Y'all are sweet. I've gotten a few messages about my IWTV snippet so far. This community is so supportive! I'm so grateful! <3
More of A/rmand teasing snz!kink D/aniel, but mainly trying to defuse the tension between his men!
Daniel snorted. “’The great conversion?’ Well, good luck with that because most people I know like to play a little ball in the afternoon, or maybe going down to the beach, catching a few rays.”
More staff continued to file in as Louis listened. “Yes. What on Earth would a meth-addicted son of a coal miner in West Virginia want with eternal life?”
Daniel continued to stare intently, refusing to drop the original questioning. “Did you eat the bab-“
“mph-tch! N’gxt! Igsshnxt!”
Daniel and Louis both abruptly turned to Rashid who had his nose cradled in between his thumb and index finger.
“Apologies.” He murmured, averting his gaze.
“Gesundheit.” Louis sounded unimpressed with the interruption and raised an eyebrow, turning his full body around to stare intently at his right-hand man.
Daniel said nothing, his mouth having run dry. Why was Rashid tailor-made to destroy him? He briefly questioned if Louis had read his mind to determine his exact type to perform his exact kink as some sort of test, but then shrugged it off. Nope!
He took a breath and gave his head a little shake, refusing to let that display distract him or from letting the mind reader delve deeper into his head than he already had.
and another snippet from my OCs, i'm on a "catching a cold in an office setting" kick lately if you couldn't tell! anthro/furry, by the way
1.5k words // female sneezer // cold (mess!!)
Sherry pulled her scarf so it covered the top of her snout, that was buried in a fresh medical mask, her third one that day.
"Please don't tell me you're going out in this blizzard, in the state you're in," said Boss. The sheep had a hoof poking through the blinds to assess the weather, and was now peering judgmentally down her half-rimmed glasses at Sherry, who was bundled head to toe, a bump indicating where her snout was.
She pulled it down to address her boss, her voice dry from how strained her throat had become. She had to swallow before she spoke, squinting against the pain, and her voice came out at half the volume it usually was at. "I wadt to ndap... er, sleep a bit for mby ludch break," she breathed out, throat clenching from the sting of using it when it was so sore. "Car's ihd the garage." She punctuated her explanation with a few pathetic coughs.
Boss waved her off. "Take an extra 15. They're definitely cancelling office hours tomorrow so nothing's getting done, but I'm not having anyone drive when it's coming down this heavy."
All Sherry could do was nod in understanding, wanting to save her voice.
"And uh. Please, send the rest of your work through to Prescott. No need to come into my office today. Or for the next several days," Boss added on, retracting her hoof from the window and taking a step back when Sherry coughed again, wheezing into her mask.
Exiting the office, Sherry decided to take a seat in front of the elevators, basking in the warm vent overhead. The awful weather made it so no one wanted to go to the garage if they could help it, and half of the office had already gone home before the worst of the snow. Holing herself up in her car to blast the heat and feel less self conscious about being a walking Nyquil advertisement was her plan, but she was taking a minute to sit, working up the nerve to venture out into the cold. As always, the moment she wasn't in work mode, her body reminded her of every ache, pain, and irritation.
The cold working through her system had been slowly sapping her energy since she woke, and the work day had been such a slog, it wasn’t enough to distract her from her symptoms. Her throat was as dry as a desert, the sting of illness extending up her nasal cavities and out to her ears. And speaking of her nose, the way it was simultaneously congested to the point of forcing her to breathe out of her mouth, yet dripping a thin trail of mucus each time she so much as shifted sitting positions, made no sense.
She'd pull her mask down and try to blow her nose as best as she could, deep crackling noises from somewhere deep in her snout informing her of the wall of snot that was waiting to be dislodged and blown out, but as soon as she'd wipe up and place the medical mask back on, the feathery sensation of it pressed against her sensitive, wet nose would set off the urge to sneeze.
Stifled, they came out almost completely dry, doing nothing to move the backed up congestion. If her attention was elsewhere, or as it was before the first mask change, a sneeze held back for a full hour, the mess that poured forth when her nose finally unleashed was enough to slide past her chin and stick the medical grade cloth to her nostrils, making obscene squishing sounds as she removed the soiled mask and folded it up, hiding her evidence of the heaviest cold she'd gotten in ages. It was disgusting and made her shudder every time.
It was almost as if thinking about it made her nose prickle, and Sherry had to clamp her fingers against her nostrils through the medical mask, to forcibly stifle.
"HhhHHSHHh! Khh... Ud'SHHhh! Ud'STSHh!"
They were quiet, which was incongruent to how forceful they felt. Each one brought a squelch of more snot that had nowhere to go but all over the inside of her mask and down her lip, as much as she tried to pinch her nose shut. But it wasn't over yet. The stifles took so much out of her that she panted, which lead to more coughing, which required more inhaling as her poor lungs ached, forcing fresh air through her highly sensitive nose.
"HEUUh'shhhhh!"
It was a breathy sneeze, with her throat shot to hell, she could barely vocalize them anymore. Sherry couldn't help the whine building up in the back of her throat, hoarse and whistling. She felt horrible. And probably looked it, too. The couple of sneezes had drenched her mask yet again, and she stood up, vaguely dizzy, to find the restrooms and freshen up as much as she could.
They were luckily unoccupied, and she let out a few unopened sneezes and washed her feverish face with warm water, patting her ears down from where they kept flying back from each sneeze. Blowing her nose into the sink felt like a step too far into being a vector of disease, so she opted to try and honk out as much snot as she could into the rough paper towels, patting her nose dry and fishing out a fresh mask. Letting them out instead of stifling seemed to help abate the aggravating itch, as even with the cool air hitting her snout, she was able to inhale without it shuddering into a hitch again.
As she smoothed her hair down and zipped her coat back up, her phone rang. Sherry was already fed up, and upon seeing Scott on the caller ID, became annoyed.
"I know you're on your break, but I need like, one second to ask about this consolidation thingie you said to do," came her younger colleague’s hurried voice.
"Text, please," Sherry whispered, her voice still breaking despite how little effort she was putting into speaking.
"Woah, are you okay? Why'd you come into the office if you're so sick?" Scott was now whispering too for some reason, and disregarding Sherry's plain request.
"Bye," she coughed through the phone, and hit the red button. Jesus Christ. Her congestion was making her eyes water, and she squinted at her text messages to attempt to guide Scott to the simple solution.
Sherry: You can google how to use excel, I can't help you
More like, I don't want to right now. Sorry
Scott: ok but will it look obvious that i used a tutorial? also, you sounded like shit
are you okay
no offense
Sherry: I wouldn't have to come in today if you were able to do EOQ
I thought your dad was going to teach you
Scott: hes in cancun or something idk
Sherry: Do I have to hold your hand in googling
Scott: no...
She let the text conversation hanging, and pocketed her phone. There was no helping that boy, and Boss did say to send the rest of her reports through him, but it was cutting into her precious break time that was already ten minutes through the extra 15 she was given. She took one look at herself in the mirror. Why did she come in today when she could have just relegated all the tasks on to Scott to suffer through it all... She sighed involuntarily, petering out into a few coughs and a sniffle, and she made her way to the garage, in hopes that a power nap would rejuvenate her.
more from the vaults of my drive, this one being from 2022. remember sever//ance? the concept of experiencing a cold with no build up, just opening your eyes and being hit with the full force of it, had gripped me the moment i saw episode 1. thank you to the prolonged scene of i-mark dealing with leftover tears and a runny nose from his outie sobbing right before work, to the point that everyone inside called it an allergy to the elevators, i could have never done it without you
4.2k words // male sneezer // cold (mess)
--
The elevator bell called out in the same calming tone as it always did. The familiar yet still unsettling pressure change whistled and rang in Mark's ears as usual. Consciousness poured slowly into the nooks and crannies of his brain, and he woke up, essentially.
As the elevator doors opened, Mark attempted to straighten the slouch his outie had carried in with him. He rolled his shoulders and all too quickly became aware of a dull ache down his back. Actually, his shoulders too. And the middle of his face. Wait, everywhere.
Oh. He felt off today. He felt like shit all over.
Mark had tried his best to become adjusted to his body's bouts of so-called 'elevator allergies', lovingly dubbed so by Petey, who took whatever chance he could get to crack a joke at anyone's expense. Irving had asked all too gratingly if he needed to get Mister Milchick to get him sorted out those first few days of Mark’s stint at Lumon, where he’d arrive in a sort of disarray in the mornings. His eyes would be red and puffy and his nose a bit sniffly, to the point where his outie had apparently prepared for such an event, and lined his own pockets with crumpled tissues for him to discover.
The so-called elevator allergies always began to clear up around the time the first pot of coffee was brewed, and along with it would leave the weird, heavy feeling he got in his core around his heart, that always made him want to sigh and breathe deeply to shake it out. The slightly disheveled hair he arrived with was easily tamed by a comb found in the supply room, but his runny nose was a task to be tended to for at least another while. He’d quickly gotten a tissue box stationed at the desks after being caught walking back and forth from the bathroom more times than deemed necessary.
Dylan gave him the stink-eye at the time when Mark had explained that the tissue box wasn’t a work incentive or a personalized gift, but ‘task efficacy tools’ in the same category as a bottle of eyedrops or a bandage, recalling the way Harmony had described it when she personally handed Mark the item. He was willing to share them, if anyone wanted.
Petey had then denied Dylan’s request for a second pair of glasses that afternoon.
No, Mark became accustomed to those ‘allergy’ days. Some days found him symptomless, and others found him being greeted with Petey riffing off his run-down appearance, singing an awkward limerick he’d crafted in honor of Mark’s ailment, with an ever-so-chipper “don’t knock our elevator out, Mark!”
But not today. This felt like an allergy… but possibly, ten times worse. Mark had no doubt that he probably looked the way he felt, his face feeling heavy and achy, with his nose somehow feeling both runny and congested at the same time when it was usually one or the other. Even swallowing hurt, and Mark did so with a muted sense of alarm that the small actions made his ears ache too. He didn't know if his hearing could be affected by this, and the hand he pressed to the side of his head found his body temperature to be elevated. He coughed, meaning for it to be a slight action that instead developed into a hacking affair.
This was a new experience, and hopefully not a commonly occurring one, Mark wished. He has worked at Lumon for almost five months now. Allergies and the occasional minor stomach discomfort early in the morning were outie occupational hazards he'd grown to tolerate, begrudgingly, whatever their source may be. He had no other choice, anyways. This general blanket of malaise on his entire self sapped his energy step by step as he made his way towards MDR, his finger kneading at his colder than usual nose in irritation.
Mark shuffled down the hallway continuously, eyelids flinching shut at the white and expansive fluorescent lights that popped into view after each corner. He tried not to drag his feet on the pristine floor tiles, but he was so tired already. He wondered if this was an ailment that needed to be reported, and what exactly would be done about it save for sending him home for his outie to deal with. Or how big of a wrench it would throw into the work day if he didn’t. He had about two minutes to assess before he reached his destination, and his mind meandered, unhelpful and unfocused, as he painfully swallowed again.
If it came to needing a report filed to the floor manager, Irving would probably do so the second Mark gave the go-ahead. The guy lived and breathed the Handbook to the point where no one needed to memorize protocol anymore, not even Petey, who was technically supposed to be in charge of that. There was only Dylan to worry about, Dylan who always felt the need to inform the floor that he had no time to catch bugs from them, when the monthly quota was on the line. And Petey… well, Petey was all talk and jokes when he wanted to be, but a guiding presence when not. He was the one Mark deferred to whenever things went slightly wrong. If Mark were to take his chances, he'd like to meet Petey first in the workroom, and assess from there.
"Holy shit dude, walking corpse alert."
Dylan it was, then. Mark tilted his head in greeting and nodded briskly, then regretted it instantly as parts of his face he didn't even know had that many pain receptors throbbed. His hand shot to his temple, meeting a thin layer of sweat that caught onto his unruly bangs. One shoe after the other found the dark haired man all but stumbling into his office chair, with a shiver wracking his lopsided frame.
"D'you-fuck-"
Mark barely recognized his own voice as it wheedled into a congested cough. After the poor attempt to clear his airways, he tried again. “Be honest. How bad does it look?”
Dylan's expression could only be described as offended. "Like you wanna spread a plague amongst us all?"
Mark could barely suppress an eye roll as the mere act of dragging his office chair forwards made Dylan scoot his own chair backwards an equal amount.
"Probably not as bad as it looks or sounds then. Don't get all worked up," Mark croaked out, his palms splayed out placatingly. In the haze of what something within the recesses of his mind brought up as a ‘fever’, he couldn't tell if he was trying to convince Dylan, or himself. Because yes. He felt like shit. A small part of him hoped that somehow, simply feeling this bad would get him out of work, and back into the care of Mark from the outside, to deal with this rather than him. At least that guy got a reprieve from feeling shitty for eight hours of the day.
The Lumen logo flashed across Mark’s computer, and he took the time to rub his clammy hands together as it booted up, chasing any warmth he could get. The office temperature never bothered him this badly before, so he chalked it up to yet another symptom he was becoming increasingly aware of.
He sniffled twice and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate the odd pressure he felt. The ensuing cough earned a glance from Dylan who was pointedly leaning far away from their little cluster of cubicles. He could see Dylan’s cup of coffee from between their desk dividers, and Mark realized his congested state had also robbed him of his smell, as the pleasant scent of coffee was nowhere to be found.
"Hello, kids." Irving's spin on his awkward new greeting he’d been trying fell flat as usual as he entered. The man nodded at the nest of cubicles before zeroing in on Mark with a barely disguised look of surprise. Because of course. Mark cleared his throat unproductively and his eyes flicked around as he watched Irving stride over, his fluffy gray brows set in worry in a way Mark didn’t like.
"You look positively dreadful," the older man observed. "You cannot come to work in this condition, Mark! It's… it's-"
"Contagious," Dylan supplied helpfully.
"Disadvantageous," Irving rhymed, a scholarly finger raised in the air.
Mark blinked slowly. “And not my fault. I-I didn’t- plan on coming in like this…” his voice tapered off. The pitying expression Irving wore made Mark feel a displaced sense of guilt.
"Of course not." Irving clasped his hands together. "But Dylan is also right. Productivity will decrease while in this state of illness, and it may even spread-"
"Thank you, so let him get the hell outta here already-"
Their overlapping speech was cut short by an obnoxiously loud sneeze from Mark that seemed to catch even him by surprise, as the hand that instinctually flew to cover his nose lingered there as he felt the wetness from his mistake in his cupped palm.
“--hhg’RRRSHHhhhoo…”
"Dude…" Dylan scrunched his face, his gums visible in his deep sneer.
"Sorry, ‘scuze mbe," came Mark's reply, dazed enough to the point where the embarrassment hadn't settled in just yet. His free hand rummaged in his blazer's pockets and found the usual convenient wad of tissues shoved unceremoniously in there. He still had half a mind to shoot out another apology over his shoulder as he swiveled in his chair, and proceeded to blow, just as loudly.
And for what seemed like ages too, as a handful of honks wasn't enough apparently to clear whatever felt trapped in his sinuses. The silence that followed the outburst made heat creep up his neck and across his cheeks. He admitted defeat to his nose as the tissues were making more of a mess than containing it, still unable to breathe in without it making a gross gargling sniffle.
“Hhuh… hh’UDSHHHhuuu!”
His hand shot out behind him and it groped for his tissue box distractedly, bumping into the keyboard. Irving ever so helpfully nudged it towards Mark with a delicately held pen. Mark could only raise his eyebrows in gratitude as his eyes fluttered shut before another sneeze took hold of him, now aimed at a fresh yet quickly dampened handful of tissues.
"This is killing the workflow,” Dylan observed, the sarcastic lilt to his tone flying over the other two men’s heads as his fingers flew across his keyboard. “I think this needs to be reported. You know. So I can continue with my oh so glorious work uninterrupted.”
"Speak for yourself Dylan, what about Mark?" came Irving's simpering reply. Mark was wilting under the opposing points of attention.
Irving rustled in his desk drawers. “I’ll go ahead and fill the form out right now. You are in no fit state to work.”
Mark turned back around in his chair slowly, eyes half open. From below the clouds of general malaise that knocked around his head, the ailing man had registered that Irving was indeed filling out a request form. Which meant Mister Milchick might get involved since Petey wasn’t in yet to deliver it as MDR chief. Oh how he wished Petey would come in already.
The part of his mind that wasn’t busy fretting over how wrong everything felt, recalled snippets of memories of his friend. While never giving up a chance to tease, he had his own way of guiding Mark through the various conditions he'd turn up to work in, ready with a paper cup of water in lieu of coffee on days where Mark was unsteady and wavering, or make a point to stand outside the restroom doors, as Mark battled whatever residual hangover caused ailments his outie loved to subject him to. He’d probably be nicer about Mark’s current condition. Not that Irving wasn’t nice, but it was a bit… much.
It hadn’t even been five minutes since Mark arrived which meant that Petey unfortunately wouldn't be arriving yet, which made sense and made no sense at the same time since it felt like Irving came in ages ago. Mark suddenly felt exhausted and slumped forwards, settling his aching head in the crook of his elbow, even if it was uncomfortably warm. He thought about peeling his blazer off, but shivered.
Irving rattled off the checkboxes of the health incident form in a level tone as Mark squinted at him sideways. The questions bounced off his skull and he pressed another tissue to his still streaming nostrils. The small action set his nose off again, and he jolted forwards into yet another sneeze, the follow up coughing ending in a soft groan of pain.
“Have you experienced an increase in body temperature? Decrease in body temperature? Itching or irritation of the throat? Decrease in state of consciousness? Vertigo or-”
“What if you just checked all of themb,” came Mark’s tired reply.
“And submit an erroneous form? No no no, all four pages back to front must be read thoroughly…”
---
The little scene in the MDR office danced silently across the small security screen. Horizontal lines flickered across the display, offering a square sized glimpse into the department from her secluded space in the severed floor managerial offices. Harmony Cobel watched the fuzzy screen intently, still as a stone, eyes unblinking. The door was shut.
Irving B. conversed with Mark S. animatedly, the latter slouching in his chair in a slovenly manner. Any other day would have Harmony denoting Mark’s office etiquette transgression to be brought up in a behavioral check in the future, nipping it in the bud before it became habitual again. Today was not an ordinary day, Harmony observed, as Mark wasn’t carrying himself the way she had instructed him to.
Today’s slouching Mark was tilted against the green dividers of MDR’s cubicles, the blob that denoted his unruly hair sticking up, and his hunched back facing the single security camera. Harmony found herself playing back memories of his bewildered and darting eyes after the very first time Harmony had sternly commanded he straighten his spine. A sweet memory. He has stood taller ever since. But not today.
She pressed a finger to the array of buttons before her. Not long after, a strong announcing knock sounded at her door.
“Mister Milchick.”
“Ms. Cobel, has there been an issue?”
The kind eyes of the employee liaison officer met Harmony’s icy gaze.
“Yes. Peter K. is not due to arrive for about another three minutes. You will be getting a request order soon to bring Mark S. to the medical department for a health examination. He’s claiming illness. So early in the day, too.”
“I see. If that’s true, then that is a pity,” Milchick said, his face twisting into a slightly disappointed look for a moment before easing back into its smile. “His outie hadn’t made any mention of it to the front desk. We should hope it will pass.”
Harmony began tapping out an impatient staccato against the cool wooden desk. “Do bring Mark here instead please, before the day is wasted with needless running between departments.” Harmony’s finger stilled. “I’ll assess his state myself and see if he really needs a medical check as the MDR chief isn’t signed in to do so.”
“If it’s only three minutes, I highly suggest we-”
“I suggest you get a move on now, if you were fucking listening, because the walk down to MDR takes a little longer than three minutes, and productivity is tanking with every suggestion you make,” she followed up coldly, her hand balling into a fist.
At Harmony’s loaded command, Milchick nodded and exited the office, leaving the door open.
Harmony sighed out the breath she held as Milchick left. She ran a hand over her perfect silver hair and stilled. Then, she rose from her seat to rearrange her office a little in preparation.
---
Mark felt a cold sense of dread as he was escorted to the managerial wing, with Milchick choosing to walk in front of him this time. Back at the MDR office, he’d asked why Milchick was skipping the part where the health examination department would look him over, but he got no meaningful response from the enigma of a man other than the declaration that he had been summoned by Ms. Cobel, with an empty assurance that she knew what she was doing.
“Don’t worry, you’re in good hands,” he’d said, his incredibly neat mustache framing his smile. Mark worried a bit anyway.
Irving had been no help as usual, surrendering his fellow colleague to whatever was about to happen with an annoying sense of fulfillment, and Dylan merely nodded, immersed in his work once more. Somewhere beneath the feverish haze, Mark felt like he was on his way to be punished as he turned the white hallways.
It was after the third turn of a hallway that Mark realized the incoming dilemma of forgetting to bring tissues with him on their little trek. Or maybe it was the fifth turn.
They were lightly discouraged from counting the steps along Lumon’s halls, but Mark couldn’t hold count in his head for more than a handful of numbers before he’d rub an unhelpful finger under his irritated nose, then switch to lightly pressing the sleeve of his white button-down shirt to it. It was already getting dampened with each time he sniffed against it, trying to abate the flow. He hoped Ms. Cobel would have tissues in her office.
By some miracle, Mark had managed to ward off any further outburst from his nose by the time they stopped at the cold blue doors of the managerial offices. When Milchick knocked on the door to alert Ms. Cobel of their arrival, he hadn’t made any expressions or movements to indicate that he noticed Mark’s condition, and kept the same easy smile he wore almost constantly. Somehow, this did worse things to the anxiety ramping up in his veins.
“In,” Ms. Cobel demanded.
When Mark shuffled forwards, hands shyly clasped behind his back, she waved dismissively at Milchick.
“Go brief MDR on the changes to today will you. The work day has already been interrupted majorly.”
At Ms. Cobel’s words, the two were suddenly alone. Mark wasn’t ready to start the conversation, dreading the reason he was summoned and the shitty condition of his throat betraying his voice. So he stood there, shivering slightly under Ms. Cobel’s scrutiny as she sat behind her desk, imposing as ever, with a manicured hand placed firmly on the wood.
“Sit,” she stated simply with a tilt of her head.
He sank down onto the plush seat. Ms. Cobel produced a file from under the desk, and then, a small white plastic packet. Mark still said nothing, his red-rimmed eyes blinking rapidly. With the wet irritation in his nose, he hoped that a way to ask for tissues would spring up soon. He sniffed unproductively, and clenched his hands in his lap to stop them from instinctively rubbing at his now sore nose.
He sniffed again as his nose now threatened to drip down his shirt. Surely it would be seen as unsanitary. But at this point, Mark figured simply being here and breathing counted as a strike against sanitation guidelines. He wished he could have been taken to the health department instead, or that his outie made the right decision and stayed home, to save Mark from the tendrils of humiliation that crept down his back. His eyes watered again as his breath slightly hitched.
Ms. Cobel easily filled out the form, which Mark surmised was the same one Irving was trying to fill out as it had the same lines spaced out. Her pen confidently moved along the paper, far faster than the older man ever had. Her eyes flicked upwards to scan him over briefly when he hitched again, flipping the page and checking whatever she saw fit.
When Mark’s breath swelled in a way he was having trouble stopping, he nervously licked his lips and cleared his throat before finally asking.
“Do you-Could I gehhht a-”
Ms. Cobel tapped at the only other object that lay on her desk. “Right here.”
“O-oh. Thangk you.” Mark hesitatingly grabbed the unmarked plastic packet, looking to her for any further clarification. She gave none, and he opened it with a curious frown.
Inside it were tissues, interestingly enough. They didn’t look like the standard ones she personally issued to him, the ones that came in a blue box that was unhelpfully about a hundred hallways away. They were softer to the touch and were void of the Lumen pattern that was across his own. Mark pulled one out, pressing it to his nose and opting to not begin a whole honking affair just yet, just a quick clean up.
Only to find that when he wiped at his face, a strong buzzing had blossomed, and his fingers instinctively clamped the tissue around his nose to muffle as much sound from the sneeze that flew out, his lungs clenching to stifle it.
“Hhuh’tcgshhh!”
Instead of alleviating the tickle, somehow it only intensified. Mark’s breath pitched again in preparation for another sneeze, and realized hazily that even underneath the thick congestion in his head, he could make out a strong scent, something he couldn’t name.
“-- hh’ghshh- HRR’SSHh!”
“Don’t do that,” Ms. Cobel suddenly said. Mark squinted back up at her, not quite ready to sit back up as the urge to sneeze was prickling across his sinuses, shallowing his breaths in an attempt to stave it off. She was now fully focused on him, locking him in her gaze. “If you hold it in, you will damage something,” she warned.
Mark could only nod, and as instructed, tried his best to push shame aside as an even louder sneeze gripped him, leaving his throat feeling raw.
"Hh– hhh… hh'iEGSHHHooo!"
The effort left him a bit winded, and he slouched in his seat before remembering where he was, pulling his shoulders back up with a shudder.
She hadn’t returned to the file yet, still staring Mark down. “Blow your nose.”
With an unsure pause, Mark searched her face for any sign of contempt, but did so after being unable to decipher her expression. His cheeks lit up as it was embarrassingly loud, and gross, and he tried to turn in his seat to spare her the display.
“See, isn’t that much better?” Ms. Cobel’s voice dropped its severity, and Mark nodded dumbly again.
“Thank you," he repeated, a bit clearer. "Are these-”
“From medical, yes.”
That didn’t answer the question Mark had on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed anyway, uncomfortably aware of how badly his throat hurt. Whatever ended up being in the tissues did seem to help in a weird way, as Mark’s sinuses weren’t as blocked as they were a few moments ago. His ears also weren't aching as badly as they did when he stifled his sneezes.
---
Mark kicked his snow-dampened boots off haphazardly, making a beeline to the side table hugging his couch. He plucked a fistful of tissues before honking into them, itching at his nostrils furiously.
His wish to come back from work having wrung out the worst of his headcold out of his system backfired. He had felt worse stepping off the elevator than when he entered it. With all the times in the past where he'd show up hungover, he'd get back to his car after the day passed by with a blink of his eyes and only a lingering tiredness and none of the nauseous shudders. He figured a cold would be a bit of the same, sneeze the worst of it out while not being mentally present.
No, they apparently took one look at him and sent his sorry ass back home before thirty minutes had even passed. Waste of effort, waste of gas, waste ohhhf-
"HURRSSHH'hooo…"
He sank onto his couch, the train of thought completely lost. The hand clamping the tissues trembled, and he opted to run the back of his hand across his face instead.
Mrs. Selvig had gifted him a box of Vicks tissues and lozenges over the weekend, after hovering on his doorstep, nosy as ever.
"Not to be a bother, but I could hear you from all the way over there!" she'd tittered in her airy voice, pointing to her house as if Mark didn't know they were neighbors. "Please take them, it's the least I could do."
She refused to leave him alone until he popped one of the candies in his mouth. She clapped her neatly trimmed hands together when he muttered a "yeah, 's good" around the citrus taste.
"See, isn't that much better?"
The tissues were nice, he guessed as he lay in his quiet home, at least they didn't leave the rims of his nostrils chapped. But the scent of the Vicks always set him off for the first few minutes of use, and Mark rolled over on the couch, flicking the television on and preparing to spend the day tending to his stupid nose instead of getting to sleep it off as his severed self worked through it.
Regardless, the throbbing headache that pulsed behind his eyes and sinuses slowed eventually as his eyes fluttered shut. The mindless sitcom played quietly. As he drifted off, the noises from the television melted away, and Mark escaped his waking hours in a dreamless sleep.
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) ^^;;
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.
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.
“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.
