seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from China
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seen from Netherlands
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I can safely say that this 'sicfic' is turning into a slow burn sort-of-enemies to lovers, pride and prejudice-esque story that just happens to have one of the two with a nasty cold that changes the dynamic between them haha
I really am having fun writing again after so many years of writing purely academically
hello hi lurker here!!! i have just absolutely inhaled all of your hua/lian fics and art and will be rereading them all multiple times thank you so much for the amazing work <333
i hope you dont mind me asking, do you perhaps know of any fics with xie lian as the sneezer, 👉👈
omg thank you so much!!!! i'm so glad you enjoyed (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) !!
HMM so this one by @bestwhumpist goes back and forth, although it also has more of a h/ua c/heng focus by the end? however it is FIRE and i highly recommend the read!!!
💬 2 🔁 9 ❤️ 63 · divine intervention · (tgcf / heaven officials blessing) in honor of seeing the books on special display at a store last
otherwise of course to take; to accept and vacation have some xl sneeze, but ultimately not the focus u_u;; the only other two people i know of writing snz fic for t/gcf got into it via my fics and their contributions (which can be found in the "gifts" section on my ao3 profile) were uh, tailored to my tastes (so it's all h/ua c/heng sneezing whoops) ^^;;
IW/TV SNZ
Be the change you want to see in the world or whatnot,
This is a snippet from a very incomplete imaginary 5+1 A/rmand teasing snz!kink D/aniel.
“He’ll awaken when the sun sleeps.” Armand murmured, gently rubbing a fingernail across the bridge of his nose.
Daniel nodded and averted his gaze. The graph leveled to nothing.
The silence continued as Armand tended to his nose and Daniel looked intently at his notes, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Finally, Armand’s breath caught and he brought his wrist to his nose. “kkk-shiue! HeiSHoo! Hkshh!!” He gave a deep sigh before lifting his head to meet Daniel’s unimpressed gaze.
“Cut the shit.”
“I believe ‘bless you’ is more customary.” Armand lifted an eyebrow as he brought a very old looking handkerchief to his nose to dab at it.
“Get out of my head.” Daniel slammed the laptop shut. “You’ve been doing this on purpose.”
“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean. Perhaps Rashid has been neglectful in dusting.” Armand waved a hand dismissively before giving his nose a soft blow into the handkerchief.
“A vampire with.. allergies. Give me a break. ‘They’re just like us!’” Daniel rolled his eyes as he subtly adjusted himself in his chair, refusing direct eye contact.
Armand smirked and continued massaging his nostrils through the thin fabric. “Well, perhaps not like you.”
Daniel blanched and immediately starting gathering his things. “Let me know when Louis is ready to continue. We’re done!”
The only response was a delicate “heh-shiue” followed by a light chuckle.
okay almost 3000 words in and no sneeze yet, BUT there are coughs! signs of illness hehe, right? It's coming I promise
I need my babies to feel real before shit hits the fan
Cullen x Josephine forever
A Week of Falling | Ben and Arlo | M/M | Part 8
Link to all parts
Word count: 7,100
* * *
October 10th, Friday
As he should have expected, Becca’s interpretation of “food for you,” meant protein-less salad and a bread roll. That’s fine. Using regular silverware instead of his modified ones is proving to be more difficult than it’s worth, anyway. Also, his throat is feeling sore again. He thinks back to the day before when he did nothing but lie in bed and drink tea. It was truly one of the best days he’s had in months, and he refuses to consider what that says about him as a person.
“I mean, chickpeas, right? Like, they could have offered chickpeas? Lentils? Tofu? I mean, oh my god, it’s not hard.” Ben’s words tug at a special place in Arlo’s heart. It wasn’t very long ago when Ben thought vegetarians and vegans got all their protein from broccoli.
“It’s okay. I dod’t expect themb to go out of their way to accobbodate ode persod.”
“I’m curious to know your definition of ‘out of their way.’”
Staring down at the unappetizing salad, he gives a slight shake of his head, hopefully signaling the message of “now is not the time to have this conversation.”
“Surely you can eat the pasta, at least, right?” his cousin, Dalton suggests. “There’s no meat.”
Arlo pastes on a smile as he says, “All of the sauces have sombe kind of creamb.”
“But just this one time, right?” Dalton’s girlfriend, Missy, offers in a way Arlo is sure is well-intended. “I mean everyone has a cheat day sometimes. And a wedding is the perfect excuse.”
“He’s not looking for an excuse.” Ben’s voice comes through gritted teeth. Not a good sign. The last thing he needs right now is for this conversation to escalate.
“Yeah, umb, I could eat the pasta,” Arlo explains, hoping his smile doesn’t appear as tired as it feels. “Physically, I mead. Obviously. I’d just rather ndot. I prefer to not, uh….” This was the difficult part of conversations like this, which was why he would rather just not have them. “To eat foods that, umb….”
“He prefers to only eat food made from plants,” Ben finishes, shrugging.
“But, Arlo, have you ever tried alfredo sauce? C’mon, it’s delicious.” Dalton laughs and Missy joins in.
Dating Ben must have had more of an influence than he thought because the first thing that comes to mind is of fucking course I’ve had alfredo sauce.
“Arlo isn’t vegan because he dislikes the taste of milk products. Like, you do know that, right?” Ben asks around a mouthful of his own lackluster salad (which he’s eating because of, in his own words, ‘solid-fucking-arity, Arlo’).
“But then, why would he —” Missy begins.
Ben swallows his food before saying, “It’s an ethical stance. It helps to not think of it as a diet, but instead, as a boycott against the meat and dairy industry.”
Missy stares at Ben as though rocks fell out of his mouth instead of words. “But just one time isn’t going to make a difference.”
“It’s fide, actually,” Arlo interrupts, really, really not wanting this to go any further. “I ate a lot before the weddidg ad I cad eat sobethidg after. It’s seriously ndot a big deal.” His face burns.
“Suit yourself,” Dalton says, digging into his own meal.
“Is the bread good, at least?” Arlo asks Ben once Dalton and Missy are engaged in their own discussion. “I cad’t taste adythidg.”
“Eh.” Ben makes the “so-so” gesture with his hand. “I mean, it’s dry.”
“You cad eat other food, Bed. Or bread that actually has butter. You dod’t have to suffer because of mbe.”
“Solidarity, babe.” Ben’s grin is huge as he takes another bite of dry bread.
“Hup’shnxt!” The sneeze makes Arlo’s eyes prickle with tears.
“This is the last one,” Ben says, handing over a tissue. “Sorry.”
Grabbing the tissue, Arlo releases two forceful sneezes.
“Hh hh hngxt’shuu! Ngxt’shh!”
“Are you sick?” Dalton asks.
“Gettindg over a cold,” Arlo answers.
“Probably because you don’t eat meat.” Dalton’s chuckle at what he obviously thinks is a witty joke nearly makes Arlo cringe. He swears he has memories of liking him when they were children. “Seriously, I’ve heard vegans get sick a lot more because they don’t get the nutrients they need.”
Arlo internally groans. Not because this is something he’s been arguing against since he was fourteen years old, but because Ben’s next to him. And as affable as Ben can be with people in ordinary circumstances, he completely loses that ability when someone so much as looks at Arlo wrong. This quality is theoretically charming, but in practice, mostly only stressful.
Chewing his bottom lip, Arlo looks over at Ben, and — yes, there’s that expression.
“You probably shouldn’t speak about topics you know nothing about,” Ben says, his voice flat.
“Hey, I don’t mean anything by it,” Dalton says, hands up, his laughter sounding nervous. “It’s a scientific fact, though.”
“Oh? Where did you learn this ‘fact’? Because Arlo’s shown me studies showing the opposite, actually.”
“Just… it’s just a fact, dude,” Dalton says, now rubbing the back of his neck. “Everyone knows it.”
“Okay, we’re at a wedding. This isn’t the place,” Missy interjects, a tinge of pink across her cheeks.
Missy’s correct, so Arlo summons every ounce of energy within himself so he can engage in his classic de-escalation tactic. “We cad agree to disagree,” Arlo says, smiling as genuinely as he can while dealing with a terrible head cold, aching joints, and an increasingly unpleasant cousin.
“You can’t ‘disagree’ with studies. You — ow. Arlo, that’s my foot,” Ben yelps.
“Is it? Sorry. There’s not a lot of room at this table.” Arlo hopes the strain in his voice isn’t evident.
“Oh, yeah. I honestly thought this wedding would be bigger. I’m surprised it wasn’t planned better.” And as Missy begins to gossip in hushed tones, Arlo gives Ben’s foot another — very gentle, barely even there — nudge.
* * *
“Are you having fun?” Becca’s smile is absolutely radiant.
“Hmp’shhnxt! Sorry, excuse me.” Arlo managed to duck his head into his shoulder for the half-stifled sneeze. “Yeah, I’m having — hmph't! Hmkp’t! Sorry, I just - hh - h’tshh’nt! Yes, I’m having fun,” he says, finally.
“There are tears running down your face, Arlo.”
“Oh, those are just….” There is no good way to end a sentence he should never have started, so he shrugs his shoulders and sniffles wetly. Then, for good measure, sneezes again into his shoulder. He looks at Becca through his bleary eyes and there’s unmistakable concern on her face. “I’m having fun,” he tries again, but the words catch in his throat, causing him to cough into a raised elbow.
“You’re leaning against the wall. If you need —”
“Everyone leans against walls sometimes.” He has to project his voice in order to be heard over the loud music. He coughs again.
“That’s your response? Everyone leans against walls?”
“It’s true,” Arlo retorts, stubbornly. “It’s especially common for Americans. The CIA has to train their officers to stand upright because it’s such a cultural tell.” At least, he thinks that’s true. He did, admittedly, learn the information from Ben.
“Why are we talking about the CIA at my wedding?” Becca’s rolling her eyes, but at least she’s smiling now. “And where’s Ben?”
“He went to the bathroom. Are you having fun?”
Her smile grows and Arlo feels the corners of his own mouth curving. “Yes! Everything has been perfect!”
“I’m glad. Just, uh, burn all the pictures with me in it okay? When you get them.”
She laughs, but there’s something to her expression that tells him she’s already thought about this. “You look fine. Just maybe a little under the weather. Nothing to be ashamed of. Except, okay, right now, you may want to wipe your nose. It’s running a little.”
That has been the most recent development of the day. He’s no longer stuffed up, but his nose is leaking mucus at a steady rate, making it hard to keep up with — especially when his nostrils are so sore and cracked that it’s hard to feel the skin there anymore.
Sheepishly, he dabs at his nostrils with the back of his wrist. Maybe Ben found a way to obtain tissues on his trip to the bathroom. At this point, Arlo would settle for one-ply toilet paper.
“If you’re tired, you can —” She stops, chewing her lip. “Nevermind. Just wanted to come say ‘hi.’ I should get back to —” She gestures to their surroundings, to all the people dancing, having a good time. The people who aren’t leaning against a wall trying not to drown in their own mucus.
“Yeah, go! Have fun!” Arlo says, mustering up a smile.
“Thanks. You try to, too, okay? I’m sorry about the food, by the way! I realized there wasn’t really much for you. I thought you’d be able to eat from the pasta station, but I should have thought harder about the sauces. I thought there’d be marinara available, but obviously there wasn’t. Addy told me I should have been more specific with the catering company, and she’s right! So, I just wanted to apologize.”
“It’s okay! I ate beforehand. And the bread was good. So… no big deal.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah! And, it’s your big day, anyway. You shouldn’t worry about what I eat.”
“But you're my brother,” she begins, biting her lip. “I should have tried harder.”
“It’s okay,” Arlo says again, feeling his face burn for the umpteenth time of the night.
Becca smiles again, but this time it’s full of sympathy, and what he also expects to be some amount of regret. “All right. Tell Ben I said ‘hi,’ when he comes back from the bathroom. Oh, and happy early birthday!”
“I will and thank you.”
He’s in the middle of another coughing fit when his dad’s voice startles him.
“You sound terrible.”
“I know,” Arlo croaks out.
“It’s good you made it, though. Couldn’t have been easy.”
“Honestly, I’d really like to go to bed,” Arlo admits because, at least, with his dad, there’s never anything to hide. His dad has always been disappointed in him. He’ll always be disappointed in him. So there’s no use in being dishonest.
“Then why don’t you? You should probably rest. You don’t want to spend your birthday feeling any worse than you have to.”
Eyebrows raising, Arlo scrutinizes his father. “What? I shouldn’t just ‘tough it out’?”
His dad sighs. “I know I raised you that way.” Something complicated passes over his face before he continues. “There is some merit to it; I do truly believe that. But it’s possible I may have been a little hard on you all when you were growing up. You, especially. I can admit that. ”
Blinking several times, Arlo can do nothing else for a moment but shake his head. “Are you just talking about toughing it out while sick, or….” He lets the sentence trail off, inspecting his father’s face.
“No.” His dad laughs, wryly. “No, I wish that’s all it was.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
His dad inhales deeply. As he lets out the breath, he shifts his gaze away from Arlo, to the people dancing and celebrating. The music is still making it hard to have a conversation. His dad must sense this because he takes a step closer. “I’m saying I may have been too tough on you. In general.”
“You are?”
“Saying that? Yes.”
“No, I mean, I know you’re saying it. But do you mean it?”
“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?”
“People say things all the time they don’t mean, Dad.”
His dad nods, appearing thoughtful. “Have dinner with us next Sunday. I would say come over this Sunday, but ....” He gestures at Arlo, who is in the middle of sniffing up the mucus threatening to overflow his nostrils.
“Anyway,” his dad continues. “I want this for you one day. What Becca has, I mean. I want to be there for you one day when you and Ben decide to take that next step.”
Arlo chokes on his saliva, and paired with his illness, this turns into an unpleasant experience rather quickly. “Y-you do?” Arlo sputters, slowly lowering the arm he’d been hacking into. His dad rubs his back, wearing a concerned expression.
“Yes. You’ve been together, what? Two years? You seem pretty happy. Ben seems to treat you well. I assumed soon you may, well… you know.”
“Take the next step?”
“Yes,” his dad agrees.
“And you’d be okay with that? With us getting… uh, with us doing that?”
An indiscernible expression flickers over his dad’s face. If Arlo didn’t know better, he’d say he looked — what? Disappointed?
“Son, you know I grew up in a different time —” His dad must notice Arlo’s instinctive wince, because he quickly adds, “Doesn’t justify anything. But I want you to understand that I’ve been trying. For years now.”
On some level, Arlo knows he has been. There’s the Sunday dinners, the random Facebook meme his dad will tag him in. The text here and there he’ll get along the lines of “hey, come around soon for a beer.” Most notably, there’s the fact that whenever a new plant-based option comes to Walmart, his dad will send him a picture of it. That’s been a fairly recent development, and the first time it happened, Arlo had stared with his face scrunched in confusion.
So, yes, there were obvious signs his dad was trying to connect with him. But Arlo had assumed his dad was looking for a connection to a son who didn’t exist. A son who would come around and drink beer and eat steak with him. A son who understood football and could introduce him to a nice woman he met from work. Maybe the plant-based burger pictures were bait and his dad had just been trying to reel him in.
But here his dad is now saying — actually communicating with words — that he’s trying to reach out to him and that he, of all things, wants to be there for his wedding.
“I don’t even like beer,” Arlo’s surprised to hear himself say.
His dad is just as surprised if his raised brows are any indication. “What?”
“Dad, I haven’t drunk beer since college, and even then I hated it.”
“Are you all right?” His dad’s brow furrows. “Are you running a fever?”
“No. I mean, maybe? But that’s not —” Arlo squeezes his eyes shut and takes a measured breath.
His dad seems to examine the people around them, as if checking to see if there’s any witnesses to his son’s possible mental breakdown.
“You always ask me to come around to have a beer. You don’t even consider that that’s not even something I’m interested in.”
Realization settles over his father’s face. “We don’t have to have beer, Arlo. If you don’t like it. You can have goddamn Sprite for all I care.”
“But that’s not the point!” Arlo is a man in his mid-thirties in the middle of pursuing a Master’s Degree, yet here he is, feeling all of five years old. “If you knew me, you’d know not to even ask about the beer.”
There’s a silence that settles between them for a moment. Until his dad says, “How am I supposed to get to know you if you don’t give me a chance?”
And, well, there’s not really anything to say to that. Not that he’d be able to anyway because he suddenly has to sneeze. He buries four or five sneezes into the crook of his elbow.
“Listen, next Sunday,” his dad says when Arlo finishes. “Come over. Your mom’s wanting to get into cooking again.”
“Oh.” Arlo can’t stop his grimace. Normally, their dinners together have consisted of frozen pre-made food. There was also always something like instant potatoes. But the rare times his mother has tried actual cooking, it has been unpleasant, to say the least.
“Yeah, I know,” his dad says, looking appropriately sympathetic. “But she swears she will use an actual recipe this time. She found one for some kind of dumpling soup? Whatever it was, the picture looked good.”
“What about the sides, though?” Arlo asks, dabbing at his nose with his aching wrist. “How much of my own stuff do I need to bring?”
His dad furrows his brow. “No, I meant, she found a recipe for a meal you can eat. It’s vegetable dumplings. Something like that. You don’t need to bring sides this time.”
“Is it actually plant-based?” Arlo asks, his gaze narrowed.
“Uh, I think there’s salt? Probably?”
Arlo frowns. “What?”
“Salt.”
“Okay? That’s good. I mean, I’d expect there to be salt?”
“Salt doesn’t come from plants, though, so I didn’t know if I could call it completely plant-based.”
Despite his sheer state of misery, Arlo finds himself laughing. “Salt’s fine, Dad.”
“Okay, then. Good,” his father states before clearing his throat. Arlo notices his cheeks are red.
“Hgnt’shhh! HH ngt’shhxx! Excuse me,” Arlo mumbles miserably into his sleeve.
“You look —” His dad begins, but Arlo cuts him off.
“I know. I’m going to try and find Ben. He said he was just going to the bathroom, but he’s been gone for a while.”
“All right. Next Sunday?"
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Arlo says before aiming a half-stifled sneeze into his shoulder.
He makes his way through the crowd of people dancing until he spots Ben, looking impossibly handsome and charming. His smile is huge as he dances and talks to Arlo’s sisters. He says something, then begins walking toward Arlo.
“Glad to see you’re alive,” Arlo says.
Confusion flickers over Ben’s expression for a brief moment, then he smiles. “Yeah, well, you know… bathrooms. A lot can happen in there.”
“Ew, Ben.”
“Kidding. I was kidnapped by Addy. Next thing I knew, I was dancing.” As he scrutinizes Arlo, no doubt trying to determine his current state of health, he pulls something from his pockets.
Toilet paper.
“I am so sorry. Believe me, I know how shitty this will feel, but there’s not anything else. I’m kicking myself for not thinking to bring handkerchiefs.”
“It’s okay,” Arlo says, taking the thin sheets. He turns away to face the wall. As discreet as he tries to be, the simple fact is he has an absurd amount of liquid needing to come out of his face. So, as he fills up the toilet paper, he can only hope no one watches the undignified process. Well, he can also be grateful that the music is loud enough to cover up the sounds. And Ben stands as a sort of guard, hiding Arlo away from most people’s sights.
Shoving the used paper into his pockets, he turns to Ben.
“You look like you’re having an absolutely amazing time,” Ben says, his tone wry.
“Hmp’shxt!”
“Aw,” Ben says, his expression decidedly full of pity. But then he clears his throat and his features smooth out. “Oops. Don’t mean to treat you like a baby. I know you hate that. But….”
“But I look pitiful?”
“You look dead on your feet, babe. Listen, I’m calling it. We saw the ceremony, ate the shitty dinner, had some cake. Okay, well, we watched people have cake. We saw the toasts… And we — well, I — even danced a little. We’ve mingled. That’s it; we’re done. Let’s go.”
“But maybe I should help clear everything up.”
“What the fuck? No. There are plenty of people to help. Everyone knows you’re sick. Let’s go home.”
“But I wanted to — “
“Stay as long as possible. I know. This is as long as possible. Like I said, I’m calling it. I’ve talked to so many people. I’m tired. It’s time to go home and relax now.”
Arlo scoffs. “You’re an extrovert. You can talk to people forever.”
“Extroverted doesn’t mean ‘talking to people forever.’ Even I have limits.”
Maybe that’s true, but Arlo’s seen Ben socialize for longer than a few hours before without getting drained. This is obviously a thinly-veiled lie. But Arlo simply rolls his eyes rather than explain that because he is bone-achingly tired.
“C’mon, you can’t possibly pretend you’re having a good time,” Ben says.
“Actually, I can. You can’t stop me.” It’s a weak retort, but everything about Arlo is weak right now. So weak, that when Ben pulls him close, he lets himself be held. Ben’s arms wrap around his waist and Arlo rests his head against Ben’s shoulder. The tempo of the music is certainly not intended for slow dancing. But that’s what he finds himself doing.
“We must look so stupid,” Arlo mutters against Ben’s shoulder as they awkwardly sway.
“I don’t even give a single fuck.”
“You can’t keep saying that. There are children.”
“Yeah, no fucks given about that either.”
“Ben,” Arlo says, lifting his head slightly from his boyfriend’s shoulder.
“Fine, fine. All the more reason to get out of this place. Censorship is deeply unfair, you know.”
“It’s not censorship when you’re out in a public place around —” An intense and sudden tickle sparks inside Arlo’s nose. Before he can make any decision, he takes one quick gasp of air, then he’s shoving his face hard against Ben’s shoulder.
“HEHngt’shh! HEHNgt! Ngt’shh! N’gt! N’gt! Ah hih ng’tshhh!”
“Whoa,” Ben says. Arlo has a single moment to register that Ben’s grip has tightened before he’s tucking his face back into Ben’s shoulder.
“Hng’t! Ahng’t! Heh ngt! Mpftsshhhoo! HEH mpt’shoo!”
“You done? Have you got some more?” Ben’s voice holds no judgement. It’s low and soft, and comforting enough to keep Arlo from melting in a puddle of embarrassment.
“I’m done, I think —” Another gasp of air and Arlo’s diving back into Ben’s shoulder. “HEHgn’t! Gn’tssh! Mpkt! Hmphshooo!”
“Stupid fucking cold,” Ben mutters, rubbing soothing circles along Arlo’s back.
“Stop cussing.” Arlo’s words sound thick between all his sniffling. He feels Ben reaching into his pocket — the one with the clean wad of toilet-paper, thankfully.
After taking the wad, Arlo begins the process yet again of turning away from everyone, then proceeds to blow his nose.
“Hi, honey.” The words make him freeze in place. “Oh, you look just awful!”
Of course this would be the state his mother finds him in.
“He’s all right,” Ben says, wrapping an arm around Arlo’s waist again as he turns around to face his mom. “Just a crappy cold he caught from me. But I do think we’re going to head out so we can get some rest. Still not feeling great, myself.” Ben then lets out a string of pathetic sounding coughs that are absolutely fake. “But we’ve had a great time!”
Ben continues being polite while Arlo coughs helplessly into the crook of his elbow. After recovering, he manages to say goodbye to everyone, making sure to avoid any hugging.
They trudge slowly to the exit, then out into the parking lot, Arlo’s suddenly streaming eyes making it difficult to see.
“We’re going to another Sunday dinner,” Arlo says once he’s in the car and buckling his seatbelt.
“Not this Sunday?” Ben asks, his brow raised. “You need to rest.”
“No, Dad said next Sunday. After I get better.”
“Good.”
They drive in silence for a few minutes as Arlo’s brain processes the events of the day. Of the whole week really. He’s pushed himself much further than he normally would while sick. And then there was the incident at Walmart and then Jeremy contacting him again. A chill runs through his body at the thought. It’s been a lot, physically and mentally. The day before, he’d rested, but that consisted mostly of sleeping in between periods of feeling miserable.
He thinks of his bed and his books; he nearly groans out loud at the thought of the comfort and peace they’ll bring. He needs to rest his joints, though, so holding books is out of the question. But there’s always audiobooks. They’re not so much something he prefers; he likes imagining the character voices himself. But when he just wants to relax and close his eyes, they’re perfect. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the one day of this week he can enjoy.
But then he remembers.
His birthday.
He’s embarrassed to feel his eyes tearing up just the slightest bit at the thought. It’s something he’s been refusing to think about. It’s his birthday, yes, but more so, it’s an obligation. It’s something he’s letting Ben do for him because it’ll make Ben happy.
But maybe he can explain how he feels. How merely holding his head up today took an insurmountable amount of energy. Now that he’s considering it, it’s slightly odd that Ben is still insistent on this party. Maybe he has some surprise for him, like a homemade vegan cake or some other special dish.
“Did you think to bring my inhaler?” Ben asks suddenly.
And then every single thought slips from Arlo’s brain as a pit forms in his stomach. “Yes. It’s in the glove compartment.” Arlo’s already moving to reach toward it, but Ben’s hand stops him.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, laughing slightly. “No need for it. I was just wondering.”
Frowning, Arlo worries his lower lip between his teeth. “That’s not something you usually wonder about.”
“Do you need to stop anywhere before we go home?” Ben finally asks after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “Have you ever thought about the origins of the word ‘home’? Like, where does it come from? I mean, we have homosapien. Homophone. Homogenous. Homosexual. Home isn’t anything like those words though.”
Feeling his eyes widen to a size that can’t possibly be conducive to ocular health, Arlo says, “‘Home’ is not at all connected to those words.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “No. No, Ben. You’re not just going to obfuscate.”
“Don’t know what you mean,” Ben says with a shrug. “I don’t even know how to skate.”
“You can’t be flippant about this. We’re talking about your asthma, Ben!” His tone is surprisingly harsh and it triggers a coughing fit.
“I hear there’s some albuterol in the glove compartment. Sounds like you may need some,” Ben jokes weakly.
“Ben. Why were you wondering about your inhaler?” Arlo asks, his voice a thin rasp.
Ben keeps his eyes fixed on the road as he says, “I may have had a bit of an asthma attack Wednesday.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t a big deal. Obviously. I mean, here I am, alive and breathing,” Ben says with a faint laugh. When he sees Arlo’s unamused expression, he continues. “We were cleaning out the storage room. There was a bunch of old stuff in there. I think Mike must have used it as his personal storage or something because there was a ton of shit in there. Rolled up rugs… boxes of old clothes. Maybe it was mold or dust mites. I don’t know. But I started having an allergic reaction, then it kept getting worse, and… yeah.”
He continues driving while Arlo’s mind jumps to all the places in their home prone to accumulating dust. His allergies really are getting much worse. They need to get an air purifier. Arlo’s meant to look more thoroughly into those, but Ben’s been mostly fine indoors. But if he’s developing other triggers….
“It really was fine. I recognized the symptoms and got away from the room.” There’s a pause and when Ben begins again, his voice sounds unsteady, and Arlo notices his cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “The only problem was we had a bit of trouble finding the inhaler. As in, uh, we literally couldn’t find it.”
“But you did find it? Eventually?”
“No,” Ben states, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.
“So, what, then? The attack just went away on its own? It was that mild?” Arlo asks, his heart rate finally slowing down. “Then it sounds like a small trigger. You’ll have to update your asthma action plan, but it doesn’t seem like —” Arlo stops, examining Ben’s face. It’s doing a lot of contorting as if his mind can’t decide on which expression to settle on.
“It did not go away on its own, no.” Ben clears his throat. “But, again, it was absolutely and totally fine and not even close to being a big deal.”
After taking a deep, but shaky breath, Arlo says, “What did you do, then?”
“Luke called 911. The ambulance came quickly. Gave me a nebulizer treatment with albuterol. I went to the ER, even though I told them it was probably unnecessary. Had some more treatments. Then I came home. Not looking forward to the hospital bill, but I’m fine. Super fine. It just made me realize I should be more careful about keeping track of the rescue inhaler. And, uh, maybe also do better about taking the daily meds a little more, well, daily.” He laughs that nervous laugh again, then rubs the back of his neck.
Arlo leans his head back against the headrest and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a headache forming behind his eyes. He feels the urge to rub his forehead, but his wrists are reaching almost unbearable levels of pain, so he refrains. He grits his teeth as memories of Wednesday swirl through his mind. He’d been so sick that day, his migraine being all he could focus on. Well, the migraine and the phone call that he’s still actively working to suppress. While all that was going on, Ben had been in the hospital.
“Are you mad at me?” Ben asks.
Gritting his teeth, Arlo takes another measured breath. The inhale triggers something in his left nostril and after a fierce tickle that has him hitching his breath for several seconds, he manages to finally sneeze. “Ht’shhoo! Hgn’tshhhh!”
“Bless you,” Ben says as Arlo sniffles.
Arlo doesn’t respond.
“So,” Ben begins, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “I’m getting the sense here that you are, indeed, mad.”
“You were in the hospital.” Arlo opens his eyes, finally forcing himself to look at Ben.
“That is a place I was in, yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I did not.”
“So, when you came back so late that evening — when Connor stayed with me — it wasn’t because you were working late, was it?”
“It was not. After the hospital, then the pharmacy, me and Luke had to go back to the shop so I could get my car.”
The pharmacy. Of course he’d gotten medication. He must’ve hidden it so Arlo wouldn’t notice when he’d come home from work.
“I thought —” Arlo stops talking, trying not to think of the fantasies he had earlier of Ben tearing up at their wedding.
“You thought what?” Ben asks.
“I thought I mattered more to you than that. Have I misinterpreted the seriousness of our relationship? We live together, share a cat together. You — you treat me like someone who matters. You treat me better than I ever could have imagined someone treating me. So, I just thought…. But then you are taken to the hospital in an ambulance, Ben. And you don’t think to tell me. Instead you lie.” Arlo’s voice breaks at the end of the sentence and it’s not just because he’s sick. He’s about to cry and he can’t even use his wrists to wipe away the tears.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. No, that’s not the situation at all. Holy shit. Holy shit, Arlo. Fuck. Of course our relationship is serious.” A horn honks and Ben curses again as he realizes the light is green. “Okay don’t cry. Don’t cry when I’m operating heavy machinery and can’t do anything to comfort you, okay?” He glances quickly at Arlo. “Fuck. Okay, you’re really upset. Just…. We can pull over, but we’re almost home. We’ll be there in, like, two minutes.”
And so for two minutes, Arlo sniffles, coughs, and wipes his nose against his shoulder. When they exit the car, Ben immediately rushes over to Arlo’s side, but Arlo steps away.
When they enter, Classy’s there, wanting attention. Ben says a quick “hello,” and bends down to pet her. Realizing he doesn’t really know the best place to have a potentially relationship-altering conversation, Arlo keeps walking until he settles on the kitchen chair. Ben joins him and for a moment the two only stare at each other with their hands on their laps.
There’s a box of tissues left there from this morning and Arlo, despite the pain in his hands and wrists, snatches them. After emptying his nose, he lets the discarded tissues fall to the table, since the trash can is across the room and his pockets are already stuffed full.
“So, listen,” Ben starts. “This is not going to be a thing.”
Shaking his head, Arlo says, “What do you mean?”
“I mean I am refusing to let this be a thing. We’re not having this fuck up our relationship. Not right before —” He stops, clearing his throat, something unreadable passing across his expression. “Before your birthday.”
“And you get to decide that?”
“Yeah. Because we’re settling it right now. I’m apologizing, then, we’re moving past it.”
“Why is everyone acting like that?” Ben’s eyes widen, but Arlo continues before he interrupts. “I mean, everyone just keeps apologizing and expecting it to fix everything as though acting like I’m nothing is something that can be forgiven with a snap of a finger.”
“Jesus Christ, where did that come from?” Ben says. “What kind of conversations have you had today? And that’s not what I’m doing.”
“Becca thinks that, even though we had several conversations about possible vegan options for the wedding, that apologizing for there not being marinara sauce makes up for it. My dad thinks inviting me over for dinner fixes the fact that he’s been nothing but disappointed in me my entire life. And Jeremy thinks he can hurt me for eight years and break my wrist and then just apologize in the middle of a Walmart McDonald’s and expect me to take him back. Now I find out you lied about being in the hospital and you’re looking at me and saying that you can apologize and then, what? We’re fine? Because you don’t ‘want it to be a thing’?”
“Arlo,” Ben says, cautiously, as though he’s talking to a scared animal. “I’m going to get up and make some tea. I promise I’m not trying to dismiss or ignore what you’re saying. I just need a moment to think. And you sound like you can really use some tea; your voice is practically gone.”
And Ben’s not wrong, which makes everything so much worse. Arlo’s voice is hanging by a fine thread. It’s a wonder Ben understood anything at all that Arlo said.
Arlo listens to the sound of the kettle boiling and Ben’s steps as he maneuvers around the kitchen. He blows his nose, wipes his eyes on his shoulder some more, then proceeds to sneeze harshly onto his lap.
“HET’NgtSHhhoo!”
And is forced to restart the entire process. His words from his little outburst float around his mind, too, of course. But Arlo doesn’t think he can take any of them back because they felt right.
Ben leaves the room for several minutes, presumably to use the bathroom, since Arlo hears the toilet flush. When Ben comes back, he’s actually changed clothes. He’s no longer dressed for a wedding, but is instead wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Wordlessly, he walks over and grabs the tea, then sits back down at the table, handing it to Arlo.
“So you said a lot of things,” Ben states.
Arlo nods, sniffling.
“And there was a lot there to unpack.”
“Hmpnkt’shhh!”
“Bless you. Um, I really wish you weren’t sick while we’re having this conversation. But also, something tells me you wouldn’t have said any of that if you weren’t sick and exhausted, so maybe it’s a good thing.” He smiles as Arlo takes a sip of tea. “First off, I want to say I’m an asshole. And I want to apologize. But you said so much and ignoring all of it just to apologize feels wrong. I think maybe some other time, we can talk about those things more deeply. But, I will say this. You mentioned Jeremy and honestly, I think — ” He pauses and sighs. “Baby, you’ve got some really big stuff you’re not processing and, oh my god, if anyone knows how much that can fuck a person up, it’s me. I’m not trying to say that you’re mad at me because you’re not processing the shit with Jeremy. I genuinely fucked up. But also, he’s been on your mind constantly since you saw him. I can tell it’s been weighing on you, okay? And you refuse to talk about it. So maybe, I think — I mean, there may be a possibility that the reason you’re so overwhelmed right now isn’t just the stuff with your family, or even me, but because you’re neglecting to address something that happened to you. And, you’re sick and in pain, and would I be right in saying scared, too? When I told you about going to the hospital?”
Ben was right. He’s too sick for this conversation. He starts coughing, then he starts sneezing, and then he has to blow his nose. Now his wrists hurt and his head is pounding and —
Ben was in the hospital. He was in the hospital because he couldn’t breathe.
He starts crying. Again.
Ben chews his lip and reaches out as if to comfort Arlo, but pulls his hand away and continues. “I was going to have someone call you when Luke called for the ambulance. But then I got the nebulizer treatment, and started breathing more easily, and it seemed like the ER visit was just precautionary. I mean, okay, I don’t really know. They said I needed to go. But I was breathing okay and the attack seemed to be over, and I kept thinking how horribly sick you were that day. You were already exhausted and working when you should have been resting. You needed to rest and get better. Not drag yourself to the hospital when my asthma attack was already over. But yeah, shit, Arlo, when I was thinking about it a few minutes ago, I thought, what if it was you? What if our situations were reversed? And I get it, okay? I don’t care what kind of condition I’m in. If I’m sick, have a migraine, if I’m puking, even if I’m fucking bleeding out and dying. If there were only ten breaths left in my body —and you were in the hospital? I’d spend every one of them trying to get to you.” He stops and stares at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “Ten breaths would only get me, like, out the door, though. So, let’s change that to… a hundred? Five hundred? If there were five hundred breaths left in my body, I’d spend every one of them trying to get to you. That just doesn’t sound as romantic, though, does it?” He shakes his head, frowning. The smallest of laughs manages to escape Arlo even as another tear slides down his face. “But my point is, I should have let you know. I am so fucking sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter.”
“I was really scared,” Arlo admits, wiping his eyes again. “Every time you have an attack, or any allergic reaction, I get scared.”
“I know you do. I think that was part of it. I thought I could save you from feeling that fear. But that wasn’t my call to make.”
“It wasn’t,” Arlo agrees, once again awkwardly angling his face to wipe his tears away with his shoulder.
Ben reaches for several tissues from the box and moves forward. “Can I help?”
Arlo blinks, then nods. And so they both sit in silence as Ben gently wipes away Arlo’s tears.
“It’s been an emotional week,” Arlo whispers as Ben wipes a new tear.
“It has been,” Ben says, using another tissue to dab at Arlo’s wet nostrils.
“I haven’t really liked myself this week.”
For a brief moment, Ben stops wiping, but he resumes before saying, “I think everyone has weeks like that.”
“I’ve been a whiny baby.”
“I disagree. I don’t think you’ve whined enough.”
“Everyone gets colds.”
“Not everyone has RA,” Ben states simply, before wiping again at Arlo’s nose. It’s nice having him so close, not having to strain his voice. “And even if you didn’t, you’re allowed to complain. Colds suck.”
“I keep crying.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’ve just been so tired and… Jeremy. Seeing him made me feel like, like the way I used to feel when we were dating. Worthless. Pathetic. An inconvenience.”
“And that’s why you’ve wanted to push yourself? To prove you’re not any of those things?” Ben asks, his voice soft. He sets down tissues, then begins running his fingers through Arlo’s curls.
Arlo closes his eyes.
“Probably some of the reason,” Arlo whispers.
“Makes sense.”
“And I guess I kind of always felt a little like that even before Jeremy. Like an inconvenience.”
“I’m sorry that’s how you’ve felt. I wish I could make your brain be nicer to you.”
“Hpnkt! Hepnk’t! Mkpt’chuuh!” Arlo aims the sneezes away from Ben’s face, but now snot is threatening to run past his lip. He brings an arm up to cover, or wipe, he’s not sure. But Ben just hums as he takes another tissue and begins gently wiping Arlo’s nose.
“I never thought we’d get to the point where you’d trust me enough to do something like this,” Ben says, tossing aside the tissue into the accumulating pile. “There was a time you didn’t even want me to see your spoons.”
“It’s scary,” Arlo says.
“To show your spoons?”
He shakes his head. “To trust someone like this. To love someone like this.”
Ben’s smile is faint when he says, “I know.”
Then he leans closer, using his thumbs this time to brush away Arlo’s fresh tears. “Can I kiss you?”
He nods and Ben’s lips meet his. The kiss is soft. Comfortable. The way Ben’s rare kisses always are.
“I also never thought I’d want to kiss someone,” Ben says as he pulls away.
“What have we done to ourselves?” Arlo asks, breathing out a laugh.
“Something terrifying?”
“And amazing?” Arlo adds, his voice barely anything at all.
“Terrifying and amazing. Sums it up, yeah,” Ben says, laughing.
They sit there together, Arlo sniffling while Ben occasionally wipes away his snot or tears. Eventually, they manage to stop being sappy and pull themselves together.
When they’re both finally in bed with Arlo resting his head against Ben’s chest, he remembers they never discussed his birthday. But that’s a problem to solve for tomorrow.
Part 9
take me for a (bus) ride
a h/ual/ian snz ficlet
fandom: m/xtx t/gcf rating: T word count: ~1900 contains: modern au allergic!h/ua c/heng perfume + allergy sneezing sneezing in public cw: mess & brief gross mess interactions by a significant other
H/ua C/heng versus public transportation-- fight!
<< read it HERE on ao3 >>
[ PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG TO NON SNEEZE/KINK BLOGS ]
I need all of you to give me T/he P/itt snz fics asap PLEASE
Lavender Haze
*fetish blog- minors DNI please*
Fandom: I/ron L/ung + P/roject H/ail M/ary (Crossover) Pairing, AU: B/loodyM/ary, crossover AU where S/imon is saved by G/race and R/ocky Spoilers: to be safe, blanket warning for both films (but I/ron L/ung especially) Length: ~6.0k
Summary: R/yland shares something special with S/imon, which ends up having unexpected consequences. (based on this post)
Includes: sneeze fetish content, allergies, inducing, mess, hurt/comfort themes, crying, praise, a sprinkling of whump (and angst)
Notes: If you told me 7 months ago that I would be pouring my energy this year into writing fetish fic for a popular crack ship featuring one guy played by M/arkplier and the other by R/yan G/osling, I would’ve said you were out of your fucking mind. And yet here we are. Lord have mercy. Disclaimer that I'm using my best judgement/referencing what’s most popularly accepted on anything lore-related to I/ron L/ung in this thing, so if I turn out to be completely wrong when it's fully explained then so be it! Second disclaimer that there's probably some things in here that scientifically Do Not make sense and I'm very aware of this. Idk man, I’m just here to be gay and have fun playing with my toys :) as they say: whatever, go my bullshit!!!!
Fic Masterlist
The scene reflected in his eyes like crystal panes. A tree climbed and stretched out wide and endlessly above him, with a brilliant sky to fill the space behind it. Long branches swayed about in the wind, leaves shuddering. Brilliant spots of sunlight flashed in and out of view. Somewhere beyond the hiss of the breeze, there was a faint but distinct tingling of wind chimes.
It could've been real to him, if the floor beneath him wasn't so hard. Simon’s fingers flexed, searching for soft grass or dirt, but there was only a smooth, cold surface to greet him. If only.
He laid flat on his back at the center of the room, entranced. The digital display surrounded him at every angle, arching over him in a dome-like fashion. How long had he been laying like this? He honestly wasn't sure. It didn't matter.
He did badly want to believe it was real. Well, not that it was real, in the here and now. Rather that the footage itself was real, that it came from a real place like Ryland said. A planet teeming with trees and plant life the likes of which he hadn't seen in ages. Plenty he'd never seen at all. It didn't seem possible that this could exist anywhere after the stars died.
Faintly, Simon could hear an energetic exchange between two voices somewhere else on the ship. One voice human, the other a computer. Ryland and Rocky. It was from far enough down the corridor that he couldn't make out words, but the inflection implied their usual antics. He'd become acquainted with their dynamic in a short period of time. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Quite the pair, those two.
Things went quiet, isolating him back to the ambience flowing out of the speakers around him. Then, he could make out footsteps, human ones, steadily making their way down the corridor.
They stopped when they got close enough for Simon to feel the vibrations through the floor. “So you are still here,” Ryland’s voice said from above and behind him.
“Yeah.” Simon’s eyes chased the sunlight that would flash in and out of view as the branches continued shifting around. His focus remained uninterrupted even when Ryland sat down at his side, quietly watching with him.
“You're liking the nature views, huh?”
“Yeah. Nice to see trees again.” Simon blinked and finally looked at Ryland. His blue eyes softened as he met his gaze, and Simon nearly lost himself in them. Like an ocean, threatening to sweep him into the tides- that wasn't the most pleasant thought after everything he'd gone through, actually.
Simon’s gaze flicked more uncomfortably about the room. “We had one, in Eden,” he went on.
“Just one?”
“Yeah. After the Quiet Rapture, anyways.” He rested his arm across his torso, where he began to toy with the lower hem of his shirt. “It was special, somehow. We treated it like this… I dunno. A symbol of life, I guess.” That was how it had started, anyways. “They taught us that we were meant to sacrifice everything for it. When our own blood spilled, it would be the soil to grow more trees. Thousands of them.”
Ryland looked at him again, pondering his words. “Must've been some tree.” The sadness and shock lingering behind his glasses didn’t carry into his voice. Simon wondered what he was actually thinking.
“You said you still have them growing everywhere on Earth, though?”
“Yep. Tons of plants, actually. At least when last I saw it. That was… a while ago,” Ryland added.
Right. They had their own star problem in progress.
“Wish I could see it.” Sadness gripped Simon’s own features for a second as he spoke.
Ryland leaned forward, hugging one knee to his chest. He looked to the left. “You can see it here in some way, at least.” He pointed at the screen, where the footage diverted into a proper field. Tiny pops of color were speckled throughout the tall grass.
Simon turned his head. His expression held even, but the light in his eyes brightened. “Wildflowers, right?”
“If I had to guess.”
“They’re beautiful,” Simon breathed. He swallowed hard before he shifted, struggling his way into an upright, seated position. With one arm missing and the other still sore, it would take time before such maneuvers felt effortless again.
The effort was worth it though, to see the field straight on. The breeze disturbed the grasses not unlike the tree branches, causing a ripple to cascade through. The flowers bobbed around in tandem, like a dance of nature. Simon blinked wetness from his eyes, swallowing again.
“So… did you have any other plant life on Eden?” Ryland spoke up again.
“Mm-hm. I remember seeing certain flowers, at one time. They were too delicate to survive, though.” A stronger wind cut through, causing the blossoms to sway and bounce in more turbulent fashion. “There were succulents that managed to adapt without light, at least.”
“Mm.”
They sat in peaceful silence for a moment, both watching, pondering, yearning for home when home was still conceivable as something they couldn’t lose. Wind chimes sounded again from somewhere distant, beyond what the camera displayed.
Ryland suddenly gasped. “Wait. Simon. Oh, my God. I forgot to show you. I can't believe I forgot.”
“Hm?”
“There's plants on this ship. Actual plants.”
Simon blinked. He finally looked to find Ryland already back on his feet. “Really?” He frowned. Was this some kind of trick? Would Ryland really do that to him?
“Yes! Yes, c’mon. I'll show you.”
Simon took the hand Ryland offered to him and pulled himself to his knees. He moved in slow motion, joints still aching just enough to leave him unsteady.
“How is that possible?” Simon said through a grunt, pushing off the ground from one knee.
“Grow lights! Plus some care from yours truly,” Ryland said. The footage continued to play behind them as Simon followed him out of the room. It had been dubbed the Don’t go crazy room, which he found fitting. He'd been spending a lot of time there the last few weeks for a reason, after all.
“There were a ton of seed packets sent up with us. Or with me, anyway. A few didn't grow well but the ones that survived are doing great!” Ryland rambled on as he led Simon down the corridor that linked to the observation room. “I'm not totally sure why specifically they were sent with. Most of what's growing isn't meant to be eaten. I like to think they were sent along for some form of enrichment, maybe. Like a callback to home.”
A callback to home, huh? Simon quietly let that settle in the context of his own past. How foreign.
As they approached the observation room, Ryland suddenly stopped. There was a door to his right, one which Simon couldn't recall ever opening, now that he was facing it.
“Here. Take a look.” Ryland hit a button and the door slid open, revealing a small room. It was akin to a large closet or a small storage unit in size, surrounded with walls of white not unlike the rest of the Hail Mary. There wasn’t much to see, except for some garden supplies secluded into one corner of the room. Simon leaned to look further in, all the way to the left where he saw–
Simon’s eyes widened. What resembled a shelving unit was built into the wall, structured out of a glass-like, transparent plating. Neon, purple lights cast streaks of dazzling neon over the surfaces, making it seem as if the entire unit was aglow. And there were plants. So many plants, lined up like soldiers along the width of each shelf.
Many of them were green, leafy, but as Simon moved his eyes throughout, he spotted blossoming varieties of different colors. Some were as small as sprouts, others big enough that they looked ready for repotting.
He stood in the doorway, unmoving. Ryland held out a hand.
“C’mon. They don’t bite.”
Surely they were fake, right? For as many explanations as Ryland had already provided him, it didn’t seem possible. How could plants survive out here?
How did Simon himself survive, though? Was he even alive? He was almost certain he was. Maybe. Probably.
He needed to get used to the idea that anything was possible, now that he was here.
Simon numbly stepped into the room and approached the shelving. The plants looked real enough up close. He reached a shaking hand out and touched one, a viney thing that spilled over the edge of its pot and dangled down as it grew. The leaves were pale green and white, and they curled playfully around the tip of his finger.
It wasn't plastic or fabric. It was organic. It was alive.
Simon's eyes, one dark and one crimson, were unblinking as he looked down at it. So quiet, unassuming. Fragile too. Like looking in a mirror, if a mirror could turn back time.
This was life. He was standing face to face with life, life he was so certain had been lost forever. Life he had at one time cherished. A broken memory of the better part of his childhood struggled to resurface behind his eyes, blurry. No, wait, his vision itself was blurry. Why…?
“Si?”
Ryland’s voice pulled him back to the present. His eyes stung. Simon stepped back, suddenly aware of moisture streaking either side of his face. He blinked until he could see clearly again, sending more tears spilling down over his cheeks. He quickly brought his hand up, bewildered as he wiped them away.
He could sense that Ryland was standing behind him, closer than before and yet maintaining a wary distance.
“Sorry, I just…” Words caught uselessly in his throat, thick with emotion. “I didn't think I would ever see this again. Ever since…” He couldn't stop thinking about it, that he shouldn’t even be standing here now. He shouldn’t have even had the chance to see this again, even if he had believed it might be possible someday.
His breath hitched, nearly spilling into a sob. Something like panic unfurled beneath his sternum as he relived what should’ve been his final moments. Pain, so much pain. Excruciating pain. Thick, hot blood dragging him under, filling his lungs. Unruly voices screaming in his head, the Eel’s, his own, someone else’s, he wasn't really sure, he couldn't breathe–
A hand touched his shoulder. Ryland's hand.
Without thinking, Simon latched onto his fingers with his own, feeling them out as though he'd never touched them before.
Right. He'd woken up here. Alive. He was here. Ryland was here. Even the stars were–
“You're okay,” Ryland’s voice murmured behind him. “You're safe.”
Simon parted his lips for a shaking gasp. “I know. I– I know.” They stood still like that for a moment. Simon carefully timed and counted his breaths in and out, until the tightness in his chest loosened. Tears still fell from his eyes, slower.
“Thank you. For showing me this,” Simon finally said, breaking the silence with a voice gone hoarse. He hadn't let go of Ryland's hand. He didn't want to, if he didn't need to.
Ryland stepped closer, standing at his left, but he didn't let go either. “I figured this would mean something to you.” Simon held his gaze for a moment, frozen, lost in ocean blue again.
He should say something. One of them needed to say something. He–
“I can tell you about all of them. Um, if you like.” Ryland did the honor of breaking the tension. His hand did slip out of Simon’s grasp now, but slowly, as though hesitant to let go.
Simon sniffled and wiped at his face once more. “Yeah. I'd like that.”
Ryland had such a way of explaining anything and everything, he'd come to find. There was something nearly intoxicating in how he'd ramble, so animated and excited regardless of the topic. It was clear to him why he'd taken up teaching as a career. He was meant for it.
The angst remaining in his chest melted away as he focused on Ryland’s commentary about this plant, that plant, and so forth. It occurred to him how many of these plants he'd actually never seen before, beyond a drawing in a book or a description in writing. Even before the Quiet Rapture, his homeland's environment had limitations in what could thrive there.
“How do you know so much about all of these?” Simon interrupted, eventually.
Ryland gave him a sheepish smile. “To be honest, a lot of it is what I could learn from the seed packets themselves. And some personal observations, although internet access has come plenty in handy.” He looked back to the plants. “I guess I found it soothing to care for them. And it’s a good challenge to learn and memorize what works for which ones– some of these guys are pretty unique, heh. Plus, considering all the supplies were here to make it happen, I figure it’s what I was intended to do.” His smile wavered. “It… helped keep me busy after I first woke up. I couldn't remember much about myself, and it was honestly kind of scary. This was a good routine to have until Rocky found me.”
Simon’s eyes traced over the pot directly in front of him, from which brilliant, purple-blue blossoms sprouted up. “I get it. Plants are soothing to work with.” He sniffed and passed a hand under his nose, chasing away a faint itch. “They make good company.”
“You said they were scarce where you're from though, right?”
“Yes and no… the environment wasn’t great for a lot of things to survive. But what we could grow was important to keep alive.” Simon bit his lip, brow knitting together. “I would've liked to be a botanist, or somethin’ like that,” he blurted out. “I… I wanted to study them. Maybe figure out how to maximize their survival, and in turn, ours.
But I was still young then, and that was before, well…” Simon trailed off, leaving a multitude of things unsaid that Ryland already knew anyway. They didn't need to revisit that sad story right now.
“What was the environment like though? During your childhood,” Ryland asked.
Simon cleared his throat, but an irritation still clung to his soft palette. Was the air really so dry in here? “Think desert. Lots of sand and dust. Light was limited on Mars compared to what you’d probably see on Earth, though. Eden was darker yet.”
Ryland’s attention was fixed to the very top shelf, where the purple grow lights were absent, yet the plants seated there appeared to be doing well.
“I bet these guys up top would've done well where you were.” He reached up for one of the smaller pots, a plant made up of tall, long green leaves that stretched stiffly upward. “This one's a snake plant. They don't need any light to grow. And barely any water. Neat, right?”
Ryland continued on, first about the snake plant, and then the rest of the plants that lived next to it. They were mostly succulents, which Simon was intimately familiar with. He was content to let Ryland talk like he’d never seen them before though. The few that he touched were smooth and cool beneath his finger tips, just how he remembered.
A callback to home. He echoed Ryland's earlier phrasing in his mind. It settled there easier this time.
On and on he went. Nearly an hour had passed by the time Ryland started to lose steam. Each and every pot that had a plant in it was covered, from the basic, most important things to know, to more trivial remarks. How he needed to re-pot one soon, deadhead another, and so on.
Simon listened just as intently, seated on the paneled floor now as they focused on the bottommost shelf. The urge to paw at his face was however proving to be a frequent and useless occurrence. An itch stubbornly floated just inside his nostrils, and in his throat, a tickle. What was irritating him so much…?
“How do you keep track? Of what gets watered when, I mean,” Simon said, a knuckle pressing to his septum.
An urge to sneeze suddenly surfaced. Simon flared his nostrils and held his breath, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't bring himself to interrupt. Perhaps it was the intimacy that the size of the room imposed, being one of the smallest spaces he’d occupied so far on this ship.
“Nothing special, to be honest,” Ryland answered. “Just a lot of reminders I’ve set to go off. It’s especially helpful for the guys on the top who only need water every two weeks.”
Two more times did Simon resist an urge to sneeze before Ryland was wrapping up. In the short period of time that had passed, whatever was plaguing his respiratory system increasingly got on his nerves. He was just beginning to feel restless when Ryland helped him to his feet, and Simon stepped back out into the hall, distracted.
Having reasonable space now between him and Ryland, he was intent on finally letting loose. Except now that he was trying, the actual sneeze itself just would not come.
With a frustrated huff, Simon squinted up at the lights above. Usually that worked, when he was already on the edge. Not this time. He'd just sighed out his defeat again when Ryland caught up to him, the door leading to the plants closing behind him. Simon rubbed his eyes.
“Simon, I was thinking… how would you like to take care of them?”
He paused. “You mean the plants…?” He turned to face Ryland, brow raised.
Ryland nodded. “I dunno if it counts as proper botany, but if it would fulfill you…”
Simon stood frozen as he tried to comprehend the true weight of what Ryland had just offered to him. “That would be– I mean– thank you, Ryland. I’d– I’d love that,” he finally managed to say. He really would, and he nodded before repeating himself, “I'd really, reallyhih…hhhffuck–”
Correction: tried to repeat himself. Simon rolled his eyes as the itch suddenly swelled mid-sentence, only to retreat at the last second. As he swiped his hand aggressively under his nose, his eyes welled, the sensation prickling up behind them too.
Now he had to wipe his eyes. And then his nose again. This was getting obnoxious.
Ryland made a noise of sympathy. “Oh, Simon… I didn't mean to make you cry again–”
“I'm not. I-I just…” Another wave of tears took up residence on his water line. Meanwhile, the tingling in his sinuses reared again, this time enough to heave his chest with a breath inward– “hhHgh–! Huh…”– only to leave him hanging again. Moisture threatened to escape his nose, which he stubbornly sniffled back. “Snff, I keep feeling like I have to sneeze buhht I- hhH–! Fuck, I can't,” he finally managed to say. Heat scorched the tips of his ears as he realized how ridiculous he must look, breath uselessly catching and dripping from multiple channels.
Ryland seemed unfazed, however. He just frowned at him for a moment, looking him over. A thoughtfulness suddenly crossed his features. “Simon… do you have allergies?”
“What? Ndo, I don’t… snfff, think so…” He spoke in starts and stops as he rubbed frustratedly at his nose. And then his eyes again. Hell, even his ears itched, deep inside. Simon bit back another curse word. Why was everything so fucking itchy…? He desperately wished he was still equipped with another hand, just so he could tag team his nose and eyes at once. He settled for pinching at the bridge of his nose, thumb and pointer nails digging into his tear ducts.
It was then that Ryland grabbed his wrist, hesitantly at first. “Hey. Don't do that, Si.” Reluctantly, Simon let him pull his hand away, biting back a cough as he cleared his throat. “You’ll just make it worse. Trust me.”
“What would I be so ahh-hh–!” Simon hopefully flickered another glance at the lights above. The tickle burned hotter, and yet not hot enough. “...Ahhhllergic to adnyways?” he lamely finished.
“I think it might be the plants. The flowers.”
That made him blink, briefly pulled out of his torturous haze. “But I’ve never–”
“How long has it been since you’ve really encountered any pollen? Your immune system might not be taking it well.” Ryland gave him a look of sympathy. “I'm allergic too. Not to any of the plants up here. I was careful about what I personally planted, but back at home…” he trailed off, leaving an image of a miserable, itchy, sneezing Ryland to Simon’s imagination.
He wished he could sneeze. He should’ve taken the chance earlier, when it had seemed imminent.
His hand trembled in Ryland’s as the itch started to grow again. “Hhhow long do I have to put up with this?”
“It should get better now that we aren’t in the room. I can give you an antihistamine too, although… you look like you’d be better off sneezing some first.” Ryland watched as he hitched uselessly again, expression somewhere between amusement and a sympathetic wince. “I know how frustrating that is. Have you tried looking at a light?”
“T-twihh-twice already. Ndo good.” The deeper tones of his voice wavered up into a desperate pitch. His nose threatened to leak again, and against Ryland’s advice, he stole his hand back, scrubbing at it with the base of his palm. Warm to the touch, his nose was surely adopting a shade of pink that he was only saturating further. Right then though, he couldn't find it in himself to care.
Ryland bit his lip, touching a hand to his chin. “I mean, you could try to…” His expression tightened further. “Normally I would never suggest this, as it’s liable to make things worse before they get better, but… just wait here.”
Simon watched in confusion as Ryland suddenly disappeared back into the room where the plants were kept. He had something in his hand when he came back out. A sprig of something purple. Lavender?
“I can't guarantee this won't just make you more uncomfortable. But it might boost your histamine response enough to sneeze.”
Simon understood the idea. “Whatever. J–hhhust as long as I do.”
Even through partially blocked nasal passages, he could already smell it. He’d noticed it before when he was in the room, but this close to his face, it was far more concentrated. A scent sitting between floral and herbal, it seemed to caress his senses with innocence.
Simon had a feeling it was not so innocent though, now that he was face to face with it. Ryland brought it close enough for him to inhale, and he sniffed it deeply, once, twice for good measure. And…?
He felt nothing at first. Until it hit him, and it hit him hard, like a punch in the face. Though invisible to the naked eye, every individual pollen grain had a loud presence beneath his skin, dancing like a colony of fire ants. Crawling, biting, itching so fiercely he couldn’t think about anything other than how badly he wanted to sneeze.
Ryland was right. Bad idea. Really bad idea.
“Hihhgh– whatthefuhh-fuckhidh–! hHH–!” His breath hitched so hard and fast he nearly coughed, nostrils flaring to their widest. He thought it was bad before, but this? Nothing could compare. The sensation skyrocketed to immeasurable levels, buzzing and tickling and rushing its way to every corner of his very existence.
He hoped the payoff would be worth it.
“HEHH’dt–!” The urge took him with such ferocity he forgot how to properly submit. Simon’s head bobbed down, but the rush of air caught in his throat uselessly. “hih–ghH…!” And it hurt. His arm instinctively hugged his midsection, bracing for another bout of pain.
“HHEHh’gt–!” Again, he was unsuccessful. Pressure throbbed in his temples, sinuses, and throat. His lungs shuddered under his still healing ribs. Yet, the need to sneeze remained at critical mass, untouched. Overwhelmed and dizzy, Simon stumbled back into the wall behind him.
A hand touched his back. Ryland stood at his side, speaking quietly into his ear, “Just relax, Simon. You’ll feel a lot better.” His hand rubbed between Simon’s shoulders in slow, soothing motions.
“I’mb t-tryig’– hhHH–!” Whether it was Ryland’s gentle command subconsciously at work, or his equally gentle touch loosening his posture in just the right way, his body finally remembered how to sneeze properly. “hHHR’ESHhhh–ih–!” Perhaps too properly. A harsh, angry sound split out of him through gritted teeth, tearing at his throat. His abdomen clenched tighter with white hot pain.
Above the misery though, he would've groaned in relief- if the relief of finally sneezing had lasted longer than a half second. One was simply not enough to tame the wildfire burning at the center of his face, and he was gearing up for another before he could even recover from the first.
“hH, huhhH–!” Simon’s gills fluttered at either side of his neck, furiously forcing air back into his lungs. His lip curled into a snarl, exposing elongated, sharp canines. He felt a shift within his sinuses as he tilted his head back– a warning sign that the next one would be far more productive. “hhehH–! hHEGHH-SCHeuhh–! Gh–!”
Fuck. Fuck, shit–
It bent him at the waist, spraying and spilling snot down onto his upper lip. That was where the problem came in. That in his mindless haze, he raised an arm to catch and cover himself– his left arm. The wrong arm. The one he didn’t have.
This was a recurrent issue, trying to use it when it wasn’t there. He hadn’t gotten used to its absence and so far feared he never would.
Simon was able to open his eyes for a second, as he realized his mistake. He’d caught his own shirt in the crossfire, the fabric speckled with wet spots. Worse, he’d caught Ryland too, who was still hovering beside him, hand still rubbing his back.
“Ohh, shhit, Ryland, I’m sih– sorrihhH–huHH–!” He could barely apologize before he cycled back into the fit. “hHHR’SCHHhieuhh–!” Where they initially tore at his throat, they'd evolved to pull from a higher, more desperate pitch in his voice register. He wasn't sure he could ever sneeze like this if he tried. Not the sound, nor the pattern- it was unlike anything he'd experienced ever before.
“Don’t apologize, Simon… It's okay. There, yes, just like that…”
There was that too.
Ryland’s voice in his ear sent a shudder down his spine, one which he couldn’t grasp enough clarity to acknowledge the implication of. “hiEHH–SHIEuuhh–!” His arm– the good one, which he’d managed to raise after his initial fuck up– was instantly drenched. There was no space for him to be mortified about it. He couldn't even find the time to whine at the pain shooting sharply through his sides, over and over. All he could do was keep– s-sneezing–! “hhHRH’ESCHHh–!”
“There… you’re doing so good, Simon. Bless you. Oh, bless you.”
His knees threatened to buckle. In fact they did, partially, and not just because he was lightheaded. For as strange as the circumstances were, this was the first time in a long, long time that words of praise were sweetly touching his ears. Before this, for most of his life, he'd only known voices that spat out propaganda and command after command, until he'd been molded into the perfect weapon they desired. The hand touching his back now too, would've been cold back then. Stained in sin, guiding him only to fight and maim, for whatever he'd been brainwashed into thinking it was worth.
But now, someone was being gentle with him. Yes, unapologetically gentle with him, Simon the Butcher, the Convict. Did he really deserve this?
His knees buckled further. Ryland noticed him stumble. “Whoa, careful…!” His other arm hooked around his front, catching and pulling Simon towards him, mindful of his still tender ribs. He turned him around, holding him upright against him, chest to chest–
“Rhhyland, what’re you– I still hhhave to–” Simon gritted his teeth, eyes burning as he fought against another sneeze. He was painfully aware of how close he was to the other man, how firmly he was holding him at his hips, and the way he couldn’t help but lean into him despite his instincts telling him to resist. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to let go but smack dab between them.
“Let it out. It’s okay. I've got you,” Ryland assured.
Simon’s hand trembled as it grabbed the closest thing it could find– the bottom hem of Ryland’s shirt. He held that handful of fabric like a lifeline as another sneeze shuddered through him. “hHHh…ehHH’SCHHIUehh–!” Ow, ow, ow. A sharp ache ran through his shoulders this time as he tucked his chin to his own chest, reluctant for Ryland to witness any part of this so close to him.
Ryland wanted nothing of the sort though, apparently, as his arm maneuvered over the back of his neck. He pulled Simon in even further, obliterating the space between them. “hh…dhHh…!” He wheezed into his shirt, inhaling Ryland’s scent, something so familiar and yet never hitting his senses at a dose as high as this. Simon's head spun. “hhEEHH’MMFSChh–!” He had no choice but to sneeze into the fabric, into his chest. All but melting into him.
“Good, Simon. Breathe. Good. Bless you.”
Maybe he would melt away, if he kept talking to him like that. The soft cotton offered a relief he didn’t know he needed, and Simon quickly found himself freely muffling sneezes against him, bracing his full weight against Ryland’s taller form. Completely and utterly anchored to him.
Eventually, finally, the space he had to recover between sneezes began to lengthen. The fire in his sinuses died down to embers, diluting into a dull throb that climbed up between his eyes. The onset of a massive headache, he was certain.
He maintained his face against Ryland’s chest for a moment, breathing heavily. Ryland continued drifting sweet nothings into his ear.
It was over. He could drop the praise and sweet talk now, Simon thought. And yet, he couldn't find it in himself to tell him to stop.
When he finally had the strength to lift his head, the air was cold against his face where moisture still clung to his skin. “Oh– shit–” he hissed when he saw the mess he'd made. A massive wet spot darkened the fabric across Ryland’s chest. At the center, it was glossy, and Simon recoiled further in shame.
“Better now?” Ryland was smiling at him. Smiling after he'd turned him into the equivalent of a human snot rag. Did anything make this guy cringe?
“But your– your shirt, I'mb sorry I–”
“It can be washed.” Ryland blinked, suddenly seeming to notice how close they were still pressed. He didn't move though. “I didn't realize you'd have such a reaction. I’m surprised Rocky didn’t come running to see what the matter was, heh. That sounded intense.“
Simon nearly flinched from the sudden rush of heat running under his cheeks. “I-intense, yeah,” he stammered. His hand still clung to Ryland’s shirt with a white knuckle grip. He couldn't find it in himself to relax. “I thought I would break another rib if I– oh–”
The words got stuck in his throat as Ryland’s hand suddenly moved up his back, all the way to the nape of his neck. Gently, he scratched at his scalp, fingers intertwining with dark, messy locks of hair. Simon closed his eyes to hide how they rolled with euphoria that could drop him to his knees, if he let it.
Ryland’s hand slowly made its way to the top of his head, where he continued stroking his hair. Then, abruptly, he stopped. “Sorry. Is this too much?”
Simon blinked open his eyes. He kept his vision level with Ryland’s chest, close enough that he could make out the miniscule vibrations of his heartbeat. It was elevated. Was he nervous? “Ndo. Ndot at all, snff,” Simon finally said. Ugh. How could he still be so congested after that?
Satisfied, Ryland’s hand continued its delicate massage, sending goosebumps cascading over Simon’s skin. “I'm sorry the plants made you so miserable,” he said, eyes focused on the wall behind them.
“It was worth it. I think,” Simon said, the corner of his mouth twisting. “I suppose I shouldn't be the one taking care of them, though…”
“Hey, it's not the end of the world. We can try some antihistamines and see how you fare,” Ryland quickly assured. “Maybe we could separate them out too. Whatever ones don’t bother you could be yours, and I’ll do the rest.” He glanced at the door, continuing on, “The air might circulate better too if we leave the door open, so long as our gravity is active. Plus, you have to remember we were in there for a while. That’s a lot of exposure time…”
Simon knew it wasn't much, what he was describing. It wasn't as if shifting some plants around or digging out some pills for him was the equivalent of uprooting his entire life as he knew it. But it may as well have been. No one had done much of anything for him in this realm, at least not since he was…
He usually felt the absence at the right side of his chest, where he used to wear the holster his mother had given him. Prior to when he had to part ways with it on the SM-13, he always had it on, even after the blade inside had been confiscated by the COI.
It had once served as a grounding tool for him. Something for him to nervously grab and rub his thumb over. Slow, soothing motions over smooth, dark leather. He wasn’t reaching for it now though, he realized. He just held on to Ryland instead. Ryland, who was treating him with more kindness than anyone he'd ever known, besides her.
“You keep telling me you aren’t an angel, but I still think you’re lying to me.” The words slipped past his lips before he could stop them.
Ryland stopped his rambling and stared at him with owlish eyes. He grinned as he spoke, “I'd only be lying to you if I told you I was.”
Simon bit his lip. His heart pounded in his ears. Why did his chest feel so tight? Residual allergy symptoms, right? Surely that was it.
“There’s more to life than what you’ve known, Simon. And I'll show you as much of it as I can.”
Everything stopped. The air left his lungs. His eyes burned fiercely again. Simon suddenly couldn’t bear to look at him, so he did the only thing he could think to: press in close, cling to him with an arm around the waist, stiffly until both of Ryland’s arms returned the embrace.
They stood like that for a while. Way longer than they needed to. Simon wasn’t completely sure what that meant. Did Ryland know? His pulse was still heightened, beating nervously against Simon’s ears.
Maybe he was just as uncertain, and yet embracing it all the same. Maybe Simon could do that too.
He was forced to break away finally, once the congestion shifted and he was incessantly sniffling again. Not sneezing though, which he was grateful for. His sides still ached.
“Let’s get you something for your allergies. Then maybe I can show you more plants, virtually. I'll bet Rocky wants to see them too.”
“I’d like that a lot, Ryland.”
Simon stopped to glance back at the door leading into the plant storage. He had a vision of himself, calm, at peace, tending to them inside. Not a memory of his younger self, but a vision of the not so distant future. And he wasn’t alone. Ryland was there. So was Rocky.
More to life than what he’d ever known, huh?
Maybe he would learn to believe that after all.
