#it's been like 8billion years i'm so sorry

[yepiamthesmileyface]

sick/injured fic) + 56 (awful first meeting) = 83 (this fic)!

CW: vomiting, sick fic (not covid19 related), vaguely h*rny tho*ghts, overuse of em-dashes and parentheses

Arthur sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve irritably. He is not sick, no matter what his uncle may have implied when he clocked in. If he was actually sick, he wouldn’t have come to work (read, wouldn’t have been able to come to work). He isn’t sick, because being sick is the worst, and if he were sick, he would have to bundle up even more in the already-sweltering Texas summer, and he would have to lie in bed all day, not doing anything, just sitting there alone with his thoughts and  —  no. Just…no.

So, no. He isn’t sick. If only his stupid runny nose would just get the memo. He swipes at his nose with his sleeve again, bracing himself on the sun-heated frame of the car he’s in the middle of fixing. The engine in front of him swims a little. He blinks hard, trying to force the details to sharpen back into focus. It doesn’t exactly work.

“Get it together, Kingsmen,” Arthur growls to himself, shaking his head to clear it. He only succeeds in making himself feel steadily dizzier, swaying on his feet as he clutches at the metal with growing desperation.

A large, warm hand touches his shoulder lightly. The beautiful, smooth baritone of the most handsome man Arthur has ever seen (seriously, it’s unfair that anyone should be allowed to be that attractive, he reminds Arthur of the few pictures of Michelangelo’s David he’s seen online, but if David had a fluffy pink pompadour and warm, tawny brown skin but was still completely gigantic and could probably pick Arthur up with one hand  —  customer, he is a customer, Arthur is trying to fix his car for money, this is not the time to develop a crush on a stranger  —) sounding from behind him, audibly concerned. “Hey, are you feeling okay?”

Arthur blinks again, trying to make sense of the man’s words, then turns to tell the hot customer that he’s just fine, thanks. But as he turns around and opens his mouth, his stomach rolls. Arthur barely has time to get his head down so he doesn’t vomit on Hot Customer’s chest and  — vomits directly onto the man’s pristine purple converse. Arthur stumbles away, spluttering and choking out half-formed apologies along with more bile and the remains of the cold pizza he managed to force down for breakfast. His knees buckle, and he collapses to his hands and knees a bare few steps away, retching and coughing.

Hot tears sting his eyes as bile stings his throat, humiliation and pain a double edged sword cutting straight through him. He heaves one more time, a trickle of bile burning out of his throat. Far too late, his stomach settles a little.

As much as he wants to curl up in a ball and never come out, or perhaps sprint away and run out into the desert never to be found again, he forces himself to stand and face the customer, shaking like a leaf. “H-holy fuck I’m s-so sorry, I’m so fucking so-sorry, I  —”

Hot Customer steps forward, his shoes making an unpleasant squish that both of them wince at. He pauses for a second, kicking off his vomit-soaked shoes and socks before continuing forward barefoot. He reaches out a little, hesitating before putting a bracing hand on Arthur’s shoulder, steadying his shaky, swaying stance. “It’s…it’s okay. Let’s get you somewhere where you can sit down, it’s okay.” His voice is about a pitch higher, disgust evident in the curl of his lips, but his hand is steady and firm, and Arthur can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I’m so  — so sorry,” Arthur blurts again, wiping at his mouth. “God, I can’t  — I li-literally can’t apo-apologize en-enough, I’m  — I didn’t  —  didn’t even th-think I was  —”

Hot Customer steers him towards the garage, an arm around his shoulders (and Arthur’s not quite so far gone in his haze of guilt and horror and dizziness that he can’t feel how well-muscled said arm is). “It’s okay, I promise. It’s not the first time someone’s vomited on me,” he tries to joke.

Arthur just shuts his eyes, shame flooding every inch of him as he is led back towards the office, fighting back tears the whole way.

Distantly, he can hear the bell above the door jingle, Hot Customer making quiet conversation with Lance, who sounds pissed-off-but-secretly-worried (Arthur is very good at reading the different nuances of pissed off in his uncle’s voice). He staggers over to collapse in one of the chairs set out for waiting customers, leaning over to put his head between his knees, letting the sounds wash over him in unintelligible waves.

After a few moments that stretch out like hours, his head stops spinning quite as much. It’s enough for him to make out his uncle, who sounds much closer now than he was a minute ago, say archly, “Not sick, huh?”

“Sorry, Uncle Lance…” Arthur groans, not picking his head up.

Lance clears his throat, the awkward grimace audible. “Go lie down in the breakroom, I’ll give ya a ride home once this is dealt with. I don’t trust ya behind a wheel right now.”

Arthur groans again, curling up tighter. The whole scenario is making him feel like he’s back in high school, and he’d dropped out of high school for a reason. “‘m fine, really…just need a bit of a break, ‘s all…”

“Do I need’ta take you back to my house t’make sure you actually rest?” Lance threatens.

Arthur’s eyes fly wide, and he sits up straight, immediately listing to the side as his head violently protests. “N-no, I’m  — Uncle Lance, that’s n-not  —”

“Those are your options, kid. You’re not gonna work yourself through this shit. Whether you recover at my place or your apartment.”

The blush still staining Arthur’s cheeks deepens a few shades, and he can’t stop himself from glancing over at the amazingly attractive man whose shoes Arthur just ruined. Michelangelo’s-David-But-Hotter is standing a few feet away, typing on his phone, clearly trying to give them some privacy. His bare feet stand out like a sore thumb against the rest of his immaculate appearance (for fuck’s sake, he is wearing a waistcoat). The sting of mortification rises to a higher peak, and Arthur, finally, just nods.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. He falls asleep in the breakroom without even obsessing over how horribly he fucked everything up for more than a few minutes, then falls asleep again in his uncle’s truck, and then again on the rickety couch in his apartment. The next day is spent much in the same way, though he falls asleep in his bed most of the time. But on the third day, as Arthur’s fever begins to drop, there’s a knock on the door.

Arthur, wrapped in a thick comforter (after he admitted to himself that he yes,he really is sick, and subsequently stopped ignoring every signal his body sent out, the chills made themselves known with a vengeance), makes his way to the door, frowning in confusion. His foot catches the handle of a discarded screwdriver, and he pitches forward, crashing against the door. With a litany of various swears, he scrabbles to right himself, and finally manages to open the door just a crack. He peeks through and comes face to face   —   or, really, face to chest   —  with a dapper purple waistcoat. His face goes pale, then bright red as he slowly peeks up to meet the eyes of the unbelievably attractive customer whose shoes he literally vomited on.

Said customer looks torn between amusement and concern. “I…are you alright?”

“Fine!” Arthur squeaks, backing up a little and grabbing for the shattered remains of his dignity. He opens the door wider, so it looks less like he’s trying to hide (even though he definitely wants to). “I’m fine! Uh. What are…what are you doing here?”

Hot Customer looks a little sheepish, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “My parents run a restaurant here in town, and I…well, I wanted to bring you some soup?” He proffers a takeout bag.

Arthur eyes the bag, deeply confused. The logo on the front is familiar, two stylized hot peppers forming a heart. He grimaces a little, swallowing hard as he glances up at the other man. “Thanks? I   —  your parents run the Paradiso? Also, uh, I…really don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth here, but…how spicy is this….?”

Hot Customer grins at him. “Apparently, they’d already heard from your uncle that you were sick, and had an order ready to go when I asked.”

Arthur relaxes with a nod, then blurts, “Okay, why the hell are you being so nice? I literally   —  I puked on your shoes, and you’re bringing me, a stranger, soup?!”

“You’re sick, I’m not going to hold that against you. If I   — if this comes off as creepy or invasive or anything, I totally understand, but it’s not like   —  I’m not mad at you or anything.” Hot Customer (Arthur really needs to get his name, he’s not a customer of Kingsmen Mechanics anymore and while he is hot-with-a-capital-H, it feels weird to mentally refer to him as Hot Guy) shrugs a little, offering the bag again.

Arthur stares at him for a moment, dumbfounded, then reaches out to take the bag. Their fingers brush as Hot Customer hands it over, and Arthur has to fight down a blush, with arguable success. “I’m   —  I’m Arthur.”

Hot Customer beams at him. “I’m Lewis. It’s nice to meet you.”

Arthur hesitates. “I…I’d invite you in, but it’s kinda messy and I’m still a little sick…”

Hot Customer   —  Lewis   —  shakes his head, his smile still at full force and full beauty. “If you honestly want company, I’ve got something of an iron immune system. And, well, I’m used to a little mess.”

Arthur nods again, stepping back so Lewis can come in. He quickly kicks the screwdriver away from the door, sending it spinning off towards the wall. “It’s a bit more than a little mess, dude.”

Lewis takes a step in and scans the room, and Arthur has the sudden, panicky urge to shove him back out into the hallway and slam the door, immediately hyper-aware of every tool, nut, bolt, screw, empty pizza box, and dirty item of clothing in his living room. He draws his blanket cape tighter around him, shuffling further in. “Uh. I’ll   — if you gimme a minute I can clear off the couch, or   — I do have a table in the kitchen, actually, I   —”

Lewis shakes his head, glancing at him amusedly. “Seriously, it’s fine. I have both my own apartment and three little sisters, I’ve got no room to judge you over your place being a mess right now.”

Arthur shrugs, shutting the door behind him and facing down the irrevocability of hot guy In his messy apartment with a twisting stomach. At least, Arthur’s desperately hoping it’s just the anxiety twisting his stomach. Vomiting on Lewis again would be the absolute worst possible second impression. “I just  —  I feel like I should apologize, I mean…I literally puked on your shoes, like, the minute we met, and now you come over and find out that no, I just live like this  —”

Lewis, apparently entirely unconcerned with the state of Arthur’s apartment, begins carefully picking his way over to the couch, sitting down and  — starting to stack the mess of mugs and empty takeout containers on the low table in front of it. “Arthur, I know we don’t really know each other, but…you’re sick, I’m not going to take the state of your apartment mid-illness as a reflection of how it usually is.”

Arthur decides against informing the hottest guy he’s ever seen in his entire life that no, his apartment is normally like this, and clears his throat. It turns to a few dry coughs, but he’s able to fight those back pretty quickly. He sets the takeout in the newly-cleared space on the table in front of the couch and flees to the kitchen. He grabs a spoon from the dishwasher and takes a moment to put his face in his hands, try not to hyperventilate, and wonder what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Momentary freakout over with and armed with a spoon, Arthur heads back out to the living room, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from Lewis and toeing a dirty sock under the couch. The rickety couch creaks ominously under their combined weight, and Arthur holds his breath, but it settles in comfortably. Arthur lets out a sigh, putting the container of soup in his lap and prying the lid off. He hesitates, chewing on his lips and glancing at Lewis, who’s started to look a little awkward, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt sleeve. “So, um…your parents run the Paradiso?”

Lewis’s wide smile comes back, and Arthur has the immediate, all-consuming realization that he would do literally anything to make Lewis smile at him like that. “They do! I…didn’t move here with them because I was still in culinary school at the time, and it’s…a bit of a commute,” he chuckles, and Arthur goes bright red.

He eats some of his soup to give his poor heart a moment to steady, the spice simmering just below the upper reaches of his tolerance level. “You’re going to culinary school?”

“Just graduated, actually! That’s why I’m here, in Tempo. My parents want me to work at the Paradiso for a bit, and keep an eye on the girls.”

“That’s  —  that’s really neat. And really nice of you to move down to Tempo, of all places, so you can keep an eye on your sisters.”

Lewis smiles at him and shakes his head fondly. “They’re handfuls, really. But what about you?”

I’d like to get a good handful of you, Arthur’s traitorous brain murmurs appreciatively. His face flames, and he ducks his head quickly. “I’ve  —  I’ve lived here since I was twelve, and I work at my uncle’s garage. That’s  —” he clears his throat, a fresh wave of anxiety bubbling up. “That’s pretty much it. I’m not all that interesting, sorry.”

Lewis scoffs a little, leaning towards him. “C’mon, I’m sure that’s not true!”

Arthur, now desperate to change the topic and escape from the awkward air his self-deprecation sparked, glances around the room frantically. His eyes land on the TV, and he clears his throat again. “So, um…what kind of movies do you like?”

It’s utterly astonishing to Arthur that despite everything, he and Lewis end up talking for hours. The topic shifts from movies to video games to music to collectables to pets (when Galaham woke up and immediately began to demand his freedom, wheeling around his enclosure loudly) to anime. The soup goes cold in his lap as they talk, almost completely ignored.

They’re in the middle of a debate on whether magical girl animes are better (Lewis) or mecha animes are better (Arthur) when Lewis’s phone begins to ring. Lewis takes the call with a small frown and a hand raised to call timeout, switching to rapid-fire Spanish.

Arthur waits, only catching every fourth word or so (languages have never been his strong suit, and he only took two and a half years of Spanish in high school). After a minute or so, Lewis hangs up and glances at Arthur, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “My mamá  wants me back home so I can babysit.”

Arthur’s stomach sinks, but he nods, pasting on a crooked smile. “No problem, dude. Thanks for the soup and the company.”

Lewis stands up and holds out his hand. “Give me the soup, I’ll heat it up for you.”

Arthur startles, suddenly remembering the soup in his lap. “Oh! Right, yeah. You don’t have to do that, I can do it myself…”

Lewis shakes his head firmly. “You’re sick, I’m not going to make you get up and microwave it when I’m here and already up.” He reaches for the soup in Arthur’s lap, and Arthur’s brain short-circuits.

To save himself the embarrassment, Arthur hastily hands Lewis the soup. As Lewis heads to the kitchen, Arthur presses the blankets to his face and lets out a soft whine that wants to be a scream. He handed Lewis the soup because he wanted to avoid the fantasies that would come from Lewis reaching for his lap with that fond smile, but they’re bubbling up in his mind anyway.

Lewis comes back into the living room with the now-steaming container of soup and that affectionate smile. He puts it down on the table in front of Arthur, then hesitates, visibly bracing himself. Arthur braces himself for a comment on the weird scream Lewis probably heard, or his creepy behavior, or a gentle letdown that Lewis is straight, but, instead, Lewis blurts out, “Can I get your number?”

Arthur blinks, bemused, and his smile grows. “Sure? I mean, how else am I gonna win this argument?”

Lewis laughs, just a little louder than the rest of the ones Arthur’s heard. He pulls out his phone and hands it down. “Yeah, right. I’m not budging on this one, Art. Here, put your number in.”

Arthur quickly saves his number, hesitating for a brief, agonizing moment before putting his name in simply as Arthur. Just because he was kinda-maybe-sorta flirting for the last few hours doesn’t mean Lewis was, too. Lewis probably thought they were having a friendly conversation and nothing more, so putting a heart after his name was both terrifyingly presumptuous and completely inappropriate. Of course, none of that stopped it from being a tempting idea.

He hands Lewis’s phone back with a grin. “Text me when you can. I’ve got nothing better to do and we’ve got a score to settle here.”

Lewis smiles back, and there’s something in his eyes that Arthur can’t quite place, something almost heated. “Talk to you later, Art.”