#not snz sorry guys

[snzluv3r]

i got the job :)))))))))

[heyitsmemel]

hi hello gals and gays. Here is a rare wav from me struggling with the flu. The virus has mainly been in my chest but my entire body is so wrecked I was able to induce super easily. No talking bc I’m literally unable to 😭 Do not listen if you can't stand harsh coughing because it gets a bit rough. If it sounds a bit weird the first half of the recording is from yesterday and the second half is from today, bc the coughing is so much worse in the second half lmao. Ok that's it thankkk you for feeding me so good lately tumblr love u all <3

also personal rant about ableism and intentional contagion in the comments :///

[sailormoon-snz]

HEAR ME OUT BECAUSE NO ONE TALKS ABOUT THIS??

you know when someone saying something super confusing whilst trying to explain something to someone else and the response is just:

“Gesundheit.” like HELLO?!?!? OKAY 🥲

[gentle-sniffles]

Ok but can we talk about a sickie needing you? Just falling into your arms right as they see you, hearing their soft wet sniffles as they whimper about how sensitive their nose is at the moment. Feeling their slight fever as you pet their back sending them sweet words of comfort

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Heart. Sick. (m, cold)

clearly the clicky clacky keyboard helped my writers block because here I am, back to churning out a 5k fic in one day lmao. this is a Greyson-centric one, and tbh it's a lot of exposition, and a lot of character development. but don't worry - Greyson is plenty miserable throughout 😅 I hope you guys like these ones that are a little more plot-driven! I honestly set out to write fluff but it wanted to be a drama fest. classic. enjoy!

Cw: male, cold, some mess, coughing, sick character galavanting about instead of just going to bed, implied contagion

“What is your problem today?”

Greyson’s head snapped up at the sound of his boss’s voice. He raised an eyebrow and put down his knife; this seemed like the kind of conversation that required his full attention. “What?” he asked, brilliantly.

Elijah crossed his arms. He had been leaning against the prep table, but straightened up to his full height when the chef regarded him. “You’ve been here for an hour and you haven’t even stopped in the office to say hi,” he said. Did he hear how lame and codependent he sounded? Yes. But that was their friendship – lame, codependent, and most of all consistent. Greyson always made the office his first stop when he got in; they checked in with one another, mapped out the day, traded stories from the night before if one of them had been off. Not having his morning gossip session with Greyson made Elijah feel like he was living in a weird, wrong, nega-dimension, and he didn’t want that to become a thing.

The chef huffed out a laugh. “Seriously?” he asked, picking his knife back up. “I have a lot of shit to do today, Lij,” he said. “Matt called out.”

“Oh,” Elijah said, immediately feeling stupid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you,” Greyson said, looking pointedly up at his boss. “Right now.”

Elijah bit his tongue; this was exactly what he meant. Greyson wasn’t himself today. Matt calling out was obviously stressful, but the chef never let things like that make him angry, or short, or snippy. Something was definitely off – he didn’t know what, but it was definitely something.

“Did he say why?” Elijah asked as Greyson continued to chop. Greyson stopped short again and looked back up.

“Why what?”

“Why he called out.”

“Who?”

“Jesus Christ, Greyson,” Elijah threw his hands in the air. “Did you smoke a bowl the second before you walked in today? Matt. Did Matt say why he was calling out?”

“Oh,” Greyson said, turning once again to his prep work. “Yeah, some sort of flu thing. I said if he has a fever he can’t come in.”

Ah. There it was.

Greyson and Matt were what everyone in the restaurant affectionately called the plague rats – that is to say, they were the ones who brought any illness that was roaming around New York City into the restaurant, ad infinitum. They were the partiers, the club kids (though Greyson, at thirty-one should have reached the end of his club kid stage years ago), the chronic sleepers-around, and the past few months, it had gone from going out a couple times a week, to going out every single night. Hardly a month went by that the two of them weren’t complaining of a sore throat, a cold sore, a stomach bug that they’d been gifted by one of their many nights out.

And, of course, they never went out partying without one another.

“Did he seem okay last night when you guys went out?” Elijah asked, the question so pointed it may as well have been an accusation. Greyson shrugged, covered up the last of the prepped vegetables with plastic wrap, and slid them into the reach-in cooler below the prep station.

“Maybe a little off,” Greyson said. “He didn’t mention anything.”

“What time did you guys leave?” Elijah asked. Greyson gave his boss an incredulous look.

“What are you, a cop? I don’t know, mom, one or two? What difference does it make?”

Elijah recoiled a bit at the chef’s snappiness. “Christ, sorry, just trying to suss out whether he’s actually sick or just hungover.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Greyson asked, pushing his hair back into a small ponytail and tying it with a rubber band Elijah knew came from a package of asparagus. “He’s not coming in, that’s all we really need to know, right? Are we gonna track him down and fire him if he’s hungover?”

“You are on one today,” Elijah said. “No, we’re not going to fucking track him down, Jesus Christ.” This time, Elijah went for an honesty-is-the-best-policy approach. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re in a mood because you have extra work to do, or because you feel like shit.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and breezed past Elijah. He yanked open the walk-in and stepped inside, his boss hot on his trail. The chef grabbed two heads of cauliflower and a few bunches of radishes and nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see Elijah practically on top of him. “Stop following me,” he growled, pushing past Elijah again.

“Greyson,” Elijah said to the rapidly-closing walk-in door. He pressed the red button to let himself out, and once again tailed the chef to the prep table. “Greyson, I just want to know if you’re alright,” Elijah said, keeping a healthy distance. Greyson took a deep breath and put down his knife.

“I am fine. Matt will be back tomorrow. Please, let me do my work. Ple – hh...hhNGSTHH-uhh!” Greyson crushed the sudden sneeze into his shoulder, picked up his knife, and continued his work, not acknowledging it at all. Elijah bit his cheek.

“Bless you,” the older man said, accusatory.

“Elijah,” Greyson said, not looking up, “leave me alone.”

Elijah nodded, not that Greyson could see it while he chopped. The GM turned, walked back to the office, and pulled out his phone to text Matt.

Hey, he typed into their chat. Heard you’re sick, hope you’re getting some rest.

Thx boss, Matt typed back almost-instantly. Should be good by tomorrow.

Elijah paused before sending his next text, but then did it before he could question himself too much. Just wanted to ask...was grey acting weird with you last night? He’s totally on one today.

It took a minute or two for Matt to text back – the three bubbles popped up and went away at least three times, as though Matt was trying to figure out what to say but kept second-guessing. Finally, the text came through.

Wait, is chef there today? He told me he was going to call shelly in.

Elijah cocked his head at the phone screen; Shelly, the sous chef Greyson had brought on a month ago, was scheduled off today. Why would he call her in?

No, it’s just greyson today. Why would he call shelly in?

This time, it took Matt no time to respond.

That asshole, he said he was going to take the day off.

I’m lost, Matt. Why would he take the day off…?

Another minute of bubbles popping up and going away ensued. When the text did come through, Elijah felt his face flame. That motherfucker, he thought, slamming his phone down, screen-up on the desk and stalking back to the prep kitchen.

On his open phone, the text from Matt: he gave me this shit. We literally went and had one drink, then he said he had to go bc he felt like trash. Fuckin greyson.

Fuckin’ Greyson. That was for damn sure.

***

He knew he was coming down with something on Monday, but it was one of those excruciatingly slow-to-come-on illnesses that made you wonder if you were actually just crazy, and this whole thing was in your head. A sneeze here, a rogue cough, the sore throat that came and went with several long drinks of water – for three days, Greyson gaslit himself, told himself he was imagining it, took Emergen-C and chalked it up to allergies.

“Morning, boss,” Matt had greeted him.

By the time Thursday – yesterday – had come around, it finally hit him properly. Greyson woke up with a heavy feeling in his chest, his head throbbing, and a lump in his throat to match the one in his stomach. He sighed as he got ready, loaded up on dayquil, and headed into work.

Greyson had returned the greeting with a rough, “HNGSTHH-ue!” and a sharp sniffle. Matt winced as his boss unpacked his knife bag.

“Yikes,” he said, “I guess that girl from the bar last night wasn’t just doing a lot of coke, then?”

“More like the guy I stayed the night with on Saturday didn’t just have a naturally deep and husky voice,” Greyson said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s the world’s slowest-to-come-on cold, I swear. I’ve been almost sick since Monday.” He coughed into his sleeve for what felt like a long moment, came up to see a water bottle placed in front of him. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” Matt said. “That makes sense, though,” he continued, “because I can definitely feel it coming on. Thought maybe it was allergies.”

“Sorry, kid,” Greyson said. “We’ll get you outta here early.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “If you’re here, I’m here, boss,” he said. The two of them had prepped in near-silence for awhile, before Greyson seemed to realize something was off.

“Has Elijah come back here yet this morning?” he asked, and Matt shook his head.

“Isn’t he off today? I think Mark said he had some sort of appointment.”

Greyson flashed Matt a little look and the sous chef blushed – Matt and Mark were very recently a thing, a fact that was clear to everyone in the restaurant and that the two of them were attempting to hide, as if any fling that took place within the confines of these walls was anything other than obvious. Greyson figured now wasn’t the time to bully his muse.

“Thank god he’s not here,” he said instead. “Elijah, I mean. I’m so sick of him giving me shit every time I have a stuffy no – NGTSHH-uh! Hh...HTSHH-ue! Fuck.” Greyson slunk away from his prep area to blow his nose, cough again, and wash his hands.

“Bless,” Matt said when Greyson made his way back to his station. “To be fair to Elijah -”

“No,” Greyson stopped Matt by holding up a hand. “We’re not talking about this.”

“I was just going to say, I mean, you have been out a lot since the whole… breakup situation.” The way Matt trailed off made it obvious that he immediately regretted bringing this up. Greyson sniffled, stayed silent for a few moments, and then sighed.

“You're one to talk. And besides, I don’t know how it’s my fault that every club in a five-mile-radius is a cesspool,” Greyson muttered, a lame attempt at a joke. Matt took the bait and huffed out a laugh.

“I don’t think Elijah blames you for the general grossness that is the midtown club scene,” he said. “I think he’s just worried about you.”

Greyson wasn’t so sure. Maybe it had started as worry; worrying was one of Elijah’s greatest passions, after all. But it had been six months since Greyson and Collin had broken up, and in that time worry had turned to annoyance, which had led to what felt like resentment. A month before, Greyson had been laid up with strep throat, thanks to a girl who he swore was trying to steal his tonsils with how deep she shoved her tongue into his mouth, and Elijah didn’t even try to hide his distaste.

“Seriously, Grey?” he had asked when the chef stumbled into the restaurant sweating, shivering, and unable to speak. “Who over the age of twelve gets strep throat? What’s next, mono? Chicken pox? Run the gambit of diseases kids get from putting their hands in too many people’s mouths?”

Greyson knew it was stupid to go out drinking and partying every night; he knew he was too old, knew it was irresponsible, he knew he should be processing the breakup instead of drowning every feeling he had about it in booze and sex. He knew. But he just couldn’t do it. Collin was the first person he’d ever really loved; getting over the coldness with which his first love threw in the towel that was their relationship was easier said than done.

He certainly wasn’t going to tell Elijah of all people that. He loved the man; Elijah was his best friend, his business partner, the guy he called first when something amazing or devastating happened, but this was not his strong suit. Elijah was basically a nun when it came to all things partying; he prided himself on never having more than two drinks when they went out, never sleeping around, and being married to the restaurant. Greyson loved Elijah, but he knew that the GM just wouldn’t get it.

So, the reprieve from being harassed about his near-constant menagerie of illnesses was a welcome one. He and Matt had prepped, passing a box of tissues between them the entire time, they’d gotten through a relatively slow service and, like every night the past few months, they’d ended the evening at a bar a few blocks from Elliot’s.

Greyson wanted to want to be there, truly he did, but he didn’t have it in him. Maybe it was the thought of being the only chef in the next day – Matt was well and truly coming down with the cold Greyson had come in with – or maybe it was just that the constant barrage of illnesses was starting to wear on his body, but the thought of staying awake for another minute, let alone another few hours, made Greyson’s head pound.

“I’m gonna call it,” Greyson said, shooting back his whiskey and placing a twenty on the bar top. “Take the day tomorrow, alright?”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “What about you?” he asked, coughing into the back of his hand. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Greyson said, elbowing Matt playfully. “I’ll call Shelly in, okay? I’ll take the day, too.” It was a lie; Shelly wasn’t ready for the responsibility of running a Friday night, not even a slow one, but if it made Matt take a day off, it was worth it to lie.

“Alright,” Matt said, wary. “Well, have a good night, Chef. Feel better.”

“Same to you,” Greyson said. “Tell Mark I said night-night. Give him a little kiss for me, too.”

Matt’s face turned bright red. By the time he’d collected himself enough to respond, his boss was gone.

***

“Greyson!”

Elijah stomped his way through the kitchen, on the hunt. He reached the back kitchen before Greyson could hear him, and the chef was blowing his nose into a rough paper towel looking caught, like a deer in the headlights.

“You fuckin’ asshole,” Elijah said, “why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“I’m not sick,” Greyson said, sniffling and tossing the paper towel. His eyes, Elijah noticed now, were rimmed red, and his voice was low and gravelly. “It’s allergies.”

“Right,” Elijah rolled his eyes. “Contagious allergies? Allergies you passed along to Matt? For Christ’s sake, Greyson, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you lately, but you need to get it together. If Matt’s sick, that means Mark is going to get sick, then my entire front of house team gets it. What do you think you are, twenty-three years old? You can’t go out every single night and sleep around with anything that has a hole and also have an eighty-hour-a-week job. You’re not a kid, Greyson. This behavior? It’s childish. And I’m fuckin’ sick of it.”

Greyson stood there and took it, his mouth in a hard line. “Okay,” he said after a beat.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated. “You’re right. I’ll – hh! HhhIGSTZH-ue! Huh! HuhhESTCHZUE!” The chef sneezed painfully into his elbow, cleared his throat, and righted himself. “I’ll stop. It’s childish. Okay?” his voice was nasal, hoarse, and tight, as though he was on the verge of tears. All the fight Elijah had brought to the back kitchen was rung out of him like a washcloth at the end of a long bath.

“Um,” he said, “okay. Good. Now, go home. I’ll call in Shelly, I’m closing the books, it’ll be an easy night. Go rest so you can be good for the weekend.”

The chef just nodded, not making eye contact. “Heard,” he said, packing up his things. He didn’t beg to stay, didn’t insist that he was fine. He just picked up his bag, nodded at Elijah, and said, “See you tomorrow.”

Elijah was so in shock, he didn’t even respond until Greyson was out the door. “Yeah,” he mumbled, blinking. “See you tomorrow.”

***

The pulse of the music thumped in time with Greyson’s headache; it was oddly soothing, if a little disconcerting how in tune the two were.

“I’ll take andother,” he called to the bartender as loudly as he could muster. The bartender nodded, brought the bottle over, and topped him off, smiling seductively all the while.

“This one’s on the house, love,” he said in a faint British accent that Greyson couldn’t decide was real or fake. “What’s your name?”

“You’re very cute,” Greyson slurred, all levity out the window three drinks ago. “But I’mb sick as a dog, and I’mb ndot trying to pass it around any mbore than I already have.”

The bartender laughed. “This job is worse than a daycare when it comes to germs,” he said over the thrum of the crowd and the bass of the music. “Pretty sure I’m immune to just about everything at this point.”

Greyson let a sloppy smile paint his face. “Mbust be ndice,” he said, taking a swallow of his drink, then turning to his elbow to cough. “I work in a kitchend, it’s just about as bad but I haven’t seemed to gain any immu – immu...huh...hhINGTZHH-ue! HTSHH-ue! HRSHH-ue!” Greyson pulled his white tshirt over his nose and mouth and ducked almost completely under the bar to sneeze. He swore under his breath, sucked in through his nose, and sat himself upright once again. The bartender tutted in sympathy.

“Poor thing,” he said, smiling slyly. “You should be in bed.”

He wasn’t wrong; after Elijah’s blowup, Greyson had certainly thought about doing the right thing, going home, crawling into bed and actually attempting to get better. It had only been noon when he left the restaurant, and if he didn’t have to be in til noon the next day, that was almost a full twenty-four hours that he could spend doing nothing except relaxing, resting… being alone with his thoughts…

Yeah, that wasn’t about to happen.

Instead, Greyson had walked forty blocks to Greenwich and had lunch at one of his favorite spots. He’d moved on to a coffee shop from there, writing in his little black notebook recipes that he wanted to try out at Elliot’s. After that, he’d stopped into a CVS and bought them out of dayquil; three or four swigs later, and he was on his phone rapidly texting anyone he’d slept with in the past two months to see if they wanted to hang out. They did not.

The failed attempts at a hookup sent him into a darker place than he’d like to admit, so Greyson decided four pm was late enough to start drinking, and he took a cab back to midtown to begin his nightly spiral. The bar with the cute bartender was stop number four of the evening; at stop two, the dayquil had worn off. By stop three, he was coughing every time he took too deep of a breath. This was the stop where he’d given up the facade of health and just allowed himself to be the grossest person at the bar – much to everyone but this bartender’s chagrin.

“Yeah,” he said to the bartender, “you’re probably right.”

The bartender winked and turned back to the other bar patrons, leaving Greyson to sit foggy-headed and cold, alone with his whiskey. He looked at the clock on his phone – 11:45PM. The restaurant was probably empty by now. He wondered if Elijah was still there, finishing up paperwork; he thought about texting him, then remembered the blowup again. Greyson put his phone away, pulled a fifty out of his wallet, and ducked out of the bar.

It was cold outside; it was barely September, but Greyson could definitely feel that fall was in the air. He didn’t realize until now that he’d forgotten his jacket at work. Fuck.

Greyson shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering – there was no way he was going to make it back to his apartment without a jacket. The chef looked up at the street signs and realized he was only a block or two from the restaurant. Fuck it, he thought, sneezing into his exposed elbow. I’m getting that jacket.

***

It had been a long shift.

Shelly was great, really – she was just young, and a little bit scared of the enormity of running a restaurant. Elijah had figured that out at about seven pm, when she was nearly in tears with just six tickets on the board. But they had gotten through it, with Elijah taking over expo and Shelly running inside middle. It was fine. Long? Yes. But fine.

At eleven, the restaurant had emptied and with it went the servers, cooks, and junior managers. Elijah finished up his paperwork, locked the front door, set the alarm, and sat down at the empty bar with a glass of whiskey – just him, the thrum of the heater, and the restaurant.

When he was feeling really low, Elijah would spend hours like this; just sitting at his bar, looking out into the dining room, reeling in what he had created. This space was his, a place that he had spent his entire life clawing upwards for, despite the drone of older restaurateurs telling him he was too young, or too poor, or too talentless to own his own place. Elijah hadn’t grown up with money, or support, or any kind of nepotism that would have propelled him into this field, but he’d grown up with something most people hadn’t – drive. Passion. An absolute need to succeed, despite it all. Sometimes he needed to remind himself of that.

He knew that no one could really understand his reasons for being as anal as he was about everything in the restaurant – not even Greyson, though his counterpart came close. Often, Elijah felt like he spent his life explaining himself; explaining why he wasn’t married or even dating at thirty-nine, explaining why things had to be done a certain way so that appliances and tables and chairs and glassware and plates would last as long as humanly possible; explaining why people should care about his restaurant, his vision. Sometimes, Elijah wished he didn’t have this fire inside him. This passion for his work. He knew damn well his life would be easier if he didn’t.

Elijah looked at his phone as midnight approached, thinking about the day, thinking about Greyson. He wished things had gone down differently this morning, but he know Greyson could be like a kid when it came to arguments – quick to forgive, quick to forget. Sometimes that made Elijah feel even worse; he wished the other man would scream back at him, give in to his baser desires like Elijah was so wont to do when it came to arguing. Greyson saved those more carnal instincts for after work, Elijah supposed.

It would be worked out by tomorrow, whether Elijah wanted it to or not. He sighed, drained his glass, and went to turn off the lights behind the bar – when the alarm began blaring.

Elijah froze in his tracks. Who the fuck was breaking into the restaurant?

The GM burst through the doors to the kitchen and ran towards the back, absolutely nothing to defend him in his hands. If he was defending his restaurant, he was doing so with his bare hands; he’d figuratively clawed his way up to this position, he would certainly literally claw someone’s eyes out if they attempted to take it from him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Elijah heard someone at the back door before he saw them. He slowed his pace when he heard the voice. Greyson.

“Grey?” Elijah called, turning the corner and seeing the chef clumsily attempting to turn the alarm off. Greyson was wearing just a tshirt and jeans despite it being near-freezing outside, and the way he was fumbling with the alarm system meant he was almost certainly wasted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Greyson turned to his boss and smiled, lopsided. He looked like shit; he was as pale as his shirt, his nose was bright red and running so much that he had taken to swiping a hand under it every few seconds, and Elijah could hear the wheeze in every breath he took. “Oh, thangk God,” he said, moving out of the way so Elijah could turn the alarm system off. “I thought if that back was opend, I could just sneak in. To grab mby jacket.” Greyson coughed away from Elijah, an angry, productive sound that made the GM flinch. “Sorry,” Greyson said. “It’s cold outside.”

“I’m well aware,” Elijah said, turning away from the now-silent alarm. “What are you doing out? You’re supposed to be at home. Getting better. Remember, I sent you home twelve hours ago? What have you been doing, out partying? You’re sick, Greyson.”

“I kndow, I kndow,” Greyson said, yanking the rubber band out of his hair and letting it fall wildly around his shoulders. “I just… I… hh… huh! HuhhhIGTSZHH-ue! HTSH! HRSHH-uh! Fuck – HNGSTHHZUE!” The sneezes wrenched themselves from him, rough and painful-sounding. Greyson stood, post-fit, and pushed his hair back with a hand. “Sorry,” he said, his voice wavering.

Elijah sighed; it was too late to fight. “C���mon,” he said, “let’s go sit for a bit. I can’t send you home like this.”

He led them both back to the bar and, despite his better judgment, poured them each a whiskey. Greyson coughed and took a swig of his before Elijah even sat down. “Thangks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.” Elijah drank his whiskey slowly, trying to decide what to say to the chef. After a moment of silence so tense it could be sliced through with a butcher knife, both Elijah and Greyson attempted to start a conversation at the same time.

“Grey, I -”

“Lij, it’s-”

They both stopped, smiled at the absurdity, and Elijah motioned to the chef as if to say the floor is yours.

“Ndo, you go ahead,” Greyson said, sipping his drink. “Besides, I cand barely talk.”

Elijah couldn’t disagree with him there, so he let out one forced little laugh and then sighed. “Grey, I’m sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Grey,” Elijah said finally, turning towards his friend, “what’s been going on, really? You’re… something is wrong. You’re not… you.”

Greyson shrugged. “I shouldn’t be bringing every disease kndown to mban into the restaurant, but here we are,” he said, coughing into his fist. Elijah laughed in earnest this time, and the two of them lapsed into silence once again.

Greyson pursed his lips, downed the rest of his drink, and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. I’mb ndot.” The chef sighed and turned his barstool towards Elijah. “It’s… it’s the whole Collin thing. It’s beend… a lot harder than I thought it would be. Getting over himb.” Greyson sniffled; Elijah was unsure if it was illness-related, or if the other man was crying. He was quickly given an answer when Greyson wrenched to the side – “HGTSHH-ue! Hh! HhhNGTSHZ-ue!” The chef wiped his nose on the back of his hand and cringed. “Sorry,” he said.

Elijah shook his head. “Dude,” he said, “you could’ve just told me you were taking it harder than you expected. You know I’m always here if you need to talk. I thought we were friends.”

“Lij, we are friends, but like… I don’t kndow. It’s weird talking to you about this shit because you don’t… I don’t kndow, fuck up. You take everything in stride, like it all rolls off your back. I’mb ndot like that. Plus, you literally ndever date - I’ve ndever kndown you to have a single girlfriend, let alonde break up with someone, and we’ve kndown each other for years.” Greyson pressed his hand into one of his eyes and groaned. “Fuck, I thingk I’mb getting andother fuckigg sindus infection,” he muttered. Elijah gave his friend a pointed look.

“The fact that you know off the top of you head exactly what that feels like definitely says something about these past few months,” he said, prompting a sharp laugh and the middle finger from Greyson. Elijah smiled. “You’re right,” he said, after a beat. “I don’t date. There was a girl, a long time ago – before I bought this place. I thought we were going to get married one day.”

Greyson’s eyebrows shot up, headache clearly forgotten. “Ndo way,” he said. “You’re shitting mbe. You? What was her name? Do I know her?”

Elijah laughed. “You don’t know her,” he said. “She was actually a chef, too, at this vegan brunch place in the Financial District. But she wanted kids, she wanted me to have a job where I could be home in the evenings…” Elijah shrugged, a fingernail digging into a groove in the bar top. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

“Dude,” Greyson said, placing a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.”

Elijah shrugged again, and looked back up at Greyson. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “But I mean – I do get it. Heartbreak, that is. You can talk to me about anything, Greyson. And I’m not some let-it-roll-off-your-back, take-it-in-stride monolith, either.” He smiled, attempting to break the tension. “Obviously I get pissed all the time so just… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.”

The two of them sat in silence once again, neither really knowing the right thing to say next. Finally, Greyson’s body broke the tension: “HNGTSHH-ue! God, fuck,” the chef reached across the bar and attempted to blow his nose in a cocktail napkin – to no avail.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, and Greyson nodded.

“Thangks,” he said, slowly lowering his head to the bar top. “Fuck, I feel like such hot garbage. The going out every ndight thigg is definitely ndot for anyone over thirty.”

Elijah couldn’t help but cackle. “And you wonder why I have a two-drink-maximum hard line? I’d be dead on the floor if I drank like you and Matt. Welcome to old age, bud.”

“Yeah, you mbight be on to something there,” Greyson said, closing his eyes. “Definitely ndot gonna be hooking up with anyone under twenty-five anymbore, either. They’re all cesspools. HGTSHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said again. “Want me to drive you home?”

Greyson opened one red, watering eye. “In a mbinute,” he said. “I just ndeed to...rest mby eyes.”

Elijah pursed his lips to keep from laughing at the spectacle that was Greyson; mouth-breathing, whiskey-smelling, chest-crackling Greyson. Heartbreak didn’t look good on anyone, but on him it was especially rough. Within moments, the chef was snoring.

Elijah shook his head, stripped a table of its clean white cloth, and placed it over Greyson’s shoulders. Rest was rest, he figured. Elijah poured himself a rare third drink and sat next to his ailing friend.

“Sleep well, Chef,” he said, and took a long pull.

[his-tamine]

fuck, you got me.

[waterfallofspace]

When a character has not only a canonical allergy, but a reoccurring canonical allergy >>>>>

Especially when there's no actual reason for it to occur again?? Just cause they wanted to?? An almost entirely sneeze/stuffed up driven allergy.... 🔥🔥

[alrunaaa]

trying out newer chhinkni for the first time! starting off small but holy shit this stuff packs a punch and literally takes the breath outta me lol. excited to use it more often!!! also lost my voice recently so my sneezes sound a little different than normal bahaha

cw: sneezing, sniffling, talking, and some panting/catching my breath

minors and non kink blogs dni

[clovesnz]

I’m still SO ITCHY like agonizingly so but it’s almost 6am here and my family are starting to wake up so I can’t even go to the car or anything 😢 idk what I’ll do I feel like I’ve never been this snexually frustrated before

[sneezydarliing]

Acts of Care (ocs, male)

Hi! This is my secret santa for @heavyeditsnz 's splatoon ocs. I won't lie when I say this was definitely out of my comfort and knowledge zone and I'm not a fan of how it turned out. I hope you enjoy anyways 😭

Asahi doesn't think he's ever felt worse.

Surely he has, but having woken up before the sun's even risen with a coughing fit that scrapes against his throat Makes it hard to believe. He drags himself from his bed and into the kitchen, fumbling around for a glass of water. He feels feverish. His head is pounding, and there's an itch In the back of his sinus that won't leave.

Part of him expected this. He'd been sneezing all day, and people had been telling him that he hadn't looked good. By the time he got to bed, it was with an exhausted heaviness. But Asahi was fine. He finished his drink and settled back into bed, releasing a few itchy but unsatisfying sneezes on the way. He'd wake up later and be fine, surely.

It takes almost an hour for him to fall back asleep, and he feels worse when he finally wakes back up. He's tangled around the blankets, and he feels like his head has been stuffed with cotton. He's got class, though, and he can't miss it.

He gets up, and the tickle alighted with a new fury. He was stuck gasping for breath, leaning onto the nearest stable surface he could find as he's doubled over. “hiHd'TSCHh!” He sniffles, pawing at his nose. He finishes getting ready, and heads to class.

It passes slowly, and Asahi finds himself muffling desperate sneezes into his clothes, praying they were quiet enough. He looks up once the class is over, met with the face of his boyfriend. He smiles in greeting, giving another discreet sniffle.

“Are you alright? You look terrible.” Ren greets with a raised eyebrow. Asahi muffles a cough into his sleeve, rubbing his nse agaoinst his wrist. “ snf I’m fine. Just a little cold. How are you?” Ren clearly looks uncoonvinced, but doesn’t mention it further, and the two continue to chat. Asahi feels himself beginning to space out as his boyfriend talks, before suddenly a hand is pressed to his frehesd.

Asahi leans into the cool touch, soothing against his pounding head. Ren’s frown quickly dissolves any comfort brought to him, though. “You’ve got a fever. Let me take you home.” Asahi shook his head, gently moving Ren’s hand from his face as he raised a hand in warning. “h’NGt-! I’m okay.” He replied, trying his best to put on an assuring face. Clearly, Ren wasn’t convinced.

He began gently urging Asahi up, packing up his things for him. “You’re clearly not feeling well. Let’s go home and get the temperature down.” Asahi sighs, but bends to his boyfriend’s will. Being home and away from the bright lights and noise of the room sounds nice, and there was no dissuading Ren. With his aid, the two make the trek home, stopping occanisonly for Asahi to muffle fits of coughing.

Once in his house, he’s quickly ushered to his room, where he begins to get comfortable in his bed. He’s stopped mid-way through changing into more comfortable clothes, his body gearing up for yet another fit. He grabs onto a chair for stability, letting the harsh sneezes wrack his frame.

“eH-tSCHh’iew!haH.. hID’GKSTCH’u!” he gives a wet sniffle, pawing at his nose roughly. Despite their strength, the sneezes were far from satisfying, and still left a stubborn itch deep in his nostrils. He muffles a few coughs into his sleeve, then finishes changing. Asahi attempts to settle into bed, but the pounding in his head makes it difficult. He’s left lying down, listening to his boyfriend making food in the other room. As much as he would love to eat anything made by him, he’s not sure his stomach can handle it. He sits back up, the movement making him cough all over again. His throat hurts.

Hearing a soft knock on the door, Asahi lets his boyfriend into his room, carrying a plate of food. He hands it to Asahi with a glass of water, sitting on the edge of the bed while Asahi gets settled back in. Asahi thanks him quietly, finding his voice much raspier than it had been a few hours ago.

“Have you taken anything?” Ren asks, once again feeling his forehead. “You feel a bit warmer.” Asahi shakes his head. He hadn't even thought of it. Ren stands, making his way out of his bedroom once again. “I'll go get you some and- oh, need to sneeze?” Asahi gives a frantic nod, cupping tissues around his mouth. He feels Ren's eyes on him.

“hH’TCH-! hih.. ’NGt-iew!.. hiD'tSCHh!” Once he recovers, he feels Ren's hand on his back, making soothing motions, before leaving and quickly returning With medicine. “These should help with the fever. You have a headache?” Once again Asahi just nods in response, not trusting his voice anymore. It feels like needles every time he swallows, and the small sips of water aren't really helping. He truly feels awful. On top of everything else, he feels bad for burdening Ren with this, even as the other is helping him make a backrest with some pillows so he can eat.

The food is good, simple enough to eat but still flavorful. Asahi wants to enjoy it, but he finds himself struggling to get more than a few bites down between rough, throaty coughs. Ren seems to understand, taking rhe Tray from him and replacing it with the water, which he gratefully sips. They spend a while like this, just quietly enjoying each other's presence, before the medicine begins to work and Asahi feels his eyelids begin to get heavy.

He shifts into a proper lying position, wishing his boyfriend goodnight. He feels Ren lay beside him, and drifts off to sleep happily.

[4108927]

stoic leader of a grp that’s caught a cold just desperately wanting to be undone by being made snz until their head spins and cu[TRAIN PASSES]

[snezfics-n-shit]

Sicktember Day 4: Hiding An Illness

Fandom: Ace Attorney Characters: Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth Notes: Phoenix and Miles are busy men. As cases pile up for both of them, their married life seems to have switched to autopilot. Going so long without time alone has them both eager for a real date night, and this Saturday happens to be completely free on their schedules. Neither of them have any intention of letting anything get in the way of that, even if it means hiding a slowly blooming cold from an equally unwell husband. As far as the timeline goes, all you need to know is the Wright Anything Agency is very much back on its feet, almost too much. 

“Shit.” 

That was the only thing Phoenix could say as he stared at his reflection in the master bathroom mirror. He looked just awful. A pink gradient dusted across his cheeks, being the most intense as nearly red on the rims of his nostrils. He was supposed to look and feel irresistibly attractive for his husband on their date tonight, and here he was doing neither. Now, if it was Miles… No, no, that would be downright mean on today of all days, albeit still providing an incredibly sexy mental image.

He exhaled slowly. Surely he could do something about this.

He started with lightly applying petroleum jelly on the most obviously chapped parts of his face. He was careful not to use too much, of course, to avoid looking suspiciously oily. That alone did a lot of good, and provided welcome relief… He just had to be careful when blowing his nose, which could easily undo all this effort.

“Love? Are you alright?” Miles’s knock and calling through the door snapped Phoenix out of his silent fretting. “You’ve,” a curious pause, “been in there for quite a while.”

“Yeah, I just… I just noticed the toilet looked like it needed another cleaning!” Phoenix cleared his throat. “I’ll be right out.” He quietly slipped a travel tub of the same petroleum jelly in his suit pocket.

There needed to be an awful lot of spare cleaning supplies in the restaurant bathroom if he didn’t think of another reason for frequently sneaking off soon. 

. . .

Miles was quite proud of himself once it was his turn to assess his appearance at the same mirror. He still could only barely comprehend Phoenix’s reasons for his frequent toilet cleaning; after all, he did say it came from an old habit that ran in his father’s side of the family for generations, but was no longer needed at home now that there were no worries about making good impressions when providing a place for some kind of “overseer” to stay. Unneeded or not, this habit afforded Miles with time to sneak away and make use of some stage makeup Trucy left behind after moving into her new college dorm. No, he was not going to ruin all the effort he put into looking like the picture of health by crying over the thought of Trucy no longer being a little girl. 

Miles was absolutely sure Phoenix wouldn’t even notice the heavy bags under his eyes, and if he did, he would at least conclude they came from a long week of sleepless nights spent staring at his work computer. If he wore his glasses right, Miles hardly caught a glimpse of said bags in his reflection. 

He had this, as he once heard Larry say, “in the bag.” He had the spare makeup in the bag, too, or rather, his suit pocket. 

. . . 

Well, this was going to be a disaster. 

At least, Phoenix felt like it would become one as soon as he could feel his nose running just as he was settling into the surprisingly uncomfortable chair facing his husband across the white-clothed table. Miles was looking right at him, and it was too early in the date to excuse himself to the restroom yet. With how the establishment seemed to pinch pennies on these chairs, he wouldn’t be surprised if the paper towels provided would make him look worse than he felt. 

“Please, forgive me, darling. I’ll be right back.” Miles excused himself, likely to the restroom that Phoenix was now definitely not allowed to use now, but at least that meant Phoenix could sneakily swipe at his nose with one of the fancy cloth napkins as soon as Miles was out of sight. Thank god, they were actually soft. 

Phoenix perused the drink menu, carefully noting to avoid anything bubbly that might aggravate his already irritated throat. What would he do if Miles wanted a bottle of champagne, though? To turn it down would be even more incriminating, and speaking of incriminating, Phoenix hadn’t even thought of what dish was most accommodating for his lack of appetite. 

Miles’s definition of “right back” seemed awfully loose right now, too. Phoenix worried if his husband didn’t hurry up and return, he may find himself too comfortable not having anyone’s eyes on him, only for that excessive comfort to be the night’s plans’ undoing. 

Come on, come on…

. . . 

“Sorry to have made you wait.” 

“Huh?” Phoenix looked up. “Oh, yeah, it’s all good.”

Miles sighed in relief as Phoenix seemed to forgive his absence. He was lucky to have a husband that hardly ever asked for detailed explanations of any situation outside of the courtroom. What would he have had to say if an explanation was needed, anyway? A true answer would be that Miles had locked himself in a restroom stall to stifle a set of sneezes in a painful fashion until the need to do so finally subsided, but it being the middle of January would make for more questions than answers he was willing to give.

“So, uh, I was thinking we could order the soup first, and go from there.” Phoenix suggested. “I heard it’s pretty filling on its own, and really good, too.” 

Miles squinted. Had Phoenix caught onto him? Soup sounded heavenly, and it was light, too. It was almost too perfect of an idea. Phoenix even started to look nervous just a few seconds into Miles’s evaluation of the potential order. Miles needed to navigate this with great care. 

“I’d quite like that, yes.” 

Judging from Phoenix’s look of relief, Miles had been successful in his carefully worded answer.

. . . 

As the soup was placed in front of them next to glasses of Miles’s miraculous choice of a wine with no bubbles to be seen, Phoenix considered himself to be in the clear. It was a pretty close call, after all, when Miles squinted at him upon making the suggestion of ordering the soup. 

The wine’s alcohol content even seemed to be enough to make Miles cough, which meant Phoenix could easily time his own coughs with a properly sized sip of wine. It didn’t really taste as strong to him, though, but maybe Miles was just that much of a lightweight. Perhaps he could even mask his growing fatigue as a result of the wine as well. This was so convenient.

This was too convenient. 

Phoenix should have known that his husband could likely read him like a book by now. Miles had seen right through his façade and was kind enough to gently accommodate his cold without directly calling him out on being sick on the one date night the couple had been able to plan in almost a year. 

Now he felt horribly guilty to have tried deceiving him. It was now time to come clean, to restore the trust he had surely made a dent in, if not broken.

“Miles, babe, I’m really sorry for—”

“No, no. You don’t have to apologize for figuring me out.” Miles assured him. So he did know Phoenix was sick, huh? “I suppose it’s time for me to come clean.”

“What? No way! I should be apologizing.” 

Why would Miles need to apologize when Phoenix was the one who was hiding an illness? If anything, Miles ought to have been giving him a light lecture on how he should be at home in bed, and he would have been completely right to do so. 

“Please, there’s no need to apologize for figuring out the truth. It’s what you do so well in court, after all.” Miles cleared his throat, far more roughly than he usually did. “I must admit I haven’t been well.” 

Phoenix stared at his husband blankly. The stuffiness of his head did affect his hearing, but this was outside the scope of just some muffling. 

“Wait, you–” 

“It was wrong of me to hide that from you.” Miles looked up to find Phoenix’s face beginning to grow rather pale. 

“So… You weren’t hiding that you figured out I was sick?” 

“I thought you had been the one to catch me in the act.” 

Maybe someday down the line, the two could laugh about this, but for now, the couple’s course of action was just getting home and into bed.

. . . 

The king sized bed that Phoenix and Miles shared was now almost unrecognizable: covered in varying spare blankets, tissue boxes, and the contents of said boxes that neither of the two had the energy to throw into the garbage bin.

“Hey, you know,” Phoenix paused to blow his nose, and it felt so good to finally put full effort into doing so, “this is still kind of a date night.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Miles snuggled up closer to his husband. “If we were both in perfect health, I’m sure we would both be in bed as part of the date by now.” The roughness of his cold-affected voice made that sound even more sensual than he intended, but he didn’t mind that at all. “I hope you’re not looking forward to seeking that kind of decongestant, by the way. I’m far too exhausted.”

“Oh, believe me,” Phoenix laughed as carefully as he could to avoid coughing into Miles’s ear, “I’m beat, too.” 

“How about some sleep, then?” Miles yawned. “That is, as much as we can.”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

[nobodybetterlookatme]

Lmao whenever I see one of you guys in my notes on my main blog I'm literally just like 👀

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 18: "My body is one big ache." (M, flu)

The follow-up of yesterday's prompt, with the now realization of what it is <3 workplace contagion. I love an oblivious bitch that is truly trying his best but not doing a great job at all. The sexy thing about posting all of these out of order as I finish them now is that I can post this one after one that would've come later. 2.3k

Tl;dr: this is part 2 of day 25's prompt! Please read that one first!

⁂

He can't afford to leave the windows open, even though it's hotter than Satan's oven in this apartment--the thermostat says it's eighty-two, even though it's well past sundown and the AC in the corner is working like its life depends on it, but it's tempting to deal with the potential allergy symptoms rather than deal with the fact that he might lose every speck of moisture in his body from sweating like--well. He leaves it there. No need to be crass, really.

He cranes his neck towards the shut window, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mulls it over, and finally just gets up to go open it. He'll double the Claritin in the morning if he needs to, because being a little sniffly will be well worth being able to sleep tonight.

He's a sore, sweaty mess, but he already took a shower when he got home, and the alarm clock is ticking along threateningly as the time until he has to wake up continues to wile away despite his pleas to hold on just until he can get to sleep. He's exhausted, but it seems like one of those nights where he might have to hope that a melatonin and a Benadryl are going to be the ticket to closing his eyes, and hoping, equally fervently, that he'll be able to shake off the exhaustion come morning.

⁂

He nearly shouts in surprise when the alarm starts blaring, not so much out of surprise, but out of discomfort. Oh, God above, he's so cold. He's shivering so hard it's making his teeth chatter, even underneath the blankets. He shuts off the alarm with a wince, because the simple act of unwrapping an arm to do that feels like it's letting out all of his body heat, and then immediately wraps back up tighter than before. He's ignoring this one--the clock on the dresser, his last line of defense against oversleeping--will be the one he gets up to as the last bastion of hope to make it to work on time if he gets up that millisecond.

The rolled up comforter that he's been using like a body pillow is unfurled and joins the bundle of warmth as he shivers like his life depends on it. Teeth still chattering, he takes a peek at the reported outside temperature--sixty-eight. It's barely cooler than room temperature outside--but, no, he's got the AC on too. It must be colder than that in here?

He's not risking going to shut that off until he absolutely has to, though, because he can't give up the semblance of warmth he's managed to cobble together in the last few minutes. He's going to die. He's going to freeze to death, even.

He sits there, curled up like a babe poorly swaddled, until the alarm across the room starts giving him the warning that if he isn't kicking it into the next gear, he's not gonna make it to work on time. Reluctantly, mournfully, he peels himself out of the covers, and starts getting dressed. Thick socks, long pants, and he'll leave a pair of shorts in his backpack to change into when the day gets blistering and he has to worry about being too hot instead of too cold.

He'd kill for a warm shower--especially because gosh everything still aches--he definitely slept weird and overdid it yesterday, officially--but there isn't a chance of pretending he has enough time. He shoves something into his backpack for lunch--he honestly isn't even sure what the container was, just that it was out of the freezer and that means it must be some form of food he thought fit to hold onto--and is jogging out the door.

"H-huh..." Oh, no no no, not now, please at least get to the landing first--

"hH'GZZHhyue! eEDZZhieww! hEDDZZHH'hue!" He's stock still during the first three, braced against the railing of the stairwell and making a poor attempt at covering into his elbow, but forces himself to keep moving through the remainder of the fit. "yEZZHhue! heEIZZHhieww! 'ZZHhue! H-hh...h-huH--! 'GZZHHYuuee!"

He swipes a hand roughly under his nose, the last few of those uncovered as he tried to balance the death grip on the railing with the death grip on his belongings, leaving no room for anything to muffle into until he could stop and set his bag down. He fishes a couple crumpled napkins from one of his pockets--knowing him, they were probably put to this exact task the last time he wore these jeans, and left to languish eternally in the pocket since then, which is...actually kind of gross, now that he thinks about it. He makes a face and stops halfway through tending to his nose, and just returns them to his pocket to take care of once he gets to work.

He digs the car blanket out of the trunk, throws it around himself like a cape, and cranks the heat as high as it'll go. This is overkill, he knows, but that doesn't actually do anything to help the fact that he feels like hot (cold) garbage, and that he really would like to warm up sometime before next year.

His nose is runny, which is annoying because it's also stuffy, but his hand feels nothing but his backpack when he pats at the seat beside him to feel for the box of tissues. He takes his eyes off the road during a long straightaway for a fraction of a second to look at the passenger seat, and groans in misery when the box really isn't there. He doesn't feel it in the seat behind it, either, which means it's either somewhere on the floorboards, or he tossed it back into the trunk while he was fetching the blanket.

None of these are good places for the tissues to be, because they are all equally inaccessible to him, and his nose is threatening to drip onto his shirt now. He's never been fond of allergies, but especially not now, when they seem so intent on making him not miserably but sorely inconvenienced. He rubs a knuckle beneath blushed nostrils, and sniffles as best as he can, because there's really little else he can do at this point.

He coughs, a dry, ticklish thing that reminds him that he must have been snoring last night, because it's faintly sore. Not enough to really be terribly on the forefront of his mind, but enough that, now that he's noticed it, he finds it hard to un-notice it.

He avoids most everyone on his way in, just punches his card and hustles directly to where the board says he'll be working for the morning, and tries to keep his head down. He doesn't want to be the guy who's obviously sniffly, even if it's allergy season--and, really, even if he's often that guy. Mostly because of that, really.

The worst part, in his opinion, about the fact that his nose is running is that it has the potential to get him--

"hH-! 'GZZHhuue! ehH'GZZHHyue!"

--sneezing, from the irritating feeling of moisture collecting along reddened nares.

He more or less is left to his own devices for the first half of the day, which is good, because he's starting to feel worse as the day wears on. He takes his break just sitting tucked between the aisles where no one's likely to spot him, but by lunchtime he knows he won't be able to get away with being left alone. People want to see him, and he will be seen, whether he wants to be or not.

With more than a little trepidation, he skulks into the break room and immediately to his locker--but his presence is clocked instantly.

"There he is, the man of the hour!"

"Yeah, we've been waiting for you. Are you gonna open shit or what?"

"You've--Christ, what happened to you?"

Someone's hand presses to his cheek, and he flinches at the unexpected contact.

"Oh, kid, I could fry an egg on you." Niklas takes him by the shoulder and turns him to look at them more fully. "You're white as a ghost."

Bolormaa lets his chair rock forward, all feet on the floor instead of just back on the back legs. "More than usual--hard to do. Eugh, I can see how sweaty you are from here. You've got long pants on?"

"Bolormaa, go get the Captain--"

Somebody cuts in from the background. "I'll get the heat illness poster--I don't think he looks good."

If he could melt into the spots where the grout's cracked out from between the titles to disappear, he would. Everyone is staring at him. Everyone is prepared to turn this into a whole huge thing. He can't let this happen.

"No no no no--it's not heat exhaustion, I swear--"

"You're sweaty and miserable in long pants in the summer. What else would it be?"

The attention isn't doing anything to lessen his anxiety, but he can feel that he's blushing. "I don't know, but it--unless I could be heat exhausted since yesterday, I don't think it's that--"

"You've been feeling bad since yesterday and didn't see anything?"

"...that's not important. I--"

The Captain enters the room, and the crowd of people who've gotten into his personal space to gawk and fuss and tut all part like the Red Sea. "Elliott."

"Captain."

"Alright, let me take a look at you." He actually put on his readers for this, and presses the back of his hand to his forehead, his cheek, the back of his neck. "Well, you're definitely fevered. It's not heat exhaustion--his skin's not cold, just clammy."

"Thank you."

"So what is it?"

"Er--"

"Everyone, hands off of him. Give him some space." He waits until they've all backed away before continuing. "Let me ask you something, then: Elliott, my boy, when was the last time you got a flu shot?"

If he could blanch, he would. "Uh. Probably October?"

"Hm."

"Captain, I doubt it's the--the flu, it's July for Pete's sake--"

"That doesn't make it impossible, just unlikely, but you're more than capable of beating the odds."

"Captain Addington--"

"My last name isn't going to change my mind. Go home."

"Sir, please--"

"Niklas, drive him home."

"No! No, I'll--I'll take myself--"

"Ohh, feeling a little more compliant all of a sudden, aren't we? Good." He gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "You look like you're feeling terrible. You're achey, I take it?"

"I...might be. I don't, uh--I definitely don't feel great. It could be a lot worse, though." He's only being sort of truthful. He's sore down to his bones, and so tired, and his head aches, and his nose is stuffy and running like a tap, and he's so chilly still. That ticklish cough from earlier wants to settle deeper into his lungs, but he's trying to deny it for now. He just wants to get through the rest of the shift, he really does.

"You're taking tomorrow off, too, and if I don't get a phone call and a picture of you looking right as rain, the day after that, too. You're going to be in the thick of it if you aren't already, and you're not doing that here at work. Be a good boy and listen to me, won't you?" Though he phrases it like a question, nothing about his tone makes it sound like he actually means it as one.

"...yes, sir." He accepts the bottle of water someone hands to him, and digs the tissues from his pocket to swipe at his nose, nostrils already threatening to chafe from the attention he's been paying them. "I'm, uhmb--" He clears his throat, tries to sniffle to clear his voice a little. "I'm sorry."

"It happens--you'll have to excuse me if I seem abrupt, but I'm an old man, and I'm not interested in catching what you've got, and I'm sure no one else is either. Go sit down until you're ready to go, but I'm retiring to my office."

He hangs his head as he slumps into one of the chairs to gather himself for a minute. Someone gently takes his lunch and tucks it back into the locker for him, and someone else rattles a bottle of Tylenol in his direction, slips a pair of them into his palm when he reflexively extends it.

"Something to bring the fever down," she murmurs.

"Thanks." He snuffles, and someone else nudges a box of tissues against his arm to bid him to take them so he can blow his nose. He can feel the prickle of irritation deep in his sinuses from the action, and it makes him instinctively wrinkle his nose against the feeling.

"Hh..." He straightens up slightly, taking a couple of the tissues in preparation. "hHDT'ZZHhue! eEZZHhyuue!"

He shudders into a pair of them, and they seem to sap the last bit of resistance he had left to even pretend like this may be something else.

Bolormaa scoots his chair close to him, so they're sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder. "Hey. How you feeling?"

"Like my whole body is one big ache."

"Aww, come on, I'm sure it's not that bad." He doesn't touch him like he usually would, and that's enough to tell him that he's really obviously sick enough that nobody's willing to risk catching whatever he's got. "Are you sure you don't want a ride home?"

"No, I'm fine. I drove here, I'll drive home. It's--possibly--the flu, not a death sentence. I'll be okay, I promise." He nudges their knees together in lieu of a hug, and grabs his backpack from his locker. "I'll, uh...see you guys in a few days."

"Feel better, dude."

"One of us will check on you, I promise."

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Weak/Weary (m, cold)

Babe, wake up whiskey’s posting the first of her monthly barrage of fics. It’s a Greyson-centric drama fest, guys! I realized looking back at my earlier fics that I mentioned a character named Collin who Greyson lived with and I literally never mentioned him again, so it’s time to bring him up and write him out lol. This is sappy, it’s dramatic, it’s full of angst, and I hope you all like it! I used several prompts that an anon sent from the prompt list I reblogged last month, as well as a few that @onetrickponi sent me from their amazing prompt list. I’ll list the ones I used before the fic. 

If you’ve sent in a prompt, I will get to it eventually!! Obviously I’m terrible at promising when fics will get written, but they will at some point lmao. 

This is 3k words, CW: male, cold, coughing, some light mess, mentions of contagion but no explicit contagion moments, breathing issue mention due to a panic attack...this fic has *everything* lolll. 

Here are the prompts! Thank y’all for sending prompts in, they’re the only thing that keeps this writing train somewhat on track. Some prompts were used more loosely than others. 

“Having a cold does not make you weak.”,  “You’re sneezing everywhere. Clearly, something’s up.”,  Hiding sneezes,  “That deserved an Emmy.”,  “See, it’s when you smile like that I start to worry.” 

Onward!

Weak/Weary

There was a saying for the day Greyson was having, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of it.

It wasn’t ‘Occam’s Razor’, or at least he didn’t think it was—is that the one where the simplest answer is the correct one? - and it certainly wasn’t ‘Pavlov’s Dog’, though that was the one that kept sneaking into his foggy mind. Fuck, what the fuck was -

“HhNGSTHH-ue! HhTSHH-ue! HNGITSZHUE! Fuuuck mbe.” Well, there went that distraction.

Greyson swiped under his nose with the back of his hand, cringing when it came away wet with mucus. He wiped the evidence on his pants before pushing through the back doors to the restaurant and trudging towards the office. Surely his staff could hear him coming before they even saw him – fucking Collin and his fucking cough and his fucking cold and his fucking stupid fucking face that motherfuck-

“Morning, Chef,” Elijah called from the office, startling Greyson just enough to send him into another sneezing fit before he could curb it.

“NGSTH! HTSH! Huhhh...hnnNETSSHH-ue! ETSZHUE! NGTSHH-ue! Huhh…!” Greyson stood in pre-sneeze torture for a moment or two, then huffed out a shaky breath when it was clear he’d lost it. He turned towards the office, where Elijah had an eyebrow cocked in bemusement; his boss let out a low whistle and stood to greet the chef.

“Wow,” he said, placing a firm hand on Greyson’s shoulder. “That deserved an Emmy.”

Greyson shot him a watery glare, coughed lightly into the back of his hand, and turned towards his cooks, waving to get their attention.

“PSA, guys, Collin and I broke up so do mbe a favor and just erase him completely from your mbemories. Let’s all act like he ndever existed, alright?”

The cooks nodded, too confused to say anything in retaliation. Matt stepped out from behind the line where he was prepping to try and console his boss, but Greyson just turned and sneezed, hard, into his sleeve, bursting the dam of congestion that had built up in his head.

“Fugck,” Greyson swore, staying tucked into the arm of his sweatshirt. He waved Matt away, ignored Elijah’s concerned face, and hoofed it to the employee bathroom, where he cleaned himself up as well as he could without throwing the whole stupid jacket away. Greyson regarded himself in the mirror afterwards – eyes red-rimmed from either the sob-fest this morning with Collin or the bitch of a cold his now-ex had so lovingly passed on; nose twitching with the insatiable desire to sneeze; mouth open slightly to allow him to breathe – and suddenly remembered the phrase he’d been searching for this morning.

Murphy’s law, he thought, sniffling, whatever can go wrong – will.

“HRRSHHH-ue!”

***

“You’re… I mbean, you’re shitting mbe, right? Like, is this an April Fool’s joke or something?”

Greyson hadn’t realized he was wringing his hands until Collin had grabbed and held them gently in his own. Suddenly recognizing it was going to be their last hand-hold, Greyson snatched his back and checked his watch; it was 8:53AM. He had to be on the train in ten minutes. No way in hell was Collin doing this now.

“Baby,” Collin said, his voice oozing a false-sympathy that Greyson had seen him give clients and stray dogs but never assumed he would be in the path of, “I’m so sorry. I just… I couldn’t wait until tonight to do this. It would be worse for both of us.”

Greyson gave his soon-to-be-ex a crazed look; it most certainly would not have been worse for him. It was a Saturday in late-March, their busiest season at the restaurant. Greyson had woken up with the monster of a cold that Collin had been sporting the week before, and he had barely hyped himself up for service, let alone getting broken up with before he’d even had his coffee.

“Beg to differ,” Greyson muttered, pulling a hand down his face. “Collin, I mbean… I just don’t understand. I felt like things were good, we’re combing up ond a year, I mbean I just moved in last mbonth, I really… realll – HNGSTHH-ue!” Greyson wrenched to the side to tuck himself into his elbow and sniffled pathetically. The timing of this whole thing was cinematic in its absurdity.

Collin tsk’d pityingly and handed Greyson a tissue that he had no choice but to accept. While he was blowing his nose, Collin hopped onto the counter with ease and crossed his legs.

“Baby,” he said again, prompting a cringe from Greyson, “I never wanted to hurt you. Truly. This is something I’ve been thinking about for awhile… I just didn’t know how to say it. I just don’t think we’re compatible, Greyson; I just… I don’t want to sound rude, honey, but I usually go for… I don’t know, a stronger man.” Collin fiddled with a string on his sweater as he spoke, yanking it ferociously on hitting the word ‘stronger’. Greyson felt like he’d ripped out his throat along with it.

“What… what do you mbean, stronger?” Greyson asked, crumbling the tissue into his fist and setting his jaw so as not to cry. “Collin, I run five mbiles a day. I operate a million-dollar-a-year kitchend in Ndew York City, and I work eighty hours a week. How mbuch stronger do you ndeed someone to be?” Greyson sniffled as he finished his thought, and swallowed painfully while Collin sighed.

“Greyson, you know what I mean,” Collin said, exasperated. “I need someone big, someone who I know can take a punch. You have stamina, but you’re not my usual type and I don’t think you ever will be. I’ve been waiting to see if you became that person, but I mean… look at you.” Collin gestured to Greyson’s entire being, as though his mere presence had suddenly become a disappointment. “You have a stuffy nose, Greyson, like a little kid. I find it difficult to see a big, tough man behind that exterior.”

Greyson blanched at this. “I have a cold, Collind, a cold that you gave mbe no less. You’re telling mbe you’re breaking up with me because you gave mbe a cold?”

Collin just shrugged, nonplussed. “It isn’t the cold,” he said, pushing himself back off the counter. “It’s the fact that everything about you is dramatic. You just aren’t my kind of guy, Greyson; I thought you were, but I was wrong. I need a man.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly and gave Greyson another once over before punctuating his thought. “A real man.”

A long silence settled over the two of them, only broken by Greyson’s phone beeping with a text from Elijah. So this is it, he thought, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“I’ll get mby things after work,” he mumbled, casting his gaze downward.

Collin nodded. “I’ll pack them up and leave a box at the door,” he said. The two of them made eye contact for what Greyson assumed would be the last time. He nodded, slung his backpack over a shoulder, and headed for the door. He opened it, looked back into the apartment, and regarded Collin one last time.

“Good luck finding your man,” Greyson said, and slammed the door behind him without awaiting a response.

***

Elijah had given up on trying to get Greyson to talk about his feelings; he’d given up on asking what had happened, or if he was okay, or if he needed somewhere to stay that night. But there was one thing he was refusing to give up on.

“You need to take something, Grey. Seriously, you’re going to infect the entire staff if you don’t.”

Greyson looked up from his prep station at his boss blearily and shook his head. “I’mb ndot sigck,” he said, voice straining over the words and dissolving into a coughing fit immediately after. Elijah turned his head to look into a pretend camera, The Office-style, while Greyson finished his coughing fit.

“Am I on Punk’d right now?” Elijah asked, pushing the full paper cup of tea he’d brought the chef hours ago towards him. “You realize you sound like you just stepped out of a Mucinex commercial, right? And I mean the ‘before’ part when the mucus monster is partying in some poor bastard’s lungs.”

The chef huffed out a little laugh before sucking in through his nose and collapsing once again into a painful-sounding coughing fit. He grabbed the cup – finally – and took a sip, regarding Elijah with red-rimmed eyes. “Allergies. Or sombething. I’mb okay.”

Elijah groaned, throwing his hands up in the air. “Look, Grey, I’m really sorry about you and Collin, and I’m sure you’re going through it hard, but this deny-til-you-die thing doesn’t really work when you can barely speak for being so sick,” he said, attempting to make eye contact with the chef who was actively avoiding his gaze. “Will you please just take some dayquil? For me?”

Greyson sighed and pressed a palm into one of his eyes. He coughed again, a miserable and drawn-out fit that made Elijah touch his own throat in sympathy, and finally nodded. “Finde,” he muttered. “Whatever. Yes, just… just leave mbe alone, okay?”

Elijah drew back, but nodded all the same. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go get it and, uh… leave you be.”

They both kept good on their promises; Greyson ruefully tossed back the medicine, and Elijah slunk off to the dining room to help the servers set up for service. They avoided each other through the morning and most of the afternoon; Greyson prepping harder than any of his cooks had ever been able to, sneezing and coughing away from the food every few minutes, and Elijah grimacing at every sound that echoed off the kitchen walls and into the office. The GM didn’t dare head back to the prep kitchen until four-thirty, moments before pre-shift was about to begin.

“Chef,” he said, knocking on the wall as though it were an open door, “you ready for pre- ?”

Greyson, clearly unaware that his boss had entered the back kitchen, doubled over to sneeze the moment Elijah began speaking. “HRRSHHH-ue! Fuck – hhhNGSTHHZUE! Huhh…! Hhh… fuckin - ”

“Bless y-”

“HUHHESTSZHH-ooo!”

Greyson managed a glazed-over glance at his boss from the pit of his elbow, and nodded a thanks as Elijah handed him a box of tissues. “Bless you,” Elijah said again, and Greyson rolled his eyes from behind the tissue.

“Thangks,” he said, wiping his nose.

“You ready for pre-shift?” Elijah asked, crossing his arms and giving Greyson a once-over. “Because you look more like you’re ready for a nap.”

“Dond’t kndow what you mbean,” Greyson croaked, coughing into his fist. “I feel ambazing. Like I could run a mbarathon. HTSHHH-uhh!” He wrenched to the side again to sneeze, then righted himself and gave his boss a smile.

“Dude, please don’t smile like that. It’s… off-putting. Worrying, even,” Elijah said, grimacing. “C’mon. Let’s go get this shift over with.”

***

The shift was shit.

The cold was one thing; Greyson had worked sick before, much sicker than he was now, and he always knew he could make it through. In fact, the hustle and bustle of a busy shift generally made him temporarily forget whatever illness he was combating in order to focus on getting everything out on time and looking perfect. Working with a cold was something Greyson was used to after all his years in kitchens. Working while heartbroken was something completely new to him.

For some reason – he assumed it was because he was god’s least favorite – the gravity of the breakup hit Greyson like a ton of bricks the moment the first ticket printed. He was fine one moment, with the exception of the near-constant volley of coughs and sneezes, and the next he was on the verge of a sob, nearly unable to speak for the lump in his throat.

He was able to play it off as the cold worsening, and Matt ended up switching him spots and expoing while Greyson ran the inside line, but Greyson genuinely had never wanted to run off the line as badly as he did that evening. The weight of this breakup – a breakup from what was by far his longest relationship – nearly suffocated him, and the heat of the line and congestion were doing nothing to help. By the time ten pm rolled around, Greyson thought he may be legitimately dying.

Once the tickets slowed to one every twenty minutes or so, Greyson gave Matt a look that said I have to get off this line, to which his sous chef nodded and didn’t ask questions. The chef ducked away from his spot on the line, yanked off his apron, and near-ran to the back alley, gasping for breath the entire way.

The theatrics of his escape clearly alerted his boss, though, and while Greyson was trying to catch his breath between sobs and coughs, Elijah opened the back doors. “Oh, shit. Oh, Greyson.”

“Can’t… breathe…” Greyson managed, a hand held firmly on his retracting chest and a look of panic obvious on his face. Elijah sprang into action; he found a paper bag for Greyson to breathe into, instructed him to breathe deeply, pushed sweat-soaked hair off his fever-warm face and spoke in a low, calming voice until the chef had finally gotten his breathing back to semi-normal.

“You good?” Elijah asked after a few minutes of post-panic-attack silence. Greyson nodded and coughed into his sleeve.

“Thangk you,” he said, his voice crackling. Elijah nodded.

“Wanna go get hammered?” Elijah asked after another pause. Greyson snorted out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, “that sounds ambazing.”

***

“Two Basil Hayden’s, please. Doubles. Neat.”

The dive down the road from the restaurant was bustling, but Greyson and Elijah were regulars and received their generous pours in their usual seats before the couple next to them even had a chance to flag the bartender down. Elijah raised his glass in a mock-cheers and Greyson rolled his eyes before swallowing half the drink in one gulp.

“Easy there, kid. Something tells me cough syrup and alcohol aren’t the best combination of drugs on an empty stomach,” Elijah said, signaling the bartender that they needed some menus.

Greyson shrugged and downed the rest of the glass. “If it kills mbe, it kills mbe,” he said, pushing the glass away from him and raising an arm in anticipation. “HhhNGTSHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said, nodding at the bartender who placed two menus in front of them. “Pick something to eat,” he motioned towards the menu, then lifted his gaze to make eye contact with his friend, “and tell me exactly what the fuck happened with Collin.”

Greyson bit the inside of his cheek to keep the waterworks from starting up again. “It’s a long story, Lij,” he said, his voice low and eyes downcast. Elijah stayed silent, as if to say I have time. Greyson sighed. “The long and short of it is, I don’t lift weights, I cand’t take a punch, and he gave mbe a cold.”

Elijah sat silent a moment longer, clearly waiting for some sort of punchline. “He gave you a cold… so he had to break up with you?” he asked, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I’m not following.”

Greyson rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, desperately wishing he hadn’t already finished his drink. “He said I’mb too weak,” Greyson muttered, outlining the coaster with his finger. “He wants to date a real mban. Someone strong.” The tears began to well in the chef’s eyes once again, so he shrugged and covered up the lump in his throat with a cough. This is so fucking stupid, he thought to himself, but instead of echoing the sentiment, Elijah pulled him in for a sudden hug.

“Not lifting weights doesn’t make you weak. Not wanting to punch someone doesn’t make you weak,” Elijah said, pulling back and looking his friend in the eye. “Having a cold, Grey, doesn’t make you weak. You’re human. You’re a good person. Collin is a dick; he doesn’t even know what he’s losing.” Elijah squeezed his shoulder, maintaining an eye contact that would’ve been terrifying from anyone who wasn’t him.

Greyson bit his cheek, pushed the fallen tears off his face, and attempted a smile. “Thank you, Lij,” he said, his voice cracking. Elijah chuckled.

“Anytime,” he said, flagging down the bartender again and motioning to Greyson’s empty glass. “Another?”

Greyson nodded. “Gonna ndeed at least a dozen to get this fuckigg day out of mby head,” he said. Elijah laughed in earnest this time, and ordered their drinks and some food.

“So,” Elijah said, “where are you staying til you find an apartment?”

“Is that a real questiond?” Greyson asked, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “I figured mby spot on your couch was as good as secure – HNGTSHHH-ue!” Greyson winced and grabbed for a cocktail napkin, cleaning himself up while Elijah cringed.

“Buddy,” Elijah said as their second round was placed in front of them, “with that monster of a cold, I’ll let you take the fuckin’ bed.”

Greyson coughed out a laugh, flipped his boss the bird, and knocked back his drink once again. Elijah followed his lead and signaled the bartender once again while Greyson bullied a coughing fit into submission.

“Keep ’em coming,” Elijah called to the bartender. “It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ night.”

[his-tamine]

reminder that if you don't have at the very least your age (or a clear indicator you're 18 or older) in your bio, even if you're just a lurker acc, you will be blocked.

(/srs ^w^)