the thing about my fics, the absolute key, is that you have to be willing to suspend your disbelief when i say a character “is hardly sick” and yet is somehow sick over and over again, in everything i write. it doesn’t matter if that “doesn’t make sense logically”. everything resets in each fic. it’s like a multiverse. two contradicting things can and MUST be true at once. this is the Essential Philosophy of a Snz Fic.
Lol every time I say a character is hardly sick it’s just an excuse for me to make them SUPER sick in each fic because “well since it’s so rare for them it’s always terrible!”
Read Part 1 here! This has been in my head since I finished the first part, but due to various interventions of Life and lack of motivation, it's been a lot harder to write. Nonetheless, I hope everyone enjoys some Arthur POV and more suffering.
CW: more brief mentions of the gore and nastiness of a WWI field hospital; nothing in-depth. blink-and-you'll-miss-it references to period-typical homophobia.
Arthur wakes because he's entirely too hot. This is a perplexing observation, as it's December in Northern France, and more often than not he wakes huddled under the blankets, trying to conserve some measure of warmth. It isn't until he registers the uncomfortable way in which he's leant against the iron bedframe and the weight on his chest that the events of last night fall into sequential order in his mind. The fallout of the 146th's latest offensive; making sure all his men made it to bed, then falling into it (and blissful oblivion) himself. He'd been somewhat alarmed when he was awoken by the ghostly figure of Courtenay, looming over him and hissing that something was wrong with Lyons. Perhaps he'd shown too much of his hand with his hurried reaction, but by the time he actually saw Evelyn, he was too worried to care.
It's much too dark to cast a diagnostic glance over his lover now — the hour might accurately be described as crack-sparrow-fart — but Arthur has enough experience to know a good medical man doesn't operate on sight alone. He doesn't like what he feels: the sticky heat of Evelyn's body, trembling slightly in all it's sharp-edged boniness. Nor does he like the crackling edge to Evelyn's breath, though his soft snores would be endearing otherwise.
He had been intending to let Evelyn sleep for as long as possible; he sighs with the realisation that he'll have to risk disturbance in order to get a better look at him.
Leaning over, Arthur fumbles with the matchbook on his bedside table and lights the lamp. Somehow Evelyn sleeps through the whole rigmarole, one hand fisted in the front of Arthur's pyjamas; by the sallow light, he doesn't look any better than he sounds, face hectically flushed and cracked lips parted to drag in those shuddering breaths. He's frowning in his sleep, squirming slightly as if to shake off the blood-filled dreams that plague them all.
An absurdly tender notion, of the kind Evelyn is so good at eliciting, comes over Arthur. He reaches out with a thumb to smooth away the furrow between Evelyn's brows, allowing it to drift upwards and trace his forehead.
It's enough to wake Evelyn; he does so with a few light, ticklish coughs, smothered into Arthur's chest with the obvious intention of going back to sleep. The final one catches in his chest, though, snapping him to full awareness as his body convulses with deep, barking coughs.
"Woah —" Arthur finds himself murmuring, as if soothing a frightened horse, scrambling to brace Evelyn in a more upright position. The hand that isn't rubbing his back quests across the bedside table, eventually closing around the water canteen — though not before he manages to almost knock it over. It's only when he brings it to Evelyn's lips that the fit begins to peter out.
Throughout it all, Evelyn still clings to Arthur's pyjamas; his head drops back against Arthur's breastbone with a few final, sputtering coughs.
Far from being disgusted, Arthur is struck by a bolt of immense fondness.
"Good morning," he murmurs, kissing the top of Evelyn's sweaty head.
"Morning." Even from a single world, he can tell how miserably congested Evelyn is. "Nothing good about it."
"I know. But hopefully we'll be spared another onslaught and I can devote myself to making it good. Better, at least. How does that sound?"
Evelyn doesn't immediately answer; Arthur is just about to nudge his shoulder when he ducks away with two stifled, body-shaking sneezes.
"I told you to stop doing that," Arthur says, fumbling once again in that indispensable repository of necessities known as the bedside table for a handkerchief. He slides out of bed after that, knowing Evelyn won't submit to the indignity of tending to his nose until he has a modicum of privacy.
Beyond the cocoon of their shared body heat, the room is cold enough to make Arthur shudder, floorboards frigid against his feet. He rolls up a few pages of long-outdated Medical Corps News for kindling and lights the fire, then shuffles to the bathroom — a luxury he feels acutely guilty over whenever he avails himself of it — to properly awake himself up via some water to the face and fill both canteen and his small tin kettle.
Once the kettle is heating over the fire, he turns his attention back to Evelyn, who's huddled in a pathetic lump on the bed. His eyes are slightly glassy, but they still follow Arthur around the room, filled with such plaintive longing that he's helpless not to come and perch on the edge of the bed.
"Oh, love," he murmurs, gently unfurling Evelyn and adjusting the pillow behind him. "I promise you'll feel better soon."
"I'd feel a hell of a lot better if you put a bullet between my eyes," Evelyn grouses, though he allows Arthur to start stroking his hair again.
"Not going to happen. But I am going to make you some tea, then see what I can do about getting a thermometer and checking that fever. Sound alright."
"Mmm. This is nicer." Evelyn leans into him, boneless, and Arthur finds himself shifting a little to better support him. They have a few minutes before the kettle starts boiling, anyway. He already knows Evelyn can be undone with a few well-placed touches (just not usually in these place), but this part of their relationship is frighteningly new, fragile, only now attempt to stand on its spindly legs and take a few, halting steps of its own. It feels like any movement will shatter the moment.
Of course, the kettle chooses this precise second to start screeching. Evelyn flinches away, rubbing his temples as if that will insulate them from the agonising noise; Arthur jumps up to take it off the fire when a knock at the door freezes him in place.
He wavers between the two demands, mind suddenly, painfully blank.
Eventually, he dives for the kettle, thumping it down on the mantelpiece before straightening his pyjamas and answering the door with what he hopes is more dignity than he'd possessed in the last ten seconds.
It's one of the new, young orderlies: Lennox, another Scot, looking harried and sleep-deprived.
"The next ambulance train arrives in half an hour, sir," he says. Arthur's stomach plummets — of course, they knew all the clearing would have to be done this morning, the first casualties had arrived just after the last train yesterday evening. And half an hour is hardly enough time to prepare some 200 men to be moved.
"An hour's warning might've been nice, Lennox," he snaps, acutely aware that Evelyn is still in his bed and attempting to block as much of the doorway as he can. The room is shaped in such a way that the bed is around a corner, but for them there's no such thing as too careful.
Lennox cringes.
"Sorry, sir — I'd a mind to start preparing some of the more lucid ones, but we were all ready to drop after last night. I think we overslept."
His stricken expression softens Arthur immediately.
"It's alright. Get the ones who can walk ready and I'll be there as soon as I can."
With a trembling attempt at a salute, Lennox flees.
Arthur moves on instinct now, shucking his pyjamas and grabbing his uniform off the chair that has become his makeshift clothes-stand to put it on. It's only when he hears shuffling behind him that he turns and sees Evelyn out of bed, fumbling for his uniform.
"Back to bed, sweet," Arthur says, though he doesn't stop buttoning up his tunic.
"No." Evelyn wavers, sneezing suddenly and helplessly off to the side, the handkerchief forgotten on the bed. "You'll need all hands on the metaphorical deck, we have a bloody mountain of men to shift."
"And we can manage just fine without you." Arthur counters. He's almost fully dressed now, while Evelyn is still trying to pull his trousers on.
"The others will think I'm lazy."
"Evelyn." Now Arthur moves, putting a steadying hand on Evelyn's shoulder. "I told you last night, you aren't lazy or revolting, you're ill. I highly doubt anyone here could think badly of you for resting, but if they do, that's their own damn problem."
He does look truly awful, sweat-sheened and shaking where he stands. A round of sharp, chesty coughs make Arthur wonder whether he shouldn't take Evelyn to the infirmary ward — but then he'd have to turn him over to the care of the nurses, and something selfish within Arthur revolts at that thought.
"I'm sorry," Evelyn murmurs, though he doesn't put up any protest as Arthur guides him into bed. "I should go back to the barracks —"
"It's warmer here," Arthur says, because that's easier than I don't want you somewhere where I can't care for you like this. "I'll try not to be gone too long."
That's a promise he can't, and doesn't, keep. Once he steps out into the grey French dawn, Arthur is moving on instinct again, establishing an orderly chain of evacuation to get the wounded onto the train in time. Everything is a touch more chaotic than usual; they've had a rough time of it lately, with the 146th and 147th's repeated attempts to break through the German lines, and everyone is suffering the effects of so much lost sleep. Even ever-chipper Nurse Johnson and Carmichael are quieter. It's small wonder Evelyn managed to get so utterly floored — Arthur can only hope none of his other surgeons get laid low.
After the train leaves, he's immediately pulled aside to operate on their only German. He'd been stable overnight, with what they assumed was a clean leg fracture, but worsened considerably when Lennox went to prepare him for transport. Arthur cuts away his trousers, takes one look at his mangled lower leg and knows amputation is his only chance. By now, he's done so many that the operation barely registers in his mind, the man prepared, leg removed and stump sealed in under an hour.
It's only when Arthur surfaces from the operating theatre that he remembers Evelyn. Fuck — it's been far too long since he rushed out —
He takes the time to borrow a thermometer and a ceramic basin from the infirmary, resolving that if Evelyn's fever is over 39°C, he'll have him admitted. Beyond that, there's little he can do beyond making him comfortable and trying to ensure he rests.
Along the way, Courtenay accosts him with the blanket from Evelyn's bunk, muttering something about it being the closest thing any of them have to home comforts and hurrying away.
When Arthur makes it back to his room, the fire has gone down to nothing more than a few glowing logs. He nudges them aside and stokes the embers with a poker, putting a new log on and making sure the flames catch on it. As an afterthought, he sets the kettle to boil again; hopefully it won't herald another unwanted intrusion.
Evelyn is still exactly where Arthur left him, sagging half-upright against the bedframe and tangled in the quilt. The water canteen has been knocked to the floor, along with Arthur's tobacco tin, but Evelyn is too caught up in a fit of painful-sounding stifled sneezes to notice there's someone else in the room with him, let alone the debris.
"Evelyn." Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, startling him into sneezing freely. Even that sounds like it wrecks his throat, tearing out a few thick coughs. His inhale afterwards is so wobbly that Arthur pauses. Is he —
A choked little whimper slips from Evelyn's lips. He's crying.
"Oh, Evelyn —" Arthur sits on the side of the bed, hand moving instinctively to rub Evelyn's back. "What's wrong?"
Evelyn shakes his head.
"Nothing," he rasps, though he only sobs harder.
"Come on, sweet. I know you feel fucking awful, but I'm all yours now. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."
"No — I'm sorry, it's — it's not that — oh God —" Evelyn breaks off to sneeze, managing to bring the handkerchief up in time and sniffling miserably into it. "It's stupid. You'll laugh."
By now his breaths have a slightly unsteady edge to them that makes something twinge in Arthur's chest. Never mind that this is something he isn't trained to deal with, he hasn't the first clue about treating emotions, not symptoms; at this rate, he's more concerned Evelyn will set himself coughing again.
"Shh, shh," he murmurs, rubbing up and down Evelyn's back. That does earn a momentary, hiccupping pause, only for him to collapse into even more convulsive sobs. "It's alright. Why would I ever laugh at you, love?"
A moment's pause.
"Do you love me, Arthur?" Evelyn almost chokes on the words, looking away.
Arthur doesn't know what to say. Yes, the answer rises up before he can check himself, but when he opens his mouth, his tongue feels thick and useless, like a maggot. If he starts talking, he'll never stop, he can feel the meaningless ramble building up —
He cups Evelyn's cheeks instead; the feverish heat of them almost makes him flinch, but he turns that sweaty, tear-stained face to his and gently kisses his forehead. It tastes of salt; Arthur lets his lips linger, hoping they're more of an answer to the question than anything he could say.
The moment breaks when Evelyn shudders into a coughing fit. They're so close that his head drops against Arthur's chest, hands gripping his upper arms in a futile attempt to anchor himself. Arthur scrambles to support him, wincing at the wet crackle of congestion in his chest as he coughs. Probably bronchitis, and at the rate he's going, he'll give himself a sinus infection as well —
"Poor love," Arthur murmurs, plumping up the pillow behind Evelyn when the fit finally abates and he's left shaking, falling back against the bedframe. Draping the blanket over his shoulders, Arthur is rewarded with a small, watery smile. A victory, nonetheless, one that proves Courtenay's theory. "You need to keep this under your tongue now."
Evelyn pouts at the thermometer, but he obeys, leaving Arthur free to fuss with the kettle, pouring two mugs of tea then filling it again so there will be hot water for the basin, and steam for Evelyn's chest.
The thermometer is a merciful 38.7°C at a squint when Arthur replaces it with a hot cup of tea. Evelyn's hands are too shaky to hold it without spilling — they tremble with the absence of operating theatre adrenaline, now, even when he isn't this ill — so Arthur pulls up a chair near the bed to hold it for him, brining it up so he can take slow sips.
"Thank you, darling," Evelyn murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasping whisper. Yet there's the ghost of a playful glint in his eyes, the spectre of a smile pulling at his lips. "I'll have to make it worth your while when I'm better, won't I?"
He has the wherewithal to tweak Arthur's nipple, even through his uniform.
"Evelyn Lyons, you're depraved," he yelps, swatting the hand away, though it's enough to make him laugh and ease an immeasurable amount of the tension of the morning. "That can wait."
"It'll have to, I'm disgusting." Evelyn scrubs a knuckle under his nose, distinctly ineffectually from the way he wrenches aside to sneeze. He groans afterwards, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and cheeks in an attempt to ease the throbbing headache and sinus pain.
"Not to me." Arthur is still slightly taken aback by the realisation; Evelyn has always undone him, made him reckless, tender, indulgent, all kinds of things he can't afford to be, yet he always thought there must be a limit. If this is any sensible man's limit, it isn't his: there's still something alluring about Evelyn, even when he's feverish, shaky and consigned to breathing congestedly through his mouth.
On the kind of impulse that only seems to arise around him, Arthur leans forward and kisses Evelyn on the cheek. When he withdraws, it turns into a caress, thumb tracing the sharp cheekbone, dancing over a well-placed mole. He remembers the pressure helping last night; it turns into an impromptu massage, both thumbs pressing down on Evelyn's sinuses and eliciting an appreciative moan.
Their tea is going cold, but Arthur hardly cares. He suspects neither of them want to move from their current position.
Well, this escalated quickly! This fic idea grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let me go until I’d written ~3k of suppressed misery. A quick primer on these characters:
Evelyn Lyons is a twenty-three year old, Anglo-Indian surgeon. Bright, flirtatious, semi-openly homosexual, used to living a rather dissolute life before he got called up and dropped into the horrors of war. Arthur McBride is older (~34), Scottish, a career army surgeon, firmly in the closet to his family/the army yet more confident in his sexuality than Evelyn. As well as Evelyn’s lover, he’s his commanding officer, and generally more level-headed.
CW: brief discussions of the general gore/nastiness that can be expected from WWI.
And I'm back! With more Grayson and Sage, of course. We're skipping a bit farther down the road in their relationship for this one because it's what I felt like writing and the writing mind works in mysterious ways. This one formed around an idea I had here (https://stormysnz.tumblr.com/post/671241639516372992/okay-so-im-currently-thinking-very-hard-about-a) about sick cuddles a while back and my mind would not shut up until I wrote it for Grayson and Sage lol. So here y'all go, enjoy, and feel free to hit up my inbox with any more ideas for these two :)
I shoved my sock-clad feet shoved under my boyfriend’s leg, in between Grayson’s left calf and the couch, effectively keeping my toes warm. I was sitting sideways on the couch in Grayson’s apartment, my lower back leaning against the arm of the couch, my body facing towards Grayson. Attention was directed down at the book in my lap, but focus was waning very quickly.
Grayson, on the other hand, was sitting with his back against the backrest of the couch, his long legs planted on the carpeted floor. His laptop sat atop his legs, although the sounds of him typing were getting slower and slower as the night had gone on.
I had been watching Grayson out of my peripheral vision for a while, silently keeping tabs on my boyfriend as he worked. Or, at least, tried to work.
Saying Grayson was sick would be an understatement. The man was quite miserable in his current state, something I could tell fairly easily, though Grayson had tried to hide it to the best of his ability.
A day or so ago was when I caught on to the increased sniffling and sneezing coming from him. I’d annoyed him enough about it to make him concede and tell me that he was just coming down with “a little something” -- nothing bad and nothing to worry about at all, in Grayson’s words.
But here we sat, a day and a half later, with Grayson trying to continue working through the cold haze and the sniffling and sneezing. He was trying to keep the visible symptoms to a minimum, I could tell, but it wasn’t exactly working. No matter how many times Grayson assured me that he was doing fine, I could tell in his slow and sluggish movements that the cold was affecting him more than he was trying to let on.
I let my gaze drift up to my boyfriend’s face when I heard a few audible hitches and saw his head raise from my peripheral vision. He pried his fluttering lashes open long enough for his fumbling hand to yank a few tissues from the box that had sat next to the couch for the majority of the day. A large hand rapidly shoved the tissues to his face just seconds before his twitching nose exploded.
“Hh! h’DJSSHhuu! eeH’YSSHhhhieW! hehTSSHHhU!-uhhn…*snffl*...‘Scuse me,” Grayson mumbled softly, pinching his large nostrils with the tissues, sniffling again before setting the used tissues to the side and turning his gaze back to his laptop screen.
“Bless you,” I piped up softly, my eyes roaming across my boyfriend’s features in a harsh analysis.
He had his glasses on -- an unusual occurrence so early in the night. Typically Grayson would wear his contacts right up until he was heading to sleep. I could guess that he forewent the contacts because the cold was messing with his eyes or he was getting a headache. Possibly both?…Probably both.
His cheeks were flushed: a new development as of a few hours ago that I knew meant he was running a fever. He hadn’t admitted to the fever yet, though. His nose was pink and twitchy and raw around the undersides of his nostrils where he continued to rub tissues. His eyes were hazy and glassy, a side effect of both the fever and the constant sneezing.
Speaking of, a stray hand lifted to absently rub at his nose a few times and sniffle before dropping his hand back to the keyboard to continue to work. I wasn’t even sure if he was aware of the action or if it was automatic -- I’d caught him multiple times that night raising his hand halfway to his nose before seemingly realizing where he was (and who he was with) and dropping his hand.
Honestly, I didn’t know why he still insisted on shoving all his symptoms down around me, considering this was about the 4th cold that I’d seen him catch in just over 5 months of dating. I could tell when he was feeling really bad; it wasn’t like I didn’t recognize the signs at this point. (Plus…I was a bit more observant than others when it came to symptoms like this. Perks of my kink. But, it was helping me now, so it was good for something).
Anyway, he seemed to have developed an unconscious routine that he was cycling through as of the past few hours. Type a few sentences, sniffle and rub his nose, attempt to type a little more, sneeze a few times, and then manage to gather up the energy to repeat the cycle.
If my observations were right, Grayson’s fingers would slow and stop typing around now…Yep. The tickle was stirring up again. His large nostrils were beginning to flare out with irritation, internal tickles vibrating through his sinuses. And he was getting all squinty-eyed and his nose was scrunching up and his fingers were trying to type just a few more words to finish this sentence before--
“hG’KSHhuU! hhH’TSSHhhu! Hhuh! huh’ISSHhu!-aaAShhhU!” Grayson rapidly pulled his collar over his nose and mouth just in time to catch the quadruplet of sneezes. He sighed stuffily and blinked to rid his eyes of any sneezing-related tears as he dropped the collar of his shirt back down. I doubted he knew how closely I was watching him or how much I was catching on to him being unwell. That cold haze was definitely causing a detriment.
“Bless you,” I mentioned again casually, honestly wondering just how much longer Grayson would be able to attempt to work in his current state. Exhaustion was absolutely radiating off of my poor boyfriend.
“Thagk you,” Grayson breathed, congestion fully dampening the short words.
“Wanna head to bed? S’getting a little late,” I tried casually to get my sick boyfriend to get some rest.
With a sigh, he shook his head. “Gotta fidish this,” He hummed, clearing his throat and giving another liquid sniffle.
I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. Damn stubborn man.
After a few moments of hesitation, I decided that this was the time to nag. I could practically see the fever haze taking over Grayson as he sat. I don’t even know how he was writing anything coherent with the fever he must be running. He had, stubbornly, not let me take his temperature so far, so my estimates of his high fever were solely from his physical appearance and how he was acting. But, I knew enough about his sick habits to know that he was sporting a pretty solid fever at the moment.
“That project’s not due for another week. Plus, you already worked on it during actual work hours this morning,” I mentioned, another attempt at getting him to bed. I still had no idea why on Earth he had thought it was a good idea to go into work today.
“Ndo, I really didn’t. I’ve gotta work on it dow ‘cause I couldn’t focus enough earlier during work to get ady actual progress done on it,” Grayson breathed out, scrunching up his large nose and giving it a firm rub. His eyes were still on his laptop screen, though his fingers weren’t typing anymore.
“Gray, you’re really not looking too hot. You can take a break from work until you get a little better,” I replied, my book now completely closed and simply resting on my lap, all of my focus on my sick boyfriend.
“I’m fide, Sage,” He brushed off my concern for about the thousanth time that day already, an inch of annoyance crawling into his tone. I was pushing it, but I pushed it farther.
“Really? You don’t look fine. You look like you’re sporting a fever and like your brain is so fever-fogged that I can see it in your eyes,” I sent back. This finally got Grayson to tear his gaze from the computer and set it onto me.
“It’s just a cold, Sage. I’mb still perfectly capable of doing work,” He assured, blue eyes gazing into mine and more irritation creeping into his tone. Although the stuffy voice didn’t really do all that much to assure me. Neither did the poorly timed coughing fit that he dissolved into immediately after speaking.
I could tell that he was getting semi-annoyed. He obviously just wanted to be left to his work without my insessent nagging. So, I slid the book off of my lap, slipped my feet out from under Grayson’s leg, and stood from the couch to move into the kitchen.
I felt Grayson’s eyes on me as I moved, but I quickly heard the typing resume, so I could assume that he had turned his attention back to work.
I moved around the kitchen, grabbing a mug, hot water, and some tea. If Grayson wasn’t going to stop working anytime soon, hopefully he’d take some tea as he worked.
After a few minutes, I began to make her way back over to the couch with the mug of tea in my hands. Based on Grayson’s double-take and slightly surprised look when I sat back down on the couch and handed him the mug, he hadn’t known what I was doing in the kitchen.
The tea was a bit of a truce. An apology for being naggy about the cold, but still attempting to help said cold through the warm drink.
Grayson hesitated for a moment as he looked at the mug, then up to me, then back down to the mug. He then slid the laptop off of his lap and set it to the side, turning back towards me to take the tea. A slight success, but a success nonetheless. I’d take it.
“Thagk you,” he mentioned softly, taking a small sip of the drink. Within a few moments of the first sip, though, he haphazardly pushed the mug back into my hands. I blinked in confusion before he ducked forward with three loud sneezes caught into his palm.
I blessed him as Grayson reached for the tea back, hearing a low hum in response to the blessing.
“Sorry, the steam messes with my nose sometimes,” He mumbled out before taking another slow sip.
As much as I would have adored to hear about that little tidbit more, my mind was on a separate topic, which was currently still trying to get Grayson to concede and let me take care of him. “Gonna let me take your temperature now?” I asked pointedly, raising a brow at him.
Grayson sighed and gave my an unamused look. “Is that really decessary?” He asked. This was more progress than I had made previously, so I was feeling pretty good so far. That tea seemed to soften him up real fast. Or it had made the exhaustion set in full-force. Either way…the tea worked in my favor.
“Considering you look like you’re just a hair short from being completely fever-delirious, yeah, it’s pretty necessary,” I replied easily.
“D’ow that, is absolutely not true,” Grayson tried to refute, the red on his cheeks darkening from a mix of the fever and being slightly flustered.
“Are you kidding? Your whole face is flushed and you’ve been getting the chills on and off for the past thirty minutes. I don’t even know how your brain was working well enough to do any type of work based on how you seem to be feeling,” I informed matter-of-factly.
Again, a hesitation stretched a few moments as he thought before he spoke, deep blue eyes meeting mine after a bit of thinking. “...Fide, you can take it,” Grayson conceded begrudgingly, bringing the mug back up to his lips to take a few more sips as I ran off to get the thermometer. I also grabbed the cold medicine while I was in the kitchen. I figured that the way this was going, we’d probably need that in a bit as well.
I took my seat back on the couch as I handed Grayson the thermometer, watching as he set his mug down and slipped the thermometer under his tongue. We both waited in comfortable silence until the device emitted a series of beeps.
Without even taking a look at the reading, Grayson took the thermometer out of his mouth and immediately handed it to me. Either he already knew what the reading would likely be, or he just didn’t care about what his temperature was like he knew I did. Probably a little mix of both.
My eyes widened slightly at the reading. 102.2. I’d been expecting a fever, but not that high. He had only started showing symptoms yesterday; I hadn’t expected this high of a fever yet. A soft hand reached up to place my palm on Grayson’s cheek, as if to double check if his skin was actually that warm. (Spoiler: It was).
At my gentle touch, though, Grayson seemed to melt into my hand, his eyes fluttering shut. All of his irritation and stubbornness seemed to immediately shed from his body with the touch. Huh, was it really that simple to make him less grumpy? A little tea and some soft touch? I filed that in the back of my mind for future sick days.
“You’re really feeling shitty, aren’t you?” I mumbled softly, my hand catching some of Grayson’s weight as he subconsciously leaned into my touch. It was half-meant to be a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway after a heavy sigh.
“I feel like I’mb burning frob the inside out. And I’m all hazy and foggy and...Yeah, I’mb feeli’g really shitty. Cad’t even thigk straight,” Grayson mumbled truthfully.
I sighed sympathetically at my miserably sick boyfriend. As much as I was glad that he’d finally made it past the I’m-not-sick-I’m-going-to-deny-it-until-my-dying-breath stage, I could tell he was absolutely exhausted. “Why’d you go into work today?” I asked softly, my thumb moving softly over his cheekbone.
Another soft sigh. “Thought I could make it. Gotta work on that project. It wasn’t this bad this mborning, but dow I’b feeli’g all mbessed up frob the fever,” Grayson said heavily, the fever fog very obvious as he spoke.
Before I could even respond, Grayson gave a soft groan and pulled away from where his face was resting in my hands. He ducked down with a few heavy, cold-ridden sneezes as his hand fumbled for the tissues to clean the productive sneezes.
It sounded like he didn’t even have enough energy to power those few sneezes. A bit of a contradiction to his typical fits - consistently powerful with large buildups in order to get them out. “Bless you, honey. Will you take some medicine now?” I asked softly as Grayson directed a few congested coughs into the clump of tissues in his hand.
“S’godda mbake me all sleepy and woozy,” He complained, his eyes shifting up to look at mine. But, by his tone, I could tell that he was going to agree to take the medicine. Very begrudgingly, but he’d agree.
“You’re already all sleepy and woozy from the fever,” I countered with a gently teasing grin, satisfied when I earned a look from Grayson.
With a breathed out “Fide…”, Grayson agreed to take the medicine. Thank god. That fever was much too high for my liking, and definitely hinted as to why he seemed so damn delirious.
I leaned over to grab the bottle of cold medicine, carefully pouring out the correct amount for Grayson to take. The man in question took the small plastic cup out of my fingers, taking the medicine with a small cough before setting the cup back down.
Almost immediately after taking the medicine, Grayson ducked down to lean his head on my shoulder, leaning a majority of his weight into my side. I chuckled fondly at the affectionate gesture and set the medicine bottle back on the table next to the couch. I slipped my hand up underneath the hem of his t-shirt, skimming my fingers up and down his back comfortingly.
“You’re not gonna wanna sleep here, hon. We should probably move over to the bed so you can get some real sleep,” I encouraged gently, glancing down at him as she spoke.
A full-body shiver rippled through Grayson’s frame at the much appreciated back scratches, his eyes fluttering open with a sigh. “I’d literally love to do d’othing less thad move right dow,” Grayson deadpanned with a glance up at me.
I chuckled lightly, shaking my head fondly. “I’m glad you’re lucid enough to make me laugh. Wonderful news, really. Now, come on, we’re gonna move to the bed,” I insisted lightly, slipping my body out from under Grayson’s weight that was pressed into my side, and standing from the couch. I took Grayson’s large hands in mine to help pull him up off the couch.
With an obviously displeasured groan at the absence of my warmth, Grayson begrudgingly took my hands and pulled himself up. He shuffled his way to the bedroom with me trailing behind him and only stopping for a split second to snag the box of tissues to bring them to the bedroom with us.
Grayson had already sunk into the bed by the time I joined him, a soft smile across my lips as I joined him under the covers. Grayson immediately reached out for me, his large hands tugging me against him with a snuffle. I smiled lightly at the action, reaching an arm around him so that I could card my fingers through his hair.
Grayson managed to gently pull and tug at my limbs to get me into the position that he seemed to want, and then proceeded to get himself comfortable all sprawled out on top of me.
We sunk into the cuddle fairly quickly, with Grayson’s feverish face pressed into my neck, and my fingers in his hair and across his back.
“Well, this is new,” I noted with a small chuckle, taking stock of the position that we seemed to have fallen into. His arms were securely wrapped around me as his body pressed into mine, his eyelids fluttering shut and releasing a congested sigh across the skin of my neck and collarbone.
This was very different than how we usually slept, to say the least. Grayson was typically always the big spoon, he always said something about apparently liking the feeling of holding me as he slept. This position we were currently in was the opposite of that normal position. Not that I was complaining.
“Dod’t mbake fud of mbe, I’b sick,” Grayson mumbled, his words muffled by my skin. I smiled and intentionally gave him a few extra nice head scratches in apology.
“I’m not making fun of you, I like this. I’m nice and warm,” I hummed honestly, continuing to scratch at his scalp and rub his back absentmindedly. I felt Grayson give a small hum in agreement, settling in to head off to sleep.
We laid in comfortable silence for a while more, and I had started to think that Grayson had dozed off, when I heard him speak again.
“I’b sorry for being annoyi’g earlier. I dnow you were just tryi’g to help and I got all s’dappy and irritated,” Grayson said softly, blinking open his eyes and tilting his head up slightly to look at me.
I frowned sympathetically at the apology. “S’okay, honey, I know you weren’t feeling well and I was being annoying and nagging,” I replied softly, gentle eyes looking downwards.
“Still. Tha’gk you. For everythi’g. snff! Ndever really had someone to look after mbe like this. Guess I’mb still not used to it,” He said, words still semi-muffled against the skin of my neck.
I blinked in surprise. That…was not what I expected him to say. Out of of all the guys that I’d dated, Grayson was the most vocal about his love, but not by much at all. Plus, that title wasn’t really that hard to achieve considering all of my exes were emotionally constipated. I had a sneaking suspicion that the fever mixed with the cold medicine was starting to make Grayson’s lips a bit looser in terms of what he let slip.
Nevertheless, I tugged my boyfriend a bit closer to me at his words, pressing my cheek against the top of his head for a moment. “Well, you’ll always have me in your corner if you need any taking care of,” I assured with a knowing glance down to him.
“Yeah, I dknow that. You worry too bmuch,” Grayson mumbled out, words dripping with sleepiness and a bit of the familiar playful teasingness that I was all too used to with him.
I laughed softly at his words, shaking my head fondly. “Yeah, I do. Only worry about you, though.” I hummed lightly, continuing the absentminded motions through his hair and across his back.
At this, Grayson’s droopy eyes fluttered open again, and he managed to pick his head up slightly to look up at me. “Tha’gk you. A lot. I love you,” He said softly, pressing a haphazard kiss to my cheek, and at my collarbone when he slumped back into his previous position.
“I love you too, Gray. Get some sleep,” I encouraged, pressing a soft kiss to his warm forehead.
And with that, Grayson’s breath evened out within minutes, and I, too, was lulled to sleep with the warmth of Grayson’s skin against mine and the steady sound of his slightly congested breathing filling the bedroom.
valentine’s day prompt hopefully 1 of many! for this we’re just going to pretend that valentine’s day is going to be on a weekend and not monday this year!
Max-5’9, 22, short black hair, pale skin, green eyes, he’s a fashion designer
Rodrigo-6’0, 24, dark brown curly hair a bit on the longer side, tan skin, dark brown eyes, he’s a chef at an upscale restaurant
They both live in New York and this story takes place about a year into their relationship, right after they moved in together.
Rodrigo begrudgingly got off his bed where he’d been sitting when he heard his boyfriend call his name. He was starting to get annoyed, even though he had told Max to yell if he needed anything, this was the second time in the last hour he’d had to get up, and he didn’t think it was gonna stop anytime soon. Normally Max wasn’t such a pain in the ass when he was sick (that role was always filled by Rodrigo whenever he was sick), but maybe he just felt extra shitty with this recent bought of flu. He walked into their living room and saw Max laying on their couch, shivering under the blanket that he’d kicked off of himself not even half an hour ago.
“What is it Max?” Rodrigo asks, crossing his arms like a petulant child, though it’s not like Max notices.
“Cad I have adother blanket?”
Rodrigo walks over to the couch and lays his palm against Max’s forehead. He already knows he’s burning up with fever, he does it more to prove a point.
“No.”
“Why ndot?”
“Cause you have a fever and if I did give you one you’d throw it off after like fifteen minutes.”
“Well it’s ndot mby fault mby body cadn’t-HTTSSHHUU! snf! decide what temperature id wants to be.” he says, clutching the blanket tighter around him, his shivers intensifying.
He wipes his nose with his sleeve in the aftermath of the sneeze and Rodrigo grimaces.
“Baby, there’s a tissue box sitting right next to you.” Rodrigo says, grabbing some tissues from the box sitting on the coffee table and cleaning off Max’s nose with them.
“M’cold.” Max says, ignoring his boyfriend’s previous comment and leaning his head against his chest.
“Your a lot of things and cold isn’t one of them, but okay.” Rodrigo says, wrapping his arms around Max in a tight embrace.
Max relaxes in the warmth, shutting his eyes and eventually dozing off.
“Sleep well love.” Rodrigo says, kissing his boyfriend’s hot forehead and closing his eyes himself.
hey, so i’ve been in this community for a few years now just lurking, but i’ve finally decided to start posting my own stuff now! it’ll mostly be sickfics of my ocs (and i have a lot of them), but there’ll probably be some fanfics sprinkled in there.
areudirty
izzy806
vaporwave
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
