A Cup of Tea and Paracetamol pt 3/? (probably 4)
I’m back with part three, finally. Written in a horn-haze, absolutely NEVER reread or beta’d because I’m a moron and refuse to be perceived, even by myself. I’m thinking this is going to have one more short part, but god only knows when I’ll get it done. Could be tomorrow, could be six months from now. That’s just the fun of writing snz p0rn. It’ll be done when the *MOOD IS RIGHT*.
Part one here, part two here, if ya wanna know what’s going on.
cw: male, colds, contagion, coughing.
Enjoy and thank you guys for reading my ridiculous lil fic
When Elijah opened his eyes the morning of the event, he thanked whatever god there may be for small mercies – the mercy in question being his nose.
Yes, he was incredibly stuffed up; yes, his whole face felt swollen with congestion, and yes, his cough sounded completely disgusting. But somehow, against all logic, he no longer had the insatiable tickle that meant near-constant sneezing. He’d be able to speak to the barrage of guests they’d be inundated in a few hours, and Greyson wouldn’t have to have an aneurysm. Thank god.
Elijah peeled himself out of bed and hit the shower while Greyson snored away. It was ungodly early, and they didn’t need to be in the kitchen to get final instructions for at least an hour. He took his time, coughing and blowing his nose, sucking in the steam and mentally preparing himself. Was today going to suck? Most likely. But at least he wasn’t doing it on day one of this fucking cold; that, he literally couldn’t even imagine.
After about twenty minutes, the hot water had begun stinging his skin and Elijah stepped out into the steam-filled bathroom. He brushed his teeth, did his hair, made himself look as normal as he possibly could; he even used his for-emergencies-only concealer to disguise his eye bags and how chapped his nose was. This was going to work. Everything was going to be -
Elijah whipped towards the door. Absolutely not. No way in hell. He shook his head, assuming he was hearing things, and threw open the door to see Greyson, head tipped back in what looked to be pre-sneeze torture.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
“ESSHHHH-ue! Huh…hnn…hehhhEGSTTSHH-ue!”
Elijah pulled a hand down his face in agony. “You ha -,” that same hand flew to his mouth then at the sound of his own voice. Or, rather, the lack of sound.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” Greyson finished Elijah’s sentiment, sniffling. “You have no fucking voice?!”
“App -” Elijah tried again, only for his voice to completely drop off once again. He sunk onto his bed and gave a defeated shrug. Apparently not, he mouthed to Greyson.
“Great,” Greyson said, pacing the room in a panic. “That’s just fucking wonderful. What are we going to – to -” Greyson’s face once again collapsed into a hitching anguish.
“Hhuhh....hehh...HUH – hngggg.” Greyson rubbed his nose viciously, clearly having lost the sneeze. Elijah cringed in sympathy, then grabbed the hotel pad off of his night stand and wrote Greyson a message.
He showed the message to Greyson, who rolled his eyes. Elijah turned the pad back to himself and scribbled a Sorry.
“I’m not sick, Lij,” Greyson asserted, yanking off his thermal and pulling on a t-shirt and his clean chef’s coat from the closet. Elijah raised an eyebrow and coughed into his sleeve. The silence in the room accentuated Greyson’s liquid sniffles.
“I’m not,” he said again, shoving his feet into his clogs and slamming his ass into the desk chair near their beds. “But you, apparently, have the black plague. How the hell are you going to schmooze the guests if you can’t talk?”
Elijah wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a real question or hypothetical, but he started scribbling on the pad either way. He turned it to show the chef, who groaned aloud.
You’ll have to schmooze. I’ll make the samples.
“Lij,” Greyson said, the panic immediately filling his voice. “I can’t. You said you’d be able to do this no matter what.”
Elijah gave Greyson a look of pure confusion and gestured to his throat. “I said I’d be there no matter what,” he whispered, barely audible. “Couldn’t exactly guarantee the state I’d be in.”
“I’m literally begging on my hands and knees for you to not talk,” Greyson said, his voice raising half an octave. Elijah shrugged and turned back to his notepad.
You can do this, he wrote. Greyson groaned again.
“Well, I don’t have much of a choice, now do I – HNGSTTHHH-ue! Oh thank god, I was waiting on that one.” Elijah gave his friend a pointed look, to which Greyson quickly attempted to cover himself with another, “I’m not sick.”
Elijah held up a hand and mouthed, “Save your breath.” Then, after rubbing his throat, he wrote You’ll need it.
“Okay,” Greyson said to the small army of culinary students posted behind their immaculately-decorated booth, “here’s how this is going to go.”
The students stood up taller, and Elijah, who stood between the five of them like a large, out of place goose among ducklings, ducked down and sneezed into his mask. Fucking gross, he thought, rubbing his face with the back of his hand and standing once again. The students gave him a look of pity, and one handed him yet another god-forsaken paper cup of tea.
“Chef,” one of the students said, raising his hand, “are you sure, um, Elijah is going to…make it through service?”
Elijah gave the student the dirtiest look he could muster and the boy reddened and looked down in embarrassment. Greyson sighed.
“Look, I get that this isn’t ideal and I’m sorry that you’re all being exposed to what I assume is the fuckin’ black plague, but unfortunately this is the hand we’ve all been dealt and now we have to… to...hhh...huhhh…” Greyson’s breath hitched for about the hundredth time that morning, and eventually ended in a shaky sigh. “Deal with it,” he finished, stuffily.
The students squirmed. To say they’d been dealt a shit hand would be an understatement.
Greyson ignored the looks from the students and went about showing them all how to put together the nacho, who would stand where, and where their backup product was in the kitchen. “Lij,” he said, “your job is to garnish and make sure everything looks perfect. And to not cough on the food.” The students tittered nervously at that, and Elijah rolled his eyes.
“I’ll do my best,” he whispered, making everyone cringe at the sound of his voice. What I wouldn’t give for some goddamn dayquil about now, he thought, pressing his palm into a swollen eye.
“Alright, guys, event starts in twenty. Go do whatever you need to do to get ready, and we’ll see you back here in fifteen,” Greyson said, and the two older men watched the teenagers scatter before letting out a collective sigh.
“How you holdin’ up?” Greyson asked as Elijah pulled off his mask to blow his nose. The GM gave the chef a pointed, watery look before putting the mask back in place and coughing into it. Greyson couldn’t help but huff out a laugh. “That good, huh?”
Elijah rolled his eyes and whisper-croaked, “It’s not nearly as bad as yesterday. I’ll take anything over the constant -”
“HFSSHHH-oo! NGTSSSHH-uh!” Greyson managed to duck down and catch both sudden sneezes into the crook of his elbow. He sniffled and his breath hitched again, but the elusive third sneeze abandoned him.
“Sneezing,” Elijah finished, handing the chef the tissue box the event contact had pointedly placed on their station an hour before. “Bless.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Greyson growled, taking a tissue and swiping it under his nose. “I’d give my left fuckin’ nut to sneeze about a hundred times, at this point.”
“Mmm,” Elijah hummed, the sound nearly inaudible. “Don’t worry. It’s coming.”
He hadn’t quite given in and admitted illness yet, but Elijah could feel his friend’s barriers slowly breaking down. This cold had a way of getting you to your breaking point, and hurriedly. Greyson was usually a deny-until-he-passed-out kind of guy, but Elijah knew exactly how annoying this particular illness was, and it basically demanded you loudly complain about it.
The students returned with ten minutes to spare, and the older men assumed their positions. A three hour event, Elijah reasoned with himself. You can do anything for three hours.
With everyone in place and as ready as they could be, the gates opened.
“Well done, guys, thanks so much again,” Greyson said for the millionth time as the students waved him and Elijah goodbye. The event had gone as well as it could have, as far as Greyson was concerned. The food was put out, he managed to talk to the guests without sounding like a complete moron, and Elijah hadn’t keeled over in the middle of it.
Though he’d certainly come close.
The GM was currently seated on the ground behind their booth, coughing into his sleeve like it was his job. When he finally emerged, he gave the already-departed students a half hearted wave and ripped off his mask.
“Thangk god that’s over,” Elijah mouthed, his voice not even a whisper at this point. Greyson just smiled and let himself sniffle, finally. “How’re you feeling?” Elijah mouthed,
Greyson barked out a laugh and gave his friend a bemused look. “I really don’t think that’s something you should be asking me,” he said. Elijah raised an eyebrow slowly – did Greyson somehow not recall the last three hours?
Greyson rolled his eyes. Okay, yes, maybe he’d spent the better portion of the event with a tissue in his fist, and maybe it had been a running joke among the guests who came up to their booth that Greyson was allergic to socializing because somehow, the moment he had to speak to someone his breath would hitch uncontrollably but never end in an actual sneeze. Maybe his throat was so sore that he was unsure he’d be able to even drink water this evening, and maybe his nose was threatening to run down his face anytime he wasn’t constantly sniffling. But he was certainly not the truly ill one among the two of them.
When he told his boss this much, Elijah coughed out a laugh. “Grey,” he croaked, “in case you don’t remember, I was you yesterday. I know I sound like complete death,” he tried clearing his throat to no avail, “but I know you feel entirely worse.”
Greyson slumped against the back of the booth and felt his sinuses fill once again. He raised an arm to catch a sneeze that – “huhhh….hnnn....huh, HUHH…hehh. Fugck.” - never actually came. He let out a pathetic, itchy, sticky-feeling cough and sighed.
“I’ve...I mean, I’ve been better,” he grumbled, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Elijah made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and threw an arm around the chef.
“Sorry again,” he whispered.
“Ndot your – HGSTSHHH-ue! HTSHH! HRRSHHH! Huh-NGSTHHH-ue! Oh, thank fugcking god.” Greyson rubbed his nose across his sleeve in the pure bliss of finally getting to sneeze, and Elijah laughed near-silently.
“I’ll drink to that,” he whispered, nudging the chef out of the booth. “Let’s get out of here.”
