#but one fucking sneeze

[swampndn]

Y'all, I have a HIGH pain tolerance, and this back pain just may take me out.

[nametakensff]

The thought of a man in a suit going about his day whilst sneezing uncontrollably and desperately from a teasing cold has me feeling a little insane rn. I'd like to force this imaginary man to relax for one fucking second because he clearly needs a break (and is sneezing his germs all over the place); when he finally complies, I'm pulling his cock out of his pants and doing whatever he needs to have the orgasm he deserves for being such a hard-working, diligent boy despite his tickly nose. Happy monday morning, btw

[oxygenpdf]

I’ve got faith in McLaren, child me believed in them, therefore adult me must as well.

But if Mercedes does one more fucking thing that costs George or Lewis their wins. Ima start begging for the transfers to happen sooner.

[snzluv3r]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUR GF LISTENS TO YOU THROW UP?????

LMFAOOOOOO please relax she has held my hair back while i’ve thrown up more than once she is not phased by me accidentally forgetting to end our call bc i was too busy vomiting. i know it seems crazy but not everybody is an emetophobe (coming from someone who suffered severely from emetophobia for most of my life)

this is why i said most of yall could not handle me smh chronic illness is not all cutesy fevers and colds actually 😭😭😭

[lastoneout]

We're currently switch my cat's food and litter to try to figure out what's causing this weird mystery allergy she's had for the last like 5 years and I was kinda worried she wouldn't like the new food bcs you never know, but actually she likes it so much it's actually ridiculous. Cuz like when you switch a cat(or dog's) food you have to taper it like a medication, you keep giving them the old food but slowly mix in more and more of the new food while mixing in less of the old, cuz if you don't you can make them sick, and she is SO SO SO mad that I keep giving her ANY of the old food.

Whenever I go to fill up her bowl I first add in the old food and then mix in the new, and while she used to just immediately start eating when I'd pour her food now she just watches me do the first one, sniffs the bowl, and then sits back and stares at me like "uh mother it appears there's been an error" and then when I reach for the other food she looses her MIND and starts shoving her face in my way and meowing and getting all excited and she only starts eating once it's mixed in.

So like, glad she enjoys the new stuff at least!

[sapphicsnzs]

my current sneeze obsession is giving your partner your sweatshirt and having them wear it when they’re sick or just very sneezy

[nametakensff]

Bad ADHD day = bored inducing

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

U. P. S. E. T.

[his-tamine]

two people making out and fucking like wildcats, afterhours, in a vintage library, when they accidentally knock some old books off their shelves, kicking up a lot of dust in the process.

you see where i'm going with this, right...?

[skeletalheartattack]

Devil bottles takes control of your dog for revenge clawing and biting its horrible

not my fuckin dog man leave him out of this

[britneyshakespeare]

My toxic trait is that I like how my incomplete drawings look better than the finished things

[ccherrybloom]

Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 2

oc, m, hayfever + cigarette smoke, wc: 2.6k

Part 1

CW: foul language, hints of religious trauma, crappy/absent parents, smoking

~~

a.n. + summary: …i have no excuse. i busted this bad boy out fast as hell. this chapter includes the men hitting up a local pub, shooting the shit around some drinks, memories of a crappy childhood, and Peter sneezing himself silly. i originally also intended to include Peter’s first night trying to sleep in the motel room and keep quiet, but i felt the pub shenanigans ended in a good spot, so i’ll just include that at the beginning of the next chapter instead. anyway, hopefully you guys get some enjoyment out of this! my boys are stupid, lol.

~~

The four men trudged their way down the cobblestone streets of Cork, hands shoved deep into their pockets as a light misting of rain left small droplets splayed across their clothing and blurred the frames of Peter’s glasses. By the third time the guitarist had to pull them off to wipe them clean, he was more than fed up, instead choosing to take them off fully and hook them to the front of his shirt. He’d deal with the stupid things when they reached the pub.

Unfortunately for Peter, the fresh rain was doing more than just dirtying his glasses. The spring shower seemed to only enhance the earthy smells around them, doing nothing to help the persistent allergy-induced tickle lingering in the back of his nose. The damp air clung to everything, amplifying the scent of wet stone, fresh-cut grass, and budding flowers – all of which seemed to be conspiring against his sinuses. He could feel the beginnings of the stupid itch growing deep within his nose, constantly teasing him with the threat of a sneeze.

Thankfully the pub they were heading to was only a few blocks from their motel, meaning he wouldn’t have to deal with the overpowering outdoor scents for much longer. He sniffled quietly to himself as they rounded a corner, the pub coming into view despite his blurred vision.

“‘Bout damn time.” Peter grumbled mostly to himself. Realistically, they hadn’t been outside for long at all, but the light spring rain and the setting sun were leaving all four men a bit chillier than any of them had anticipated. It felt as though the cold was seeping into Peter’s bones, and he shivered involuntarily. Maybe heading to the pub had been the wrong idea after all, he thought, as his already annoyed mood worsened when another sharp itch prickled tauntingly within his nose.

Peter was the first to reach the pub’s door, pulling it open and gesturing for the others to file in one by one. The warm light spilling out from inside coupled with the familiar chatter of an Irish pub was a welcome contract to the chilly evening. As the others moved their way past him, the guitarist felt his nose twitch, the persisting itch travelling from the base of his nostrils up into his sinuses like an electric shock.

He turned his face away from the door slightly and scrunched his nose, bringing his free hand up to scrub a knuckle into it uselessly. He could feel his breath beginning to hitch and his eyelids start to flutter as he tried his best to keep the oncoming sneeze at bay. Just as the last of the men passed into the pub, Peter felt his control begin to slip.

Acting fast, the guitarist twisted his head away and into his shoulder as he attempted to stifle the itchy sneeze, only being half successful as it forced its way out of him.

“hH’nXGt’Shhiue!” The sneeze was sharp and wet, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake that he recognized as a sign that there would surely be more to come. He shook his head pathetically, trying to will away the lingering itch.

When he raised his head, he was surprised to see Maurice, who had been the last to enter, staring back at him with an unhappy look on his face. The blonde’s hazel eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he had something he wanted to say but couldn’t. Peter just rolled his eyes and trudged inside, giving Maurice a shove to keep moving before giving his glasses a thorough wipe and slipping them back on.

The inside of the small pub was cosy and inviting, a welcome change from the chilly spring shower. The place was lively but not overcrowded, the atmosphere filled with the sounds of drunken conversation, occasional boisterous laughter, the clinking of glasses, and a light beat of Celtic music. Although Peter had never visited Cork previously, the inherent Irish-ness of all the sights and sounds surrounding him left the musician with a warm sense of belonging deep within his chest. Although Maurice wasn’t Irish himself, Peter still wondered if the singer might also feel the same way as he did, considering the Frenchman had practically grown up in Dublin.

The four men quickly made their way to the bar to order their drinks before finding an unoccupied booth towards the back and sliding in side-by-side. Once seated, Peter wasted no time taking a long sip of his stout beer, relishing in the bitterness as it bubbled down his throat. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, enjoying the smalltalk of his bandmates and the way the alcohol warmed his body and made his head swim. But the momentary break was short lived. The dampness clinging to his clothing combined with the indoor air, slightly musty from the age of the pub, was starting to coax out that all-too familiar tingle in his nose.

The guitarist did his best to ignore it, instead attempting to turn his focus towards Chris who was telling some animated story about a fight he got into a few months back. Unfortunately, Peter could barely concentrate – the itch in his nose was back with a vengeance, causing his nose to involuntarily twitch. He tried taking another sip of his drink, hoping he could simply will away the feeling, but it was getting considerably harder to ignore.

Just as Chris was reaching the climax of his story, Peter’s breath quietly hitched, and he rubbed his nose as subtly as he could, desperate to try and stave off the inevitable. Maurice, who was seated beside him, glanced in his direction, immediately clueing into the other’s struggle. Peter caught his eye in return and gave his head a discreet shake, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but soon realised it was no use as he sucked in a wavering breath.

“HINg’Gsch!” Peter whipped himself away from Maurice and stifled hard into the back of his hand, trying his best to muffle the sound as his breath abruptly caught again. “hH’RRSHhiue!” The second one burst out of him unstifled as he attempted to twist himself away further, crushing his nose harder still, feeling the cold metal of his nose rings dig into the skin of his hand.

“Cheers to that,” Geoff teased as he raised up his glass and clinked it gently against Peter’s. “Alright there, Pete?”

“Fuck, -snf-, shit. Yeah, I’m fine.” He affirmed with a nod, his hand still pressed tightly against his nose. Despite his attempts at reassurance, the annoyed expression plastered on his face told his bandmates otherwise.

“Let’s order some shots.” Suggested Chris with a playful smirk as he tilted his drink towards Peter’s. “Maybe gettin’ pissed will cure you.”

Peter snorted, but it quickly morphed into a sniffle. “Wouldn’t that be lovely.” He grumbled before grabbing his beer and taking a large gulp.

“Maybe ya should get some fresh air, instead.” Offered Maurice, his tone more serious.

“You jokin’, Murry?” Peter scoffed, shooting the singer an unamused look. “Damn ‘fresh air’ is what got me into this mess.”

“Then maybe ya should swing by the chemist and pick up some antihistamines or somethin’.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but another sharp tickle in his nose cut him off, his breath immediately catching in his throat. Maurice just rolled his eyes.

“HAT’SHhhiuew!” Peter sneezed hard into his elbow, letting out a loud, irritated groan immediately following. With a frustrated shake of his head the guitarist took a final swig of his drink before slamming the empty glass down and gesturing aggressively for Maurice to stand up, kicking at his feet slightly from under the table. “Move yer arse, I need a damn smoke!”

Maurice huffed, defeated, and slid out of the booth so the other could stand — he wasn’t in the mood for another argument. Practically leaping from his seat, Peter muttered something under his breath before skulking his way towards the exit.

As soon as he pushed open the door he was immediately hit with the cool, damp air which brought instant relief to the allergic and embarrassed flush that had begun to dance across his cheeks. His nose was still annoyingly itchy, but being back outside made him feel much less on display, which he was grateful for.

He pulled a beat up pack of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket and fished a cigarette out quickly, sticking it between his lips and lighting it with an expert crack of his old, worn Zippo.

The first drag was heaven, and he savoured the way the smoke filled his lungs, the hit of nicotine immediately taking the edge off of his frustration and easing the slight tremor in his hand. He hadn’t realised how desperately he’d needed this.

As he allowed the smoke to drift lazily out of his mouth into the damp evening air, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to his early childhood in Belfast, back to a time when his hayfever was much, much worse. The memories flooded his mind, as vivid as if he were standing back in his childhood bedroom staring out the window at the vast fields of overgrown grass and wildflowers that surrounded their run-down countryside home.

He recalled the suffocating, ever-present itch that would take root in his sinuses from spring through to summer, turning his life into a mess of incessant watering and itching. It had always been worse in the mornings, when the dew still clung to every blade of grass, and the pollen seemed at its most potent. He’d lie in bed for as long as his mother allowed it, dreading the moment he’d have to step outside and walk to school, knowing full well that he’d be fucked by the time he got there.

Of course Saoirse, his mother, never offered him much sympathy. In fact she seemed much more inclined to view his suffering as just another one of his many shortcomings; another thing about her son that she resented. Peter could still hear her cold, nagging voice in his head.

“Stop yer whinin’, Peter. God only gives us what we can handle. If this is His plan for you then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

And so he did. The guitarist learned quickly not to expect help, not from Saoirse, not from anyone. When his eyes were on fire he’d scratch them, when his nose ran incessantly he’d wipe it, and when he’d sneeze his way through a Sunday sermon he’d deal with his mother’s reprimanding with a stoicism much too well-practised for an eight-year-old. There was just no point in complaining — it wouldn’t change anything. Saoirse would just turn up her nose and tell him to toughen up, or throw a half-hearted prayer his way if he would be so lucky. The worst part was easily how little she even seemed to care. It made him tougher in some ways, though he often wondered what his life would’ve been like if he’d had a mother who offered him more than just indifference and disdain. Perhaps things would’ve been different had his father stuck around, whoever that man may be.

Peter took another drag of his cigarette, the nicotine pulling him back to the present as the tickle in his nose flared back up. The combined scents of wet earth and pungent tobacco were like a one-two punch straight to his irritated sinuses. He leaned himself against the pub’s stone wall, his cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers as he slowly felt the sensation begin to build. Initially, he tried to fight it, breathing slowly through his mouth before taking another drag. The itch, however, was relentless, and crawled deeper into his sinuses with every passing second. Before long his eyelids had begun to flutter and his breath hitched in anticipation.

“hH’NGSCHh!” Peter stifled hard into his shoulder again, the residual smoke held in his mouth shooting out of his nostrils with the sharp expulsion. This, of course, sent the tickle in his nose into overdrive and he immediately sucked in another breath through clenched teeth with a newfound urgency.

“hiH’ISHHhiuew! ‘ISSHhhiue! ‘ISHhhu! ‘tIsh!” The sneezes toppled over each other as they forced their way out of him, leaving no room for breath in between, each one forcing him to curl deeper into himself before his head rose back up with a sharp gasp of air. “hHeHh! HET’DSHhhHiuEw!” The final sneeze shook his lean frame and caused his cigarette to slip from his fingers, landing onto the ground with a wet fizzle.

“Fer the love of Christ,” Peter cursed, trying to catch his breath as he picked back up his cigarette, flicked the ashes, and took another sharp drag, more out of stubbornness than anything.

“That was quite the spectacle.”

Peter couldn’t help but jolt in surprise as he turned his head to find Geoff standing in the pub doorway, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Jaysus Geoffrey don’t go sneakin’ up on a man like that.” Peter scoffed, taking one final drag of his cigarette before dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot. “Nearly shit meself.”

Geoff laughed at this and stepped over to his bandmate, leaning against the wall next to him.

“You alright?” He asked. “I mean, really.”

He nodded, blowing out the last of the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, grand. Was just tryin’ to have a smoke without sneezin’ me fuckin’ head off.”

“And how’d that fair for you?”

“Go fuck yerself.”

As Geoff threw his head back to laugh, it dawned on Peter how much the bassist looked like his mother. The same fiery red hair, the same bright blue eyes, the same freckled face. Hell, the man was pure-blood English but somehow looked more Irish than he did. His mother had always told him that he was the spitting image of his father, just another reason for her to dislike him, his black hair and green eyes always misplaced amongst her side of the family. But as Geoff’s laughter fizzled, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if his mother would’ve liked him better had he came out looking more like Geoff.

“Anyway,” Geoff started, wiping away a tear. “I just came out to see what was taking you so long. You know Maurice. He’s all in a tizzy.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“He just worries.” Geoff added with a grin, slapping a hand onto Peter’s shoulder as he took a breath of the cool evening air. “But he might be onto something about picking up antihistamines, mate.”

“Don’t you start with that shite too.” Peter shot back, though it was clear his initial resilience was beginning to peeter out. He shoved Geoff’s hand off of his shoulder. “Besides, it’s not like I can pop into the chemist at this hour.”

Geoff pulled up his sleeve and glanced down at his watch, humming in agreement.

“But if it means gettin’ you two eejits off me back, then I’ll go in the mornin’.” The guitarist added, shooting the other an annoyed look. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Geoff echoed with a small smile as he patted Peter on the back. “The pub’s closing soon. Let’s head back in before the others think we’ve run off.”

Peter nodded, giving his nose a quick scrub before stuffing his hands back into his pockets. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea of picking up some allergy meds was starting to sound pretty damn good. Perhaps after one more drink they’d head back, and he could worry about it again when the sun rose.

[bitchybylershipper]

would any of you believe me if I said this dog was mean and barks at me every time he sees me

[gagfadget]

I should be asleep but waitwaitwaitwait the same person who told me that I don’t experience oppression as a whole ass trans black person and who said that I “spend all day spewing nonsense about trivial things to pat myself on the back, thinking that I made some sort of impact on the world” just made a long ass, messy, deliberately dishonest call out post that demonizes most of the black side of the iwtv fandom just so she can impress all 2 of her followers? Woah mama!

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Who Cares for You (m)

Guess who’s back with YET ANOTHER fic lmao. This is based on 2 prompts, one from @waterfallofspace and one from an anon, the prompts are kinda long to put here but essentially the idea was that Elijah comes to work sick and refuses to go home, so Greyson has to figure out a way to get him home and take care of him. THANK YOU FOR THE PROMPTS!! <3 This one was a little out of my comfort zone, and I LOVED writing it so I hope you guys like it :) A little over 3k words because I just cannot be concise, it isn’t in my nature lol. 

OH and if you’re the anon who sent the Greyson-centric prompt, I’ll be filling that one later this week >:)

cw: male, cold, coughing, light mess. 

Who Cares for You

In the five years Greyson had been the executive chef at Elliot’s, many thing had changed; he’d become a partner; they’d expanded into the storefront next to the original, tiny space; and they’d seen about a dozen cooks, servers, bussers, and dishwashers come and go. One thing always stayed the same, though: August was always, without fail, maddeningly slow.

Greyson was sitting in the office, throwing a ball against the wall while attempting to come up with the fall menu they were supposed to be rolling out in the next few weeks. Was it an urgent task? Definitely not. But, his cooks were on prep projects, his sous chef was sorting through the walk-in, and truly, he had nothing better to do.

Unfortunately, his creativity was about as lukewarm as the office today.

Just when he was about to say fuck it and click out of the near-empty word document he had open, Greyson heard his boss swing open the back doors of the kitchen and stomp inside.

“Christ, it’s hot,” Elijah said, pushing past the chef and into his seat in their shared office. “Is August always this hot?”

“I mean, I’m sure climate change doesn’t help,” Greyson said, cracking his neck and turning toward Elijah. He raised both eyebrows when the two of them locked eyes. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?” Elijah asked, sitting down and turning on his computer. Greyson motioned to his own face, then at Elijah’s. “What?” Elijah asked again.

“You’re wearing glasses,” Greyson pointed out. “You’re not feeling well?”

“Oh. Yeah, I have a headache, didn’t want to put in contacts,” Elijah explained, pawing his nose with the back of his hand absentmindedly. He glanced again at the Chef, who had a cheeky half-smile on his face. “What?”

“Who the fuck gets a cold in the middle of August?” Greyson asked, laughing. Elijah rolled his eyes, then grimaced.

“Fuck off, Grey, I do not have a cold. It’s a headache. Not everything is a -,” Elijah cut himself off when his breath hitched, seemingly out of nowhere. “Huh! HUTSCHH-oo! Snf.” Elijah cleared his throat, and turned back to the Chef, high spots of embarrassment blooming on his cheeks. “A thing,” he finished, lamely.

Greyson snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, not everything is ‘a thing’, but this,” he gestured at Elijah’s entire presence, “is most certainly a thing. I’ve known you five years, Lij, you think I can’t tell when you’re sick?”

“What is this? What is happening?” Elijah turned his chair to fully face Greyson and gave him a look of disbelief. “Are we an old married couple now? You gonna start organizing my pills in little containers and making sure I take them with oatmeal every morning? Putting my coffee on the night before my early-morning shift down at the mines?” Greyson sat back, arms behind his head, and shrugged, clearly amused. “Do people still do the coffee thing? I thought that was eradicated by Big Keurig.” Elijah couldn’t help but bark out a laugh at that. “For real though, boss,” Greyson continued, “It’s gonna be slow as hell tonight. If you’re sick, just go home; Mark can handle the front. Hell, Matt could handle the back, to be frank.” Greyson sat back up and clapped a hand on his boss’s shoulder. “No need for you to martyr yourself. For once.” An insult, but said without malice.

Elijah wasn’t having it. “I’m here. I’m not sick, I’ll take an ibuprofen. I don’t need you to mother me, Greyson, though God knows you love to do it.” He stood up then, clearly looking to finish his tirade strong, but instead crumpled to the side to muffle a volley of sneezes into his sleeve. “Huhh! HuhNGSTSHH-ue! HhDTSHHH-uhh! Hhh...HNSTCHHOO!” Elijah sniffled and looked up from his sleeve at Greyson, who was clearly basking in the thought of being correct. “Fuck off,” Elijah said again.

“I didn’t say a word,” Greyson said, holding up his hands to proclaim his innocence. “But I feel like you might want to bring these,” he handed his boss the box of tissues from behind his computer, “with you.”

Elijah looked, seemingly longingly, at the tissues before pushing past the chef once again. “Not necessary,” he said, opening the office door. “I have to go get inventory done.”

***

“Chef?”

Greyson snapped his head up at the sound of his sous chef’s voice and gave him a half smile and wave. “What’s up, Matt?”

Matt shrugged, leaning against the door to Greyson’s office. “Just checking on you. Thought maybe you’d fallen into a trance or something,” he said. Greyson laughed and swiveled his chair away from the computer.

“Nah, just trying to get this goddamn menu written, but I have literally not one single idea,” he said, pushing his hair away from his face. Matt raised an eyebrow.

“Why not have Elijah help? Don’t you guys usually bounce ideas off each other?” Matt asked.

Greyson huffed out a laugh and turned back towards the computer. “Elijah is currently ignoring me for calling him out. He has a cold and desperately needs to martyr himself on this, the slowest week of the year.”

Matt snorted. “Sounds like Elijah,” he said, picking at a loose thread on his chef’s coat. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the guy leave early – well, unless you count leaving to take other people home sick.” The sous chef shrugged and pushing himself back to a standing position as Greyson slowly turned toward him, a look of bemusement on his face. “What?” Matt asked.

“Matt, you absolute genius,” Greyson said, pushing himself to his feet. “You just gave me an incredible idea.”

“About… the menu?” Matt asked, confused. Greyson placed a hand on his sous’ shoulder and shook his head.

“Not about the menu,” Greyson said. “Do you think you can hold it down tonight?”

“Uhh… yeah, Chef. I’ve got it covered. Are you...going home?”

“Not exactly,” Greyson said. With that, he swung open the doors to the dining room, leaving his bewildered sage in the dust.

***

Elijah slammed down his clipboard in frustration for about the tenth time that morning – there was no way in hell this inventory was going to get done today.

It had started fine enough; he’d inventoried the wine and beer relatively quickly, but once he got to the liquor his body apparently had other plans for him.

“HUHGSTCCHH-oo! HUTSCH-oo! Hhh...hnGTSHZUE!” Elijah sneezed into his rolled-up sleeve again and cursed himself for being too proud to take the tissues Greyson had offered with him. He wiped his nose gingerly on his sleeve, sucked in, and sat down on one of the thirty milk crates adorning the liquor room.

Much as he didn’t want to admit it, Elijah felt like garbage. He’d known for days that he was getting sick, and despite all of the preventative measures he always took it had bloomed into a Whole Thing, just like what he’d told Greyson it wasn’t. He would’ve laughed if he was thinking of it in hindsight, but in the moment he just felt miserable and sorry for himself.

Elijah went to stand and try to count the bottles once again, when he heard an unmistakable sound in the stairwell leading to the liquor room.

“Huh...UTSHH-oo!”

Elijah turned to face the closed door. Was that...Greyson?

Without warning, the door flew open, and there stood Greyson. Elijah had seen him only an hour before, but for some reason he looked different than earlier. Upon closer inspection, Elijah realized it was his eyes – they were rimmed red, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Grey? What’re you -”

“HUTSHH-oo!” Greyson turned to sneeze into his elbow. He shook his head as though to clear it and turned to Elijah. “Sorry, ’scuse me. I was just looking for you to help me with the menu – HUSHH-oo!” Another sneeze, and what sounded like a muted sniffle from the crook of his elbow.

Elijah couldn’t help but cringe. Maybe this was why Greyson seemed so adamant for Elijah to admit to being ill earlier; because he was himself. “Bless you,” Elijah said, his voice low and congested.

“Thanks,” Greyson said, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Sorry, not sure where those came from.”

Elijah swallowed hard to clear the cough he knew was forming in his throat. “Are you sick?” he asked, expecting Greyson to deny the claim. Instead, the chef just shrugged.

“Dunno,” he said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Just started out of nowhere. Anyway,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair and sniffling lightly. “I just came to see if you’d come help me with the menu, but I see you’re...busy. So I’ll leave you to it.”

Greyson turned to leave, prompting Elijah to call after him up the stairs: “If you’re sick, you should go hombe!”

Without turning to say anything, Greyson held up two fingers as an acknowledgment and headed through the door back into the dining room.

***

“HSTHH! USHH!! HTSSSH!!” Greyson barreled back into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes relentlessly.

“The fuck happened to you?” Matt asked, moving towards his chef with concern. Greyson shook his head and turned on the water at the sink.

“I’m playing the long game,” Greyson explained, leaning down to splash water onto his face. “I may have made a slight miscalculation though because holy fuck.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Matt asked, pulling some paper towels out of the dispenser and handing them to his boss. Greyson took them gratefully, and pressed them into his face.

“Well, like you said, Elijah will only leave if he thinks that he needs to take someone home. So. I’m going to be the someone he takes home.” Greyson pulled the paper towels off his face and looked at Matt with bloodshot eyes. “How do I look?”

“Crazed. Like a madman. What did you do? Spray yourself with pepper spray?”

“Ooo, so close. I snorted some white pepper.”

Matt’s eyebrows creased together and his mouth opened in confusion. Whatever question he had next clearly died on his lips at the incredibly odd admission from his boss. “White...pepper.”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, scrubbing at his nose. “I need Elijah to think I have whatever he has. Thus, white pepper.” He smiled at his sous, who was continuing to give him an unbelieving look. “What?”

Matt shook his head. “The two of you were made for each other, I swear to god,” he said, walking back to his station and picking his knife back up. “What are you going to do when he comes back up and you’re miraculously cured?”

Greyson chuckled softly in the back of his throat. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve got this all under control.”

***

After another twenty minutes of attempting to finish inventory, Elijah gave up and stomped up the stairs. He knew he’d hate himself for it in a few days, but he just couldn’t fathom counting any more bottles with the absolutely insane headache that had bloomed in his temples.

While walking towards the office. Elijah allowed himself to fantasize about his bed. About wrapping himself up in a blanket, watching TV for hours on end, sleeping as long as he wanted. Was it pathetic? Yeah, maybe a little, but he always felt like it helped get through particularly difficult days.

When he stepped into the office, the first thing that struck him was Greyson, slumped over on the chair with his head in his hands. Elijah cleared his throat, and Greyson sat up.

“Shit,” he said, “sorry, boss. Headache.”

Elijah’s head pounded at the mention of a headache. “Do we have any ibupro – hh..hnnNGSTHH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side and attempted to stifle the sneeze, making the pain in his head explode.

“Bless,” Greyson said, and pulled out a container of pills. “Always stocked and ready. Want some?”

Without thinking, Elijah held out his hand. “Thandks,” he said, dry-swallowing four pills. Immediately, he cringed at the pain in his throat, to which Greyson gave a small grimace of solidarity.

“I feel you. Sore throat,” Greyson said, touching his own and pouring out some pills. He swallowed his with a sip of something from a paper cup, then dipped into his elbow to sneeze. “HUSSHH-uhh!”

Elijah sat down next to the chef and cleared his throat. “You should go,” he said, gently. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Greyson shrugged at his boss and turned back to his computer. “Nah, I’m alright,” he said. “Besides, I didn’t bring my car today, and I’m having my apartment cleaned. The woman who cleans for me doesn’t get there til noon, and it takes her a few hours to clean it.” Greyson smiled tiredly and said, “Thanks, though.”

Elijah swallowed around the pain in his throat and said, “I cand drive you. You cand stay at mby apartment for a few hours, too, if you wandt. I mbean, it’s like ten mbinutes from yours.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his boss. “Really?” he asked. “You’d do that?”

Elijah nodded and sniffled a bit. “’Course, Grey. Hhuh…” Elijah’s breath hitched then, and Greyson pushed the tissue box towards his boss, who took a few in anticipation. “HhhGTSHHH-ue! Huh! HUHESZCHUE!” Elijah sniffled again, his sinuses too blocked to attempt to blow his nose, and threw away the tissues.

“Bless you,” Greyson said again. Elijah just ignored him.

“Grab your backpack. Let’s go before the traffic hits.”

***

This is going to work, Greyson thought as they swerved through the city traffic towards Elijah’s apartment. I can’t believe this is really going to work.

After they’d left the restaurant – with Greyson waving to his staff dramatically and Matt rolling his eyes at the theatrics of this whole charade – Greyson had asked if Elijah could stop at Walgreens.

“Don’t want to use up any of your stuff,” he’d explained, though truly he’d wanted to stop because he knew in his heart of hearts that there was no way Elijah, King of Denial, had any kind of cold supplies at his place. Elijah had nodded silently, and stayed in the car while Greyson hopped out and shopped.

The issue was, he wasn’t exactly sure what kind of illness Elijah was dealing with – no clue if he had an oncoming cough, or a fever, or abject sinus pressure – so he was forced to buy pretty much the entirety of the cold and flu aisle. The cashier raised both eyebrows when he placed the mountain of medicine, tissues, and lozenges on the counter.

“Wow,” she said, “someone must have one hell of a cold.”

Someone sure does, Greyson thought to himself when he threw open the door to the car and saw that Elijah was once again stuck in a pre-sneeze.

“Huhh...hhh. Huh, huhhh…!”

“Uh, boss - ?”

“HhNGSTHHZUE! ITSZCHUE! Huh! Hhuh-GTSSHH-oo!” Elijah doubled over his lap to sneeze, and cringed into his sleeve when he was finished, clearly trying to figure out if wiping his nose on his sleeve was too gross when Greyson was going to be sitting next to him.

Greyson dug into the bag of supplies and pulled out a box of tissues, which he ripped open and handed to Elijah. The GM silently pulled a few from the box and blew his nose towards the driver’s side door before turning back to Greyson.

“Thangks,” he said, his voice low and congested. Greyson winced at the sound of it.

“Do you, uh… do you want me to drive the rest of the way?” Greyson asked, placing the bag in the back seat. Elijah cocked his head, confused.

“Thought you were sigck,” he said, sniffling. Greyson pursed his lips together not to laugh.

“Yeah,” Greyson said, biting his cheek at the complete absurdity of this situation. “Let’s, uh… let’s just get to your place.”

Greyson had white-knuckled most of the remainder of the drive, as Elijah seemed to delve deeper into illness with each passing mile. After one particularly harsh sneeze had almost propelled them into a semi, Greyson had nearly screamed, “Oh, Jesus Christ please don’t kill us!” to which Elijah just rolled his eyes.

Finally, they arrived at Elijah’s building and parked in the garage underground. They rode the elevator silently – with the exception of Elijah’s coughing and sniffling – to the floor of Elijah’s apartment, and continued their silence until they reached his front door.

Elijah opened the door and Greyson marveled, as he always did, at how clean and organized his boss’s apartment was. Even the large window in the sitting room was unsmudged by fingerprints or bird shit. It wasn’t like Greyson’s apartment as a dump, not by any stretch, but it was certainly a bachelor pad; Elijah’s, in stark comparison, was styled—cozy and lived-in, but everything in its place. It was a home.

“You seemb to have mbade a miraculous recovery,” Elijah rasped as placed his keys in the bowl by the door. “You sure you’re ndot just allergic to wooorKSHH-uhh! NGTSZH-ue!”

“Lij,” Greyson said, holding the box of tissues out for his boss once again and placing the drugstore bag on the kitchen table, “I made a miraculous recovery because I’m not sick.”

Elijah turned to the chef and raised an eyebrow from behind a tissue. “But...you said you had a headache. And a sore throat, and you were sndeez – INGSTZUE!”

“Elijah,” Greyson said quietly, stepping towards his boss. “I’m not sick.” He slapped a hand onto Elijah’s forehead and gave him an accusatory smile, eyebrows raised. “You are.”

“I’mb – HNGSTHH-uhh! God-fuckigg-dammit,” Elijah cursed, pulling away from his friend to sneeze, once again, into his sleeve. He ignored Greyson’s offer of the tissues this time, in lieu of sniffing, hard, and meeting the other man’s eyes with a watery gaze. “You lied to mbe.”

“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic,” Greyson said, pulling the supplies out of the bags and placing them pointedly on the table. “I didn’t lie to you. I tricked you,” he smiled at Elijah and offered him a bottle of nyquil – a peace offering. “Big difference.”

Elijah took the nyquil tentatively, and gave Greyson a look of confusion. “I dond’t… I don’t get it. Why?” he asked. Greyson shrugged.

“You’re a good boss, Lij, and an even better guy. You drive your staff home anytime they’re sick – hell, anytime they’re even hungover. But you refuse to give yourself the same treatment,” Greyson took the nyquil bottle back from his boss and cracked it open. He handed it back, along with a bag of lozenges, and the box of tissues. “You care for everyone in that restaurant. Who cares for you?”

Elijah felt his voice catch in his throat, so he closed his mouth, unable to form a response. They stood there together for a moment – Greyson sorting medicines quietly, Elijah watching with his arms full of the cold supplies he never would’ve bought himself – until he was finally able to get the words out. “Thangk you, Grey.”

Greyson smiled as he looked up at his boss. “No need to thank me,” he said. “Now take your fuckin’ medicine and get your ass in bed. I don’t trust you to not work, so I’ll be out here guarding the door until I’m positive you’re knocked out.”

Elijah huffed out a small laugh. “Oh, fuck you,” he said without malice. Greyson laughed back, in earnest.

“Get some rest, boss. I’ll be here if you need anything.”