s back rise and fall for a few moments before he put down his armload of items. He shook his head, lifted the phone off the small writing desk in the room, and dialed out to the number Riza had provided on their last call.
Ed tuned him out. He shut his eyes and focused on his misery. His ports continued to protest the lack of movement, and he felt the blanket beneath him trap the heat from his body. The room was stagnant and warm and uncomfortable. Mustang’s stupid voice whispered in the background and the electric lights buzzed a low, irritating hum.
“…have to reschedule, its unavoidable…”
Ed shuddered though another chill. He groaned out loud; his fever must have gotten worse since that morning.
“…got to be at least 102. No, he wouldn’t…”
He groped behind him for the edge of the stitched-square quilt and pulled it over himself. He tugged it up over his head and put his hand over his ear to block Mustang out. His body pulsed in time with his heart, and as uncomfortable as it was it couldn’t keep him from falling asleep.
------------------------
“I’ll be owing him favors for years, I know. I really don’t know what else to do. I’ll have to reschedule, it’s unavoidable.” Mustang heard Ed move around and grumble to himself.
“Is it really that bad, sir? Everything seemed fine this morning.” Riza’s voice crackled over the phone line.
“He’s got a fever, its got to be at least 102.”
“You’ve checked?”
“No, he wouldn’t have let me even if I could. He’s burning, its got to be around there.” He watched Ed’s hand slide across the thin quilt. The boy got a hold of one of the seams on the blanket and tugged it over himself. Roy pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at his forehead. “I’ve got to go. Let the others know.”
“Goodnight, sir.” Mustang hung up the phone and turned to watch the lump that was Ed. He turned back to the desk and dialed out to a secure line to Grummun’s office.
-------------
Roy finally stretched up from the desk; a number of promises he’d rather not make, a rehashing a few of Edward’s points from the day before on stalling the mission, and a conversation far too long at this hour of the night with the eccentric General bought some time.
Mustang walked over to where Ed snored beneath the blanket and pulled it down to the boy’s shoulder. Ed’s hair was a frizzed mess and his face was now flushed red. Roy pressed the back of his hand to Ed’s cheek again only to shake his head at the heat. He grabbed a towel from the pile of what he had brought back and stepped into the bathroom to wet it.
Mustang flicked the lights off when he came back into the main room. He took a seat on the free bed and leaned over to smooth the wet towel across Ed’s burning forehead.
“What am I going to do with you,” he leaned his head in the palm of his hand. “Should be half delirious from fever and still giving better ideas than half the military…”
Ed shuddered under the blanket and rolled to his back. The movement knocked the blanket askew and left Ed half covered with his stomach bared to the warmth of the night. Roy tugged on the hem of the boy’s shirt with a quiet laugh to himself before tuning in for the night as well.
I'm trying something a little different on this one - there's no sick character POV, but both Greyson and Elijah are sick. This is written from first Matt (the sous chef) and then Mark's (the floor manager) perspectives. It was a fun little exercise, and I hope you all like it.
Elijah & Greyson both have the flu and blame each other for it. No real plot, just quips and vibes. Enjoy :)
cw: male snz, colds, contagion, coughing, fevers, dizziness...snarkiness... the usual lmao. 3.5k words
Patient Zero
The early hours of the morning were the best the restaurant had to offer. It was summer, but at three in the morning it was cool, quiet, dark, and almost meditative to be in the restaurant alone. I could get used to this, Matt thought, setting his things down on the prep table in the empty kitchen.
Matt almost never worked the AM shift, but it was an event night and event nights always came with an unusual schedule. This particular event was a small business celebrating ten years open, and the two women in charge of the event were lovely but… particular.
Everything had to be just so – which was fine, because they were paying through the nose to buy out the restaurant for the night – and many of their requests were ones that Greyson and Elijah had never heard before.
“They want us to… make their dinner rolls?” Matt had asked when Greyson had showed him the banquet event order he and Elijah had put together. “But we buy the best bread in the city… I mean, isn’t Alicia going to get mad that she’s losing our business for that event?”
“Elijah already talked to Alicia about it; she’s annoyed, but she gets it. These people want everything made in house, and trust me I told them that Alicia makes better bread than I’d ever be able to, but they didn’t care. They’re fuckin’ weird, Matt,” Greyson said, smoothing the piece of paper onto the prep table. “They want us to make them a cake, too. You did a stage at that bakery in Italy a couple summers ago, right?”
That was how Matt had ended up at the restaurant at oh-dark-thirty, using their decrepit Kitchenaid mixer to make some maybe-okay bread and a probably-not-great cake for a group that had no clue what the difference between a pastry chef and a regular one was. At least he’d be able to enjoy the evening off; it was a Saturday, it was summer, and he could already taste the cocktail he’d be sipping while the rest of the team was slaving away.
About three hours into mixing, proofing, and looking up recipes on his phone, Matt heard the back door of the kitchen slam open and then shut. He whipped his head towards the sound – Greyson wasn’t supposed to be in until nine, at the earliest. Who the fuck was here?
“HTSHH-ue! Huh! Hhh… huhITSZHUE!” Matt heard Elijah before he saw him, and winced when he did. Elijah had definitely seemed a little off yesterday, but the rest of the team figured that he was just nervous about this event and how picky the people paying for it were. Matt, at the very least, hadn’t assumed he was -
“HUHHHESTCHUE!” - sick.
“Bless you, Elijah,” Matt called from the prep kitchen. Elijah jumped at the phantom voice and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He turned the corner to find Matt, covered in flour and frosting, and laughed.
“Thangks,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “You doing okay with the whole… bread thing?”
Matt shrugged and motioned to the recipe on his phone. “I mean, if this bread recipe is good enough for The Barefoot Contessa, it should be good enough for these people, right?”
Elijah smiled, amused. “Right,” he said, turning to cough away from the prep kitchen entrance. Matt gave him a sympathetic look, and Elijah shrugged.
“You’re here early,” Matt said, scoring the tops of his rolls and covering the baking sheets in plastic for proofing. Elijah gave him a small smile.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, sniffling. “Worried about this party tondight, I guess.”
“Mmm,” Matt hummed, noncommittal. Elijah and his boss were two sides of the same stubborn-ass coin, and there was no use reasoning with or forcing confessions of illness out of either of them. The only people they listened to were each other; their relationship was weird, it was codependent, but it worked so Matt didn’t question it. He hoped Greyson would be in soon.
“I’mb going to go work on the mbenus for tondight,” Elijah said, swallowing back a cough. “Holler if you ndeed mbe.”
Matt knew he wouldn’t need Elijah, but he nodded anyway. “Right back at ya.”
***
The sun had finally made its way to the middle of the sky when Greyson burst through the doors of the kitchen, his signature bull-in-a-china-shop style.
“Christ it’s hot out there,” Greyson moaned as he walked into the prep kitchen. Matt had finally finished the three-tiered cake and was working on making fondant letters to adorn the top. He looked up from his work to see his boss perusing the trays of rolls and cake tiers cooling in the prep kitchen’s reach-in refrigerator.
Greyson was looking especially disheveled this morning; he’d let his hair grow all the way to his shoulders this year – everyone on the stupid dating apps loves long hair, is what he’d said to Matt when he mentioned his boss had needed a haircut back in February – and it was pulled back into a messy ponytail today. He was in a cutoff t-shirt and cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and, frankly, looked more ready for a lazy day at the beach than the huge party he’d have to put out in a few hours.
“It’s August,” Matt said in response to Greyson’s gripe. “That’s, like, peak hot. Why are you wearing that?”
His boss turned to face Matt, gave himself a once over, and huffed out a little laugh. “Couldn’t sleep last night, so I ended up walking to a club. Went home with some girl and crashed at her place, passed out, didn’t have time to go back home, so you get flip-flop Greyson. I have a spare set of clothes in the office.”
Matt rolled his eyes, thinking of the conversation he’d had with Elijah earlier; two sides of the same coin.
“You all good on the bread, Master Baker?” Greyson asked, grinning at his own joke. Matt gave a little laugh through his nose.
“All good,” he said. “I just need help with the fucking frosting for this cake, I can’t seem to get it -”
“IGTSHZZ-ue!”
Matt’s head snapped up suddenly; his boss’s face was pressed into his elbow. The sous felt his heart sink. Not both of them.
A sick Elijah was fine. A sick Greyson was slightly more annoying, but also tolerable. But when both of them were sick, it was, to put it lightly, a nightmare.
“Shit, ‘scuse me, sorry, can’t stop fucking sneezing today,” Greyson said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
“Bless you,” Matt said, accusatory. “are you feeling okay?”
Greyson started to nod, then held up a finger as if to say, ‘hold on’. Matt waited a moment while his boss stood, waiting for another sneeze that didn’t seem to want to come. He let out a shaky breath and shook his head as if to clear it. “I’mb good,” he said, congestion already seeping into his voice. Matt had a sudden memory pop into his head – Greyson offering Elijah a bite of a short rib dish yesterday, then taking a bite himself from the same fork. Goddamn it, Greyson.
“Are you -”
“ITSZH-ue! HTSHH-uh! Fuckin – HGTSHH-ue!” Greyson suddenly collapsed into a volley of sneezes, covered only by a hand. He grimaced at the obvious mess he’d left behind and went to the sink to blow his nose and clean himself up.
“Fuck, Chef,” Matt said while Greyson washed his hands. While, like Elijah, there was no use trying to force a confession out of Greyson, Matt was much closer to the executive chef and couldn’t help accusing him. “Are you serious? This is so not the day for you to be fucking sick.”
“Oh, relax,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes. “I’mb ndot sick, it mbust be allergies or somethiii….INGTSHH-uhh! Fuck mbe,” Greyson moaned, pulling more paper towels out of the dispenser and blowing again.
“It’s not allergies,” Matt said. Greyson raised an eyebrow at his sous.
“Yeah? How do you know that, all-seeing eye?”
As if summoned, Elijah turned the corner into the prep kitchen at that moment. “Grey, good, you’re here,” he said, attempting to clear his throat. “Cand we go over verbiage for the mbenu tondight?”
Greyson pursed his lips and closed his eyes on seeing the GM. Matt’s eyes darted from Elijah to Greyson and back again, wondering how this was going to play out.
“What?” Elijah asked, sniffling.
“You fuckin’ asshole,” Greyson said, giving Elijah a little playful shove. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday you were fuckin’ sick?”
“I’mb ndot sigck,” Elijah said, pathetically. Matt had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing; Elijah’s eyes were rimmed red, his nose was chapped from blowing, and since he’d walked through the door he hadn’t gone more than five minutes without sneezing. If you looked up ‘sick’ in the dictionary, there he’d be.
Greyson had no such tact and barked out a laugh in his boss’s face. “Yeah?” he asked, slapping a hand on Elijah’s forehead. The GM shook him off, but the damage was done. “You’re burning up,” Greyson said, his voice accusatory. Elijah flipped him the bird.
“I’mb ndot burning up, it’s just hot in the office,” Elijah said, taking a step back and crossing his arms. “Also, why the fuck are you dressed like you’re in a ndineties beach dramba?”
“I’m about to go change, but nice attempt at changing the subject,” Greyson said, leaning against the wall. “Seriously, have you taken anything?”
Elijah rolled his eyes, but nodded. “Just drop it,” Elijah said, his voice deadpan. “Why are you being such a dick about it, andyway? It’s ndot like -”
“HGTSH! HTSH! Huh… hh…”
“Oh, mbother fuck -”
“HUHESSTZCHUE!” Greyson doubled over to sneeze into his elbow, cutting his boss off not once, but twice. He gave Elijah a knowing glance over the crook of his arm and sniffled.
Elijah sighed, a congested, tired sound. “I… bless you,” he said.
“Thangks,” Greyson said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Patient zero.”
“Fuck off,” Elijah said, shoving the chef. “Cand you please combe help mbe with these stupid mbenus?”
Greyson nodded, then turned back to Matt. “You said you’re all good, yeah?” he asked. Matt hadn’t; he needed help with the frosting, and wanted to make sure Greyson was okay with the way the rolls were proofing. But he nodded anyway; no use trying to separate the two of them while they were mid-squabble.
“I’m good,” Matt said. “I’ll come get you in a bit.”
Greyson nodded, then followed behind Elijah, muttering something about a plague rat. Matt could hear the slap Elijah bestowed upon him from across the kitchen.
***
Mark hated these types of events.
When he was younger, Mark had been a banquet captain for a hotel; a job he’d rather forget on most days. The nights were long, the people were always entirely too drunk, and although the pay was good, he dreaded every single shift.
Elijah had decided when the year began that Elliot’s had a goal of doing one full buyout banquet a month, a decision that made Mark’s heart sink, though he’d never let that on to his boss. Instead, he’d told Elijah all about his past banquet experience, showed the GM how to make a proper BEO, and volunteered to captain the events that his boss booked. He hated banquets, but he did love this tiny restaurant; he loved his staff and he loved his bosses and he wanted to make working there enjoyable for everyone.
Putting on a good face didn’t mean he hated it any less.
Mark yanked open the kitchen doors at noon the day of the event – an event he knew from the very moment of its booking was going to be a nightmare – and tried to get his game face on. He was going to be there until two in the morning, he was going to get his ass handed to him by some overinflated MLM Boss Babe, he was going to have to move the tables a hundred times… Mark shook his head to clear it. Becoming hyper-focused on how much this evening was going to suck wasn’t doing him any favors, that much he knew.
“Hey, Mark,” Matt said from the prep kitchen to his left. Mark stopped in his tracks and waved at the sous chef.
“Hi, Matt,” he said, smiling. “I thought you were supposed to be out of here by now? Didn’t you come in at like four in the morning?”
“Three,” Matt corrected, pulling a hand down his face in obvious exhaustion. “I’m trying to get out of here, but…” he trailed off, looking behind Mark in anticipation. Mark furrowed his brow and turned – nothing there.
“But…?” he prompted. Matt sighed.
“Greyson’s… on one,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I can’t for the fuckin’ life of me get him to come back here.”
Mark chuckled. “When isn’t he on one?” he asked. Matt let loose a dark laugh as well. “What’s his problem?”
“HHUTSZHH-ue!”
Mark cocked his head towards the sound that came from the office in the front of the kitchen. Then, slowly, he turned back to Matt. “He’s not…”
“Both of them,” Matt answered, resting his head in his hand, an elbow propped on the prep table. “I thought maybe it wasn’t so bad when they came in this morning, but…”
“HGTSHH-uhh! Huh -”
“HTZSCHUE!”
First Elijah. Then Greyson. Rinse, repeat.
“Goddamn it,” Mark muttered. “Okay. I’ll go do damage control and send Greyson back here to check you out so you can go.”
Matt nodded. “Thanks, man,” he said, picking up a Sharpie and labeling a pan wrapped in plastic. Mark gave a nod back, and headed to the front of the kitchen.
Greyson and Elijah were both seated in the office, twin tissues held to their faces. Elijah was coughing like a man who’d just escaped a house fire, while Greyson seemed stuck in a sort of pre-sneeze torture. It would’ve been almost funny, if it weren’t so pathetic.
“Um,” Mark said, knocking on the open door and catching both his bosses off-guard. “Hey. Everything, uh… okay in here?”
Greyson let out a shaky, unresolved breath. “Yeah. All good. Hi,” he said, his voice low and stuffed-up. He hit Elijah in the arm, motioned up to Mark, and said, “Where are your mbanners?”
Elijah rolled his eyes and took a sip from a water cup of questionable age. “Hey, Mbark,” he said. The GM’s voice was nearly gone, and sounded raw, like his throat was on fire.
“You guys look great,” Mark joked, prompting a bark of a laugh from Greyson and a dead-eyed look from Elijah. “How the hell did you both manage to get sick overnight?”
“Well, sombeone was getti’g sick yesterday and didn’t tell mbe,” Greyson said, flashing a pointed look Elijah’s way. Elijah turned to the chef and placed his head in his hand; apparently, Mark was no longer invited to this conversation.
“You kndow what I was thinking,” Elijah said, his voice going out on the final syllable. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I was thinking, how do you kndow it was mbe who got you sick? Mbaybe you’re just projecting because you’re patient zero.”
“Elijah, I kndow you have a fever but let’s try to rembain in reality, shall we? You’re obviously patient zero because I was finde last ndight. You, on the other hand, were texti’g mbe ‘oh, mby allergies are so bad, I don’t know what’s bloomi’g but it -’ IGTSZZHUE! ETSHCHUE! Oh, fuckigg finally,” Greyson groaned, yanking more tissues from the box placed squarely between the two of them and blowing. Elijah coughed out a laugh.
“You were sayi’g?” he asked, smug. Greyson rolled his eyes from behind a tissue.
“Fugck off,” he said, turning back toward Mark, who assumed he’d been forgotten completely. “Did you ndeed sombething, Mbark?”
Mark nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “Matt said he needed to check out with you, Chef?”
“Oh, fugck I totally forgot Mbatt got here in the mbiddle of the ndight,” Greyson said, pushing himself to his feet too quickly. He caught hold of the desk, swaying slightly, and closed his eyes.
Elijah raised his eyebrows at Greyson, who got himself back together after a moment. “You gonnda mbake it?” he asked as the chef slowly opened his eyes. Greyson sneered.
“Screw you, Elijah, this shit is your fault,” he said, pushing his hair off of his sweaty forehead.
Elijah looked to Mark. “Cand you please tell me what kind of fever he’s sporting?” he asked. Mark set his jaw; he really didn’t want to get in the middle of this whole thing… but Elijah was his direct report. He didn’t have much choice; without warning the chef first, Mark placed a hand on Greyson’s forehead.
Greyson pulled away as quick as he could. “Back off,” he snarled, pushing past Mark to relieve Matt in the back kitchen. Mark shrank back as the chef breezed by; he really could be scary when he wanted to be.
“Sorry,” Elijah said when Greyson was out of earshot. “He shouldn’t be such an ass to you.”
Mark shrugged. “I get it. It sucks working when you don’t feel well. He definitely has a fever,” the floor manager said. Elijah nodded and Mark gave him a pointed look. “You look like you do, too.”
Elijah gave a little half-shrug back. “Ndothing I haven’t worked through before,” he said. “Huhh...HGTSHH-ue! Huh! ETSHZHUE!” The GM wrenched away from Mark to sneeze painfully towards the door. Mark flinched in sympathy.
“Bless,” he said. “So… how are we going to handle tonight?”
Elijah turned sluggishly back towards Mark and sniffled, an unproductive, squelching sound. “You tell mbe,” he said, his voice all but gone, “captaind.”
Fuck.
***
“You do it.”
“No fuckin’ way. This is on you, dude. I’m one foot out the door.”
“Matt, you’ve been saying that since two PM and now it’s ten. Clearly you’re not one foot out the door.”
Matt shot Mark a look, but he couldn’t deny the truth in his statement. But how the fuck could he have left earlier? When Greyson had come to the back kitchen to dismiss him hours before, the chef had nearly passed out just from the walk. He never would’ve said that he needed Matt to stay; he wasn’t that kind of guy. He was the guy who worked until he literally passed out without even asking for a hand to grab before he fell. Both he and Elijah were.
So, without being asked, Matt stayed for the event. He prepped with the line cooks, while Mark helped the servers prepare the dining room, and both of them attempted to corral their bosses into resting in the office.
“Are you sure you don’t ndeed mbe to at least sear off the short ribs?” Greyson had asked, white-knuckling the prep table that Matt was working at. “Seriously, Mbatt, you don’t have to do everythigg.”
“I don’t need you to sear the short ribs,” Matt said, gently guiding his boss back to a chair. “Please. Just sit down, it hurts me to watch you… breathe.”
“Mbark, at least let mbe fold ndapkins for your or something,” Elijah had insisted, swaying in the middle of the dining room. Mark had to nearly run to keep his boss from face-planting at the host stand.
“Lij, we have an army on,” Mark said. “Go rest, please. We’ll need you for service.”
The two ill men had eventually given up on asking to help their counterparts. The staff, a truly well-oiled machine, had worked around them, narrowly avoiding being coughed or sneezed on, until the event started.
Once the hosts of the event arrived, Greyson and Elijah pulled themselves together enough to at least look like figureheads. Greyson hoarsely shouted orders in the kitchen, while Elijah helped the servers organize their tables and schmoozed the hosts. Against all odds, it had gone smoothly, and once the food was out both Elijah and Greyson stumbled back into the office, sunk down into the waiting tablecloth nest, and passed out.
Which led them to now.
“I don’t want to wake them, dude,” Matt said. “They’re so mean when they’re sick.”
“Well obviously I don’t want to wake them, either,” Mark countered. “But one of us has to do it, the hosts aren’t going to leave till they can say goodb -”
“HGTSHH!” Greyson woke himself with a massive sneeze, which shook Elijah awake.
“Fuck, mbust you be so goddamn loud?” Elijah asked, his voice cracking. Greyson flashed him an annoyed look.
“Oh, mby sincere apologies, ndext time I have an uncontrollable bodily functiond occur I’ll mbake sure to think about your combfort beforehand,” he said, pushing his hair into a small bun on the back of his head.
“Mbuch appreciated,” Elijah said, slowly sitting up. The two of them turned, almost simultaneously, to the younger men standing at the door. “...yes?” Elijah asked.
Matt elbowed Mark, who gave him a fleeting dirty look. “Um,” Mark said, “the, uh, hosts wanted to say goodbye to you guys if you’re… up for it.”
Elijah nodded, but Greyson was the first to push himself to a standing position. “Just stay there, old mban, you’re sicker than mbe and obviously worse at keeping your germbs to yourself.” Greyson pushed past Mark and Matt, placing a hand on his sous chef’s shoulder before exiting the kitchen.
“Thangk you for stayi’g,” he said. “Ndow go hombe before I kick you out.”
Matt smiled a bit. “Yes, Chef,” he said. “Um… feel better.”
Greyson nodded and disappeared through the doors to the dining room. When Mark turned away from the swinging doors, Elijah was also standing.
“You go, too, Mbark,” he said, straightening his glasses and smoothing his sleep-wrinkled shirt as best he could. “We ndeed both of you well rested for the rest of the week. Great job tondi- IGTSZH-uhh! Snrf.” Elijah didn’t bother finishing his sentence, just smiled at Mark and rubbed his chapped nose.
“Bless,” Mark said, “and thank you. It did go well, didn’t it?”
“Well as it could’ve,” Elijah said, one hand on the swinging door. “Ndight,” he said, and followed behind Greyson.
Matt and Mark exchanged a knowing look when both their bosses exited the kitchen.
“We totally ran a restaurant today,” Matt said, a smile creeping onto his lips. Mark laughed.
“Yeah,” he said, “we kind of did, didn’t we?”
The moment of elation sat between them like a birthday balloon, bright and taut enough to pop, until they heard a massive, “HGTSHHZUE!” from the dining room, followed by coughing, followed by motherly-sounding tutting from the hosts of the event.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mark said, and Matt nodded.
“Before they change their minds,” he said.
The two of them rushed out the back of the kitchen into the late-summer-evening heat. “Hey,” Mark said, before they went their separate ways. “I know you’ve had a long day, but would you like to go get a drink with me?”
Matt smiled, and turned toward the other man. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I definitely would.”
I've got a couple prompt lists saved, if you're still looking for some!
Hurt/Comfort Alphabet
Sickfic Prompts
Hope these help! (Also if you're open to any specific short prompt requests, I've been thinking about Greyson feeling Elijah's forehead since yesterday and...that's it, that's the idea)
Thank you again for the prompts! A little Elijah fever scene under the cut for you :) (500 words)
He was pale.
No, pale was too kind a word for how Elijah looked when he entered the restaurant this morning. He was pallid, like a small Victorian child left to fend for himself on a cold winter’s day. Colorless. Ghost-like.
Sickly.
Greyson watched his boss lead, with difficulty, preshift for the servers without saying a word. Elijah was sitting to read off reservations, which was also unlike him. His voice seemed to waver a bit, and every once in a while he’d turn to the side and stifle a sneeze into complete silence – well, silence except for the chorus of ‘bless you’s from servers trained entirely too well to be polite at any cost.
Once preshift had ended and the servers had dispersed to finish their sidework, Greyson approached Elijah and plopped himself in the dining chair beside his boss.
“What’re you -” Elijah started to say, before dodging Greyson’s hand with cat-like reflexes. Elijah raised a palm as though to say back up and Greyson rolled his eyes. “Don’t touch me,” he said, the palm turning to a finger pointed in Greyson’s face.
“I just want to confirm something,” Greyson said, leaning forward once again to try to touch the GM’s face. Elijah leaned back as far as he could this time, prompting a laugh from Greyson.
“Grey, I’m being so fuckin’ for real right now, don’t touch me,” Elijah said, scrambling to his feet and taking a few steps away from the chef. Greyson pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I would normally try the ol’ ‘you should go home’ bit, but I’ve grown weary of being constantly shot down by you,” Greyson said, standing and taking a few steps towards his boss. “There’s no point in even wasting my breath, right?”
Greyson was once again getting too close for comfort. “There’s not,” Elijah said, his heart dropping when he realized his back was quite literally against the wall. He wrinkled his nose; oh, fuck.
Greyson, quickly connecting the dots, took another step closer. “Are you sure I shouldn’t say it, boss? Because to be honest, you’re looking a little -”
“HhNGTSHZ-ue!” before he could even attempt to stifle it, Elijah pitched forward with a particularly harsh sneeze – and right into Greyson’s waiting palm. Without meaning to, Elijah leaned in to the cool of the chef’s palm, his own hand covering his nose and mouth.
“-pale,” Greyson finished, keeping his palm on Elijah’s hot, dry forehead until the GM came to and yanked himself away. “Nice high temperature you’re sporting there, boss.”
Elijah rolled his eyes and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Screw you, Grey,” he said, though a sniffle dampened the words a bit. Greyson chuckled and placed a hand on Elijah’s shoulder.
“You should go home,” Greyson said, rousing an eye roll from his boss. “But I know you won’t. So go sit your ass in the office, and I’ll bring you some tea.”
Elijah huffed, annoyed. “Whatever, Grey. Finde,” he said, turning to go to the office.
“And take some ibuprofen!” Greyson called as Elijah walked away. “You could boil an egg with that fever!”
I closed my eyes and crashed into a seat; there, problem solved. I glanced at my clipboard. On it was the list of first team players, and I presumed this would be the order I would be meeting them in.
I groaned inwardly. On the top of my list was Gonzalo Higuain; from my Madridista ways, I’d gathered he was quite charismatic. To be honest, he was not the first person I probably needed to start with.
Good thing I didn’t have much more time to worry because the next moment he marched right in without knocking, kissed me on both cheeks, sat in the swiveling chair next to mine, and grinned.
Dear, Lord, help me now.
I resisted the urge to begin our conversation with, “Hola, bonito, tienes msn?” and settled for “Hello, my name is Lena.”
He said, “Yes, yes, I know. Ayam Gonzalo.”
Really, Gonzalo? Are you also a “happy man?”
I sighed in relief that he was using English to dictate our conversation because God knows the process could end up with me being like, “Te gusta ese color? “Este”? No, “ese.” Wait; which one is it?” and cursing the fact that I didn’t watch enough telenovelas at home.
Our meeting went quickly enough. He talked to me about his feelings, probably more so than I really needed to know, and I sketched a few things, showed him some good textures on my computer that I thought would suit his desires, and nodded a lot. By the end of his session, I was exhausted.
He left as rapidly as he’d come in with a kiss on both cheeks and an “Adios, bonita!”
When he left the room I said quietly to myself, “Tienes MSN?”
But apparently not quietly enough because Iker Casillas sat next to me and started laughing.
Okay; so, I’m no social butterfly. As you may have noticed by now, I’m a little awkward and languages are not my thing, so being spooked by Iker freaking Casillas was not the best thing to happen to me.
I choked on my own air, and the first thing I ever got to say to Iker Casillas was “gracias” as he thumped me on the back until I regained control of my own breathing, something I should have mastered, oh, I don’t know, TWENTY FOUR YEARS AGO.
I kind of gawked at him unnaturally for a while like a fish (what was the word that he kept calling Mesut?) until he cleared his throat and I realized what I was doing.
“Hola, me llamo Lena.”
I figured Spanish would be the way to go since I’ve seen Iker’s profuse use of Google translate on facebook, but he gallantly responded with “Hi, ayam Iker Casillas. Can we speak in English? I like to practice when I can.”
I gawked at him again because it was actually really adorable and then nodded like a little puppy and said sure. AS IF YOU WOULD DENY IKER CASILLAS HIS DEEPEST DESIRE.
Iker was exceedingly patient with me, and my nerves were going crazy because Iker is kind of an idol of mine. Don’t even get me started on many times I’ve cried over him in my apartment while I stuff my face with Hershey’s chocolate bars and sob, “He really is just perfect. God, just look at him. God must have spent a little more time on him, you know? He’s like that damn N’SYNC song.”
By the time I had finished with Iker, somehow managed to sit in the presence of Sergio Ramos and not entirely pass out from the strong odor of manliness emanating from him (could it be coming from his fabulously groomed hair?) and his insistence on the excessive use of bright colors in his adto show his hometown fervor, and sat through the rest of the Real Madrid squad, I checked my list one last time.
I had missed Mesut Ozil. Now, a part of me was extremely happy with this because I, like practically every other fangirl on the planet, had a bit of a crush on him, and his truly sweetheart ways that somehow got super sexy when he wore sunglasses or anything would probably send me over the edge. I’d probably throw everything on the floor, stand up angrily at him, and start using all the Spanish swear words I know (which is only two, by the way; hurrah for good parenting).
“PUTA MADRE, MESUT! REALLY? YOU COME TO ME IN THIS PLAID SHIRT AND PERFECT PAIR OF JEANS AND NICE COLOGNE AND QUITE FASHIONABLE SUNGLASSES AND EXPECT ME TO BE A NORMAL FEMALE UNAFFECTED BY HORMONES OR WHATEVER MAKES WOMEN CRAZY? REALLY? YOU THOUGHT THIS OUTFIT WOULD BE OKAY? GOD, MESUT, JUST. NO. I’M DONE WITH THIS. I QUIT EVERYTHING. I QUIT AT LIFE.”
But instead I sat on my computer like a robot and fiddled my thumbs, staring straight ahead, practicing my deep breathing exercises and resisting the urge to start crying because I had met almost every player on the Real Madrid team, a dream of mine, and pretended to be an almost normal young woman.
