#snzfic

[suddencolds]

of painkillers and lenience

...hello! 😭 I wrote this way back in April; it's been sitting in my drafts ever since. Chronologically, it takes place shortly following Atypical Occurrence.

I wasn't sure if I was ever going to post this. I suppose it's more a character study than a proper romantic installment :') but it's an exchange I'd been wanting to write for a long time.

you can find everything I've written in this universe here!

—

Summary: Yves comes down with something. His best friend wonders where Vincent is, in all of this.

—

Perhaps it’s merciful that it’s on a Sunday that Yves wakes up with the slightest tickle in his throat.

Yves has an idea what it means. He’s had the flu enough times in his life to know that it comes on quickly. Maybe if he attempts to sleep it off, he’ll have a better time over the next few days.

Or maybe not. He cancels his Sunday plans, goes through his itinerary. There’s a slew of emails he’ll have to send off, a handful of meetings he’ll probably have to reschedule for this coming work week. He’ll need groceries, too, to last him the week—ideally something that won’t take too much effort to make. Resting now seems like it’d be a waste of time. Best to get everything over with before the illness has a chance to properly settle, he thinks. 

He really does mean to stop by the grocery store. It’s perhaps just the timing that doesn’t work out as planned. Between figuring out how to reschedule everything that’s coming up with work—figuring out who he can ask if he needs to reallocate any of his assignments to anyone else, rearranging things for clients, and getting all the paperwork in order—all of it takes him nearly two hours. He wanders into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, finds himself having to turn aside to cough, notes the unpleasant sting in his throat when he turns back around. 

It’s not terrible yet, but he feels distinctly off. His head feels a little heavy, and everything he does feels strangely—sluggish, maybe. Like he can’t quite manage to be as efficient as usual. Judging by past experience, he’s probably going to crash in a few hours.

He can already feel a headache brewing. Staring at his computer screen probably hasn’t helped with that. If he takes something for it, it’ll probably be at least tolerable when it gets worse.

He opens the medicine cabinet, rifles through the couple bottles and the first aid kit he has stashed in there.

Right. He’s out of Advil.

It’s no matter. Just a quick grocery trip, then—he can grab the rest of his groceries while he’s at it. Yves shuts the bathroom cabinet, grabs his wallet and keys, and makes it all the way to the doorstep outside when the wave of dizziness hits him.

All of a sudden, he feels a little lightheaded. Heat crawls up under his skin, prickling and unpleasant, as if something in him has cranked up the heat generation to the max—but that can’t be right, because he’s shivering inexplicably in the wake of it. He leans his weight back against the wall, squeezes his eyes shut.

Fuck. He probably should have gotten groceries first, before sorting out everything for work. Perhaps going out on his own now would not be the wisest.

He heads back in, locks the door, and—after some thought—calls Mikhail.

Mikhail picks up on the second ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you busy?” Yves starts, but the words catch on his throat, and he has to stop immediately to muffle a cough into his elbow. 

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “It depends what you’re about to ask me for,” Mikhail says.

Yves swallows. Shuts his eyes. He doesn’t like asking for help, but he doesn’t think he’ll be in any state to be doing this on his own over the next few days. “It’s not that urgent. Just if you have time,” he says. 

He can almost feel Mikhail rolling his eyes on the other end. “You’d say that even if you were bleeding out.”

Yves laughs, startled. “I promise I’m not bleeding out. Just—do you think you could run to the store and get me some Advil?”

There’s another, longer pause on the other end. “Any time is fine,” Yves says. A part of him already regrets this. “If you’re busy right now—”

“I’ll be over in a few,” Mikhail says. Then the line goes dead.

—

He doesn’t remember drifting off, but when he wakes, it’s to a knock on the front door.

The knock is just for courtesy, of course. Mikhail is one of a few people whom he’s permitted the privilege—or the burden, perhaps—of having a spare copy of his apartment key.

Yves opens the door anyways.

There, in the windy April weather, Mikhail shuts an umbrella and leaves it dripping at his feet. “You look even worse than you sounded over call,” is the first thing he says.

Yves blinks at him, surprised. “Did I really sound that bad?”

In lieu of answering, Mikhail just looks at him, scrutinizing, the corner of his lip ticking downward. “What is it? An injury? A migraine?” When Yves shakes his head, Mikhail presses forward to pick a stray lint ball off of Yves’s shirt. His hand makes contact with Yves’s shoulder, and he frowns.

Before Yves has a chance to explain, he feels a tickle—not the first, today, and certainly not the last—surface. It’s irritatingly difficult to ignore, more irritating still when he finds himself forced to turn away, to duck into one arm—

“hHehh-!’ hEHh’yyiISCHh-HHEEW!”

The sneeze is rough enough to scrape against his throat. He coughs tightly into his raised arm.

“A cold,” Mikhail says, with a frown. “But usually you don’t take Advil for colds. Wait—don’t tell me this is something worse?”

Yves winces. What is he supposed to say to that? “The Advil was all I needed,” he says. “Thanks for making the trip. I owe you one.”

“No, I’m sure of it now,” Mikhail says. “If it were only a cold, you would’ve driven out to get this yourself.”

“It probably isn’t,” Yves says, neglecting to mention that he knows exactly where he caught this. “Thanks for bringing these. I’ll take the next couple days off. I—”

The next sneeze sneaks up on him. He ducks into his sleeve again, taking another step back.

“hHhEH’iiDzzsCHH-yYew!” The sneeze sends a burst of pain through his temples, and for a moment, he’s glad his face is too deeply buried into his sleeve for Mikhail to see.

“Does Vincent know?” Mikhail asks.

The question catches him off guard. “What?”

“That you’re apparently unwell enough to ask me to pick up Advil for you.”

Yves doesn’t like where this conversation is going. “I told you not to come if you were busy.”

“It’s not a problem,” Mikhail says. “But if you’re sick, shouldn’t he be over here, taking care of you?”

 “He’s had a really busy few weeks,” Yves says, which is true, but simultaneously might be true at any point during the year. He clears his throat. “I - coughcough - wouldn’t want him to catch this.”

“So he doesn’t even know,” Mikhail says.

…Perhaps Yves should’ve thought of a more convincing excuse. Mikhail isn’t the type of person to drop an issue after he’s raised it, and Yves had, perhaps, neglected to think about how—for all Mikhail does to appear casually disaffected—he’s one of the most perceptive people Yves has ever met. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“What are you talking about? He’s your partner. I’ll text him,” Mikhail says. It’s then when Yves recalls that Mikhail probably does have Vincent’s contact—exchanged before their trip to France, so that he could text them all to coordinate the rides to and from the airport.

“Wait,” Yves says, unable to keep the panic out of his voice. “Don’t. If you text him, he’ll - snf-! - feel obligated to come.”

Mikhail doesn’t lower his phone. “I’ll just ask him to drop by,” he says. “You can talk to him about it when he gets there.”

But that won’t happen—can’t happen—because Yves knows that if Vincent were to see him like this… 

I’d feel terrible if you caught this, he’d said. He’d sounded so upset over it. How can Yves, after all his reassurances last week, admit to him now that he’s faring badly enough to need someone to look after him? 

Besides, Vincent probably has enough on his plate already. Yves knows enough to know that in their line of work, taking time off almost always means being swamped with assignments upon return. 

“Please don’t ask him anything,” Yves says.

Mikhail looks long and hard at him. He looks as though he’s trying to puzzle something out. “Did you guys get into a fight, or something?”

“No,” Yves says. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then, if you’re on good terms, why are you so resistant to the idea of him coming over?”

Yves squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them. He can think of a dozen more excuses to field away the questions—that isn’t the hard part. Mikhail has always been good at seeing through his bullshit, but if Yves has to steer this conversation to a close through sheer willpower, he thinks he can do it. But then again—

Maybe it’s fine, he thinks, if Mikhail knows. For better or for worse, Mikhail is his best friend. Yves knows that if he asks him to keep his mouth shut about this, he will. 

“Vincent is my coworker,” he says, slowly.

Mikhail’s eyebrows creep up. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Yves says, with a cough. “He is just my coworker. Nothing else.”

The alarm that flashes across Mikhail’s face is unmissable. “You two broke up?”

And there it is—another crossroads, where Yves thinks the easiest course of action would be to reshape the current lie into a simpler one, to keep the trappings of their fake relationship intact. With anyone else, it would be easier, that is.

Yves says, honestly, “We were never together in the first place.”

“But you went with him to France,” Mikhail says, confused. “Not to mention, to Margot’s new year party, and then to Joel and Cherie’s housewarming. Are you telling me—”

“That was all an act,” Yves tells him, and waits for this information to register. “There is nothing between us that’s real. That’s the reason I haven’t called him.”

The recognition settles on Mikhail’s face. Then he laughs, a little disbelieving. “You’re really not dating him? Why would you lie about that?”

“Do you remember Margot’s party?” Yves asks. It seems like the right place to start, after everything. “Erika was there with Brendon. And I was bitter, and—to be honest, jealous—and I wanted to show her I was fine. So I asked Vincent to go with me.”

“That was months ago,” Mikhail says.

“It was easier to just keep up the act, after that.” Yves says. “Easier to have him accompany me once a month than it would have been to stage a proper breakup. But obviously, this is all temporary. I just haven’t figured out when it’s going to end.”

Mikhail is quiet for a moment. Yves looks past him, at the staircase that leads down to the first floor.

“You’ll be fine, then,” he asks. “If you two break it off.”

“Of course,” Yves says. “I know it’s going to happen someday.”

“You won’t be upset at all?”

“What is there to be upset over?”

“From the way you spoke to him, I really thought there was something there,” Mikhail says.

“He is a good liar,” Yves says.

“Maybe so,” Mikhail agrees. “But you are not.”

He says it so calmly, it barely registers as an accusation. But Yves hears it, loud and clear.

“Vincent is attractive,” Yves says. “Anyone with eyes can see that. That’s all there is to it.” it feels wrong, even as he says it. Yves has always known Vincent to be attractive—that much hasn’t changed. But he knows that the feeling in his chest when he sees him at work, in the break room, or at lunch—the unusual ache—is a little more than that. 

“Margot’s party was at the end of December,” Mikhail says. “It’s April, now. Margot wouldn’t tell you this, but since I don’t like withholding my feelings from you, I will.”

Yves waits—waits for Mikhail to tell him how all of this has been unduly dishonest, how Mikhail doesn’t appreciate having been lied to.

But Mikhail doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says: “If you’re still intent on keeping this fake relationship up…” Here, he meets Yves’s eyes, a little sternly. “You should think about who you’re really doing it for.”

It’s only for convenience, Yves wants to say. Now that we’ve set things up already, it’s merely the path of least resistance. But that isn’t quite right, is it?

“Don’t worry about me,” Yves says, trying a smile. “Vincent and I have talked this through already. Whatever happens with our arrangement, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Mikhail says. He pockets his phone, and then hands Yves the bottle of Advil. “Sorry for the interrogation, then. If you believe it to be fine, I trust you.” Perhaps that’s the worst part of it. Mikhail has never been the type of person to stay quiet about any foreseeable problems, but Yves knows that his agreement now is not a tactical retreat, nor is it an acknowledgment that it’s not worth arguing over something they won’t agree on. Mikhail is dropping the subject because he really trusts him.

Yves just doesn’t know if that trust is justified.

Mikhail turns on his heels, steps delicately past the hinge at the bottom of the doorframe. 

Yves clears his throat. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Mikhail nods. “Feel better soon. If you need anything other than Advil, just give me a call.”

Then he’s gone. Yves shuts the front door behind him and wonders just what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

[undercover-horn-blog]

Humorous forehead feeling that turns serious!!!

A is feeling B's forehead literally jokingly, to insinuate that B is being silly or incoherent or just wildly off base somehow. So A gives them a mock-concerned look and places their hand on B's forehead for just a moment.

Then: Hesitation. Confusion. The mock frown turning serious. "Wait, what the hell, B?"

And in that moment A realises that B is ACTUALLY running a temperature and hasn't said a word this entire time 🥰🥰🥰

[4108927]

pretty long holdback session -> stifled sneeze -> immediate accidental half stifle -> full let out -> “oh fuck, that feels goo—” -> desperately let out fit

[hockeynoses]

Something inspired me, and I wanted an "I Told You So" situation, so I wrote this. It's only a teeny bit D/s, with a sweet ending.

“Aww, sweetheart, you look miserable,” says A.

“SNF. I amb,” B responds, their words thick with congestion.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly. But you know, this could have been prevented.”

A miserable, viscous sneeze is B’s only response. It fills the tissue that’s held desperately to their face, a constant presence under their red, streaming nose.

“Like I said, if you had only…” A looks at B expectantly, prompting them to finish the sentence.

“If I had… ha… ha’ERRSSHH’IUE!” B groans miserably into their mangled tissue. “If I’d have godden bmy flu shot.”

“Yep. Then you wouldn’t be…”

“Ha’IIGHHH’SHUU! Ugh. Sigg.”

“With?”

“The… huh- the -heh’AAIIEEH’SHUH! With the flu,” B practically whines into the tissue.

“Correct.” A can’t control their smug, satisfied smile. “Now, are you going to listen to me next time?”

“Yes. ihh-KIIISSSHH’iew!”

“Good,” says A, their smile turning sunny.

“Can you brigg bme sobme tea now?”

“Of course, love.”

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Noticing (M, cold)

Ok, so I got an idea and ran with it and it came out as 4.5k words with no sneezing until 2.5k words in (apologies). But this was a super fun write! In it, Reed and Greyson are newly moved in together and Greyson realizes Reed has some quirks he didn't know about. Sick Greyson, if you make it all the way to the snz then I promise he is pretty miserable by the end lmao. I hope you all enjoy, I know I've been MIA for a few weeks, I'm hoping to be around more but in the meantime I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one. Anyway, enjoy!

CW: Male snz, cold, some coughing. A lil relationship angst. Nothing too crazy in this one.

Noticing

The moment they moved in together, Greyson realized that Reed was… let’s just say a different breed of human than he was used to cohabitating with.

This wasn’t to say that a different breed was bad; quite the opposite, in most ways that mattered. Every roommate Greyson ever had could have been affectionately referred to as a swamp garbage monster from hell; dishes were done by Greyson and only him, and that was when he could actually get to them. Laundry littered the floor of the apartment, and not just the bedrooms but the living room and even kitchen floors, and the fridge would’ve been better classified as a biomedical waste bin.

Then there had been his brief stint of life with Collin. Collin wasn’t a swamp monster, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a monster at all; Collin was what Greyson called the ‘everything-in-its-place’ monster. There wasn’t a single day that went by in their month-long living partner stint where Collin wasn’t berating Greyson about his toothbrush being on the wrong side of the sink, or his shoes being on the wrong side of the closet. As disgusting as it was, Greyson knew that if push came to shove he’d pick a million garbage roommates over a single monster of Collin’s variety.

Greyson had made it a point throughout his late twenties and into his thirties to live alone if he could, even if it meant taking the train an hour one way to work every day. He’d enjoyed his time alone, having everything where he wanted it, a home that most would call a bachelor pad, but without all the grime. Having something just for himself, especially after the disaster that was Collin, had felt safe. Comfortable. Easy.

The decision to move in with Reed had felt easy and comfortable too when he’d agreed to do it, though. It had felt safe, and he knew it was; it was just hard to give up the life he was used to, especially since he was once again moving into someone else’s space. The new apartment was… incredible. But it was Reed’s.

Reed’s life revolved almost completely around his apartment, Greyson quickly realized. His boyfriend worked from home, and worked a lot – there were nights when Greyson would stumble out of bed at three a.m. to pee, only to realize Reed was in his office typing away.

“If I get an idea, I have to write it out,” Reed had explained one morning when Greyson confronted him about it. “If I wait and go back to bed, it’ll be gone.”

Greyson could understand this; after all, he kept a notebook on him at all times for writing down ideas for menus or recipes. Creative force struck when it struck, he supposed. What he couldn’t understand was the absolutely insane schedule his boyfriend stuck to during the day.

“Honey, you don’t work from home so it’s hard for you to understand,” Reed had said when Greyson asked about the hour-by-hour, day-by-day schedule Reed kept on a bulletin board over his desk. “You really have to keep yourself on task in this line of work.”

“Yeah, I get that, babe,” Greyson said. “But I mean… you’re scheduling bathroom breaks. You work next to your bathroom.”

Reed had shrugged. “Sometimes I forget.”

Sometimes you forget?? Greyson found himself turning this idea over and over in his head the day after his boyfriend had uttered it. When Elijah asked him what he was so distracted by, Greyson couldn’t help but ask, “Have you ever forgotten to go to the bathroom?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” Elijah shot back. “Remind me to not ask you what you’re thinking about ever again.”

The schedule didn’t just apply to his work, though; Reed had everything scheduled. A cleaner came every Tuesday at nine a.m. sharp, no exceptions except for holidays. On the first Friday of each month, a man came to change their air filters. Was this a service provided by Reed’s fancy-schmancy apartment? Greyson had asked off-handedly the second month he lived there. Reed had raised an eyebrow at the question.

“Of course not,” he said. “I schedule it.”

“But… why? It’s not like you have any pets. I can change the air filters when they need to be changed,” Greyson offered. Reed’s lips pressed together at this offering, an indication that what he wanted to say and what he would would be two very different things.

“Let’s just keep it the way it is, baby,” he said. “So neither of us forget.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if Greyson forgot something, though, because Reed was not only on top of everything, he was ahead of everything. If Greyson forgot to throw his boxers in the dirty clothes when he got in the shower, they were in the hamper before the steam settled. The first time Reed made him dinner and Greyson offered to clean up after, he was shocked to find that there wasn’t a single dish in the sink to contend with. Even the counters were spotless.

None of this was to say that Greyson felt he’d moved in with a stranger; he knew that Reed was particular, Type A, and just a touch anal retentive before he’d moved in. He just hadn’t realized quite how intense the situation was.

“I don’t see the issue,” Elijah said when Greyson casually brought up the situation over drinks one night. “That sounds like a dream living situation. It’s like you have a free butler. Is he being an asshole about doing everything? It’s not like a Collin situation, is it?”

Greyson took a long pull from his whiskey, signaled the bartender for another. “No,” he said, turning towards his friend, “that’s exactly why it’s weird. He doesn’t say anything about it. I could probably smash all the plates in the cabinet, shred his blankets and shove them down the toilet and then take a shit in our bed and he’d have it cleaned up by the time I got home from work. No questions asked.”

Elijah pressed his lips together, thinking. “I just don’t see how any of this is bad.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m saying it’s weird.”

“Like you don’t have any weird quirks,” Elijah said, nodding at the bartender’s gesture to pour him another whiskey as well. “C’mon, Grey. Be serious.”

Greyson rubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah, I mean obviously. I’ve just, like… I’ve never lived with anyone like this. I feel like I’m tiptoeing around the house. Remember that Disney movie from way back? Smart House?”

“You are constantly forgetting that I am ten years older than you, asshole. No, I don’t remember fucking Smart House I was busy paying taxes when it came out.”

The chef flipped off his friend, laughing in earnest. “Whatever. It’s like the house is watching me, is what I mean. Which it isn’t, Reed isn’t watching me, obviously, it’s just… a totally different way of living. I don’t know.” Defeated, he knocked back the drink and shrugged, looking down. A hand slid over to pat his arm.

“You love him?” Elijah asked when Greyson looked up at him. A flush bloomed on Greyson’s face, prompting a laugh from Elijah. “Yeah,” the GM said, ��you love him. So just accept him for this. It’s a weird quirk, yeah, but I mean it’s better than the alternative.”

“Swamp monster being the alternative?”

“Collin being the alternative,” Elijah corrected. Greyson shuddered. “Exactly.”

That was where he landed; he’d just accept the schedules, and the clean-freak weirdness, and the anticipatory service that would put a five-star hotel to shame. Greyson loved Reed, quirks and all, after all.

There was, however, one quirk Greyson hadn’t realized his boyfriend had – not until three months into living together.

On a Monday in May, Greyson woke up to the sound of Reed on the phone.

This was hardly new; Reed was on the phone near-constantly on days he worked, talking to magazines and news sites, interviewing other chefs and restaurant owners in the city. At first, Greyson assumed this was one of those calls – that is, until he walked into the kitchen and began eavesdropping.

“Thanks for understanding, Melissa. Yep, should be all good by next week, I appreciate it. Mmhmm. I’ll Zelle the partial payment now. Thanks again, hun, see you next week. Buh-bye.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow as Reed hung up the phone. “Was that Melissa the cleaning woman?” Reed nodded, penning something into his day planner.

“Mmhmm,” he said, looking up at his boyfriend and smiling. “Why? Good morning, by the way.”

“Morning,” Greyson said, peeking into Reed’s planner. “Were you calling her off for tomorrow?”

“Yes…?” Reed said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Is that okay?”

“Obviously it’s okay,” Greyson said as he made a coffee in their Keurig. “I mean, I’m just surprised. You’ve never called her off, she comes like fuckin’ clockwork. Do you have some sort of plans?”

Reed shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Um,” he said, closing the planner. “Sort of.”

Pouring creamer into his coffee, Greyson burst out in a laugh. “Sort of? I’ve lived with you for months, baby. You’ve never sort of had a plan. I’d be shocked if you hadn’t planned your own birth for a specific day.”

“Don’t be silly. No one would ever choose to have a Christmas birthday.”

“Mmm, fair enough,” Greyson said, sitting next to his boyfriend. “Sooo… what’s the plan?”

Again, Reed seemed uncomfortable. “You’re going to think I’m weird if I say it,” he admitted. Greyson snorted out a laugh.

“My love,” he said, cupping Reed’s chin, “that ship has sailed. You are very weird, and I love that about you. Now tell me why you called off Melissa, throwing a wrench in your otherwise-perfectly-curated day.”

Reed pressed his lips together. Then, quietly: “You’re getting sick.”

Greyson reeled back as if Reed had pushed him. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Immediately, Reed set to explaining: “Okay, okay, I know this is bizarre but… um… okay, the explanation is going to sound even more bizarre, I’m now realizing, but you have, um, a tell. When you’re getting sick. And I know that sounds weird or invasive, but I just noticed it last night so I figured I would call off Melissa so that tomorrow you can just sleep instead of, like, listening to the vacuum all day. That’s all.”

The apartment was quiet then. “What’s the tell?” Greyson asked after a long pause.

“Grey, please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m… I don’t even know what I am, honestly. Freaked out?”

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Reed moaned, putting his head between his arms on the table. “I’m so fucking embarrassed.” He lifted his head then, his face red. “Please don’t be upset?”

The wind had been taken out of Greyson’s sails. “I’m really not… upset. Just tell me the tell.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not. Tell me why you think I’m getting sick.”

Reed sighed, looking down at his planner. “I just… like details. That’s all.”

“Reed, for God’s sake just tell me.”

“Okay!” Reed said, his embarrassment turning to frustration. “Okay. It’s just… ugh this sounds so weird. Okay, so like… you start to say a couple days before that some food that you love tastes weird, even though it doesn’t. This time it was an orange, you said it tasted rotten - I tried it, it didn’t. Then you’re super cold and moody, you wear your jacket to work even though it isn’t cold. That happened yesterday, then you came home and refused a drink. Those are all tells. So I figured by today when you got home from work, you’d be feeling shitty.” Reed shrugged, an attempt at being blasé that failed miserably with the catch in his voice that meant his embarrassment was about to spill over into tears. “That’s all.”

For a moment, Greyson just nodded – one continuous nod that he couldn’t seem to stop or accompany with words. “Okay,” he said, standing. “Um… I need to go to work. Can we talk about this later?”

“Greyson,” Reed said, desperation clear in his voice. “I promise I didn’t mean this to be so weird. I just… every time you’ve been sick, it’s been the same thing. I’m sorry. I notice patterns, it’s… one of my things, I guess. I don’t want you to think I’m a freak.”

“Reed,” Greyson said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I need a minute with this one. Okay? That’s it. I’m not mad, I just need… a minute.”

They stood in silence then, a stand-off with no winner or loser. “Okay,” Reed said finally. “Have a good day.”

Greyson went to the bedroom then, put on his work clothes, and gathered his backpack. What the ever loving fuck, he thought as he left without saying goodbye, was that?

***

“I mean, yeah, boss, that’s kind of weird I guess.”

This was not the reaction he’d been hoping for from Matt. “What do you mean kind of weird?” Greyson said, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s, like, stalking my habits. Keeping tabs on me. It’s insanity, Matt.”

The sous just shrugged, noncommittal, and continued chopping onions. “First off, I think you’re blowing this out of proportion. He’s watching your habits because he cares about you. It’s called intimacy. And second, I don’t know how to tell you this, Chef,” he said, glancing up, “but you do kind of have a tell when you’re getting sick.”

What kind of fucking nega-universe am I living in right now? Greyson thought, slamming his knife on the cutting board. “I do not have a tell,” he said. Matt glanced to the side, silent. “I don’t, Matt.”

“You don’t what?” Mark glided into the conversation, popping a cherry tomato from his boyfriend’s prep station into his mouth. Greyson took this opportunity gladly.

“Mark, glad you’re here,” Greyson said, turning away from his sous. “Random question: can you tell if Mark is getting sick?”

The floor manager furrowed his eyebrows together, looking Matt over. “Are you sick?” he asked his boyfriend.

“No,” Matt said. “But Greyson is.”

“Oh, my God no I am not,” Greyson insisted, throwing his arms over his head. “Never mind, Mark. Go.”

“Snippy,” Mark said. A knowing look passed between Mark and Matt then. “I’ll let Elijah know.”

No shot in hell this is my life, Greyson thought, looking wildly around the prep kitchen. “What the fuck is happening right now? I’m – HRRTSHH-ue!”

Silence fell over the back kitchen as Greyson ducked into his elbow. Then Elijah, from the office up front: “Oh, fuck off, I knew you were getting sick!”

Matt and Mark cackled while Greyson attempted to quell the volley of sneezes he knew were on that first’s heel. “You guys are asshoo – assholessITSZCH-ue! Hh - ! HETSZH-ue!”

“Bless, Chef,” Matt said, still laughing. The blessing made Mark literally double over, unable to catch his breath. Greyson glowered at the two of them as he yanked a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser and blew his nose. This is fucking humiliating, he found himself thinking.

“Shit, sorry Chef,” Mark said, finally catching his breath. Matt wiped a hysterical tear from his eye. “It’s just… I mean, it’s always so easy to tell when you’re sick. Can I get you some medicine from up front?” “No, Mark, you cannot get me some medicine,” Greyson grumbled. “You can go to the front and do your fucking job, though.”

Greyson could see Mark bite his cheek to keep from laughing again. “Yes, sir,” he said, disappearing from the back kitchen. On a roll, Greyson whirled around on his heels to point at his sous.

“And you,” he said, “finish up this prep. I’m going to the office.”

Matt just nodded, the smile on his face betraying his thoughts. “Yes, Chef,” he said.

As he stomped, defeated, to the front office, Greyson checked his phone. One new message.

11:52AM

Reed

hi, love. just wanted to make sure you’re having a good day. sorry again for my weirdness. love you.

God-fucking-dammit.

***

It had been a running joke from the time he was a kid.

Greyson, the go-til-you-drop expert. Greyson, the workhorse. Greyson, who wouldn’t know he’d been hit by a bus until someone else forced him into an ambulance. It was weird, he guessed, but it was what it was; he didn’t realize he was sick until it hit him because he was working. He was busy. That was how it always had been.

“Would you get in the office and take some fucking Dayquil, please?” Elijah plucked the knife from Greyson’s hand as he ducked under the prep station to stifle a flurry of coughs into his jacket. “We already said we’re sorry for embarrassing you, now go take something.”

Unwilling to give in, Greyson just shook his head and yanked his knife back from Elijah’s hands. “You didn’t embarrass mbe because I’mb ndot sick.”

“Uh huh,” Elijah said, crossing his arms. “Could you say that again?”

“Say what again?”

“‘I’m not sick’.”

Greyson rolled his eyes. “I’mb ndot sick.”

“‘I’mb ndot sick’,” Elijah parroted back, his consonants purposely dulled. “That’s crazy, that’s exactly how well people sound when they say that.”

Greyson’s face flamed. “Fuck off, Elijahhh – ahhTXSH-uhh!” An attempt to stifle a sneeze that immediately backfired. “HRSHH-ue! Huh -! HhhITSZCHH-ue!”

Taking pity, Elijah took the few steps to the office and grabbed a box of tissues. He placed it in front of the chef’s face and, begrudgingly, Greyson pulled out a few. “Bless you,” Elijah said, pointedly.

“You kndow what I miss,” Greyson asked, wiping his nose and sucking in, fruitlessly. Elijah raised his eyebrows as if to say, What? “I miss when I first started here and you were so clueless and self-involved that you didn’t ndotice I was walking around the kitchen with the fuckigg flu. I mbiss clueless Elijah. At least he wasn’t up mby ass twenty-four-seven.”

Elijah barked out a laugh. “You do not miss that,” he said. “You couldn’t even handle an afternoon of me not realizing you were sick. You were so downright offended that I hadn’t noticed you were sick that you literally went off on me. Please, Greyson. You can play the I’m-not-sick card all you want, but don’t pretend you don’t like the attention.”

At this, Greyson balked. “Are you calling mbe an attention whore?”

“Grey, of course I’m calling you an attention whore,” Elijah exploded, throwing his hands in the air. “Someone who isn’t an attention whore doesn’t turn a weird fight with his boyfriend into a day-long diatribe at work. You think Reed realized you were getting sick because he’s stalking your movements? Please, Grey. He realized it because you do the same damn thing every time – you sulk around work for a day or two, complaining about the thermostat being wrong in the kitchen. Your taste is off, and every dish Matt brings to you for editing doesn’t have enough salt. Then you come into work one day in a bad mood and seemingly out of nowhere start sneezing and coughing and shit. It’s like clockwork.”

The two of them stood there for a moment, silent. Despite it all, Greyson was in a bit of shock – was he really that obvious? How the fuck did everyone else realize he was sick before it ever even dawned on him? “It’s like that every time?” he asked, finally. Elijah nodded.

“Every time,” he said. “I thought you were always just trying to soft-launch your illness before it hit, get us all ready for a few days of you being an asshole.”

Was that what he was doing? Now Greyson was having a hard time even trusting his own brain – but no, that couldn’t have been his intention. He’d never even noticed before when he was getting sick. He figured that’s how everyone was; one day you’re fine, the next you’re on your ass.

“I’mb gonna keep it really real with you, Lij,” Greyson said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve ndever ndoticed that I did any of that. HRRTSHH-uhh! Fugck.” He grabbed another handful of tissues from the box beside him and wiped his nose. “I thought ‘getting sick’ was, like, a myth. You either are or you aren’t.”

Elijah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You… are a different breed, Greyson Abbott,” he said, gathering himself. “You’ve never, like, taken inventory of how you’re feeling? Ever?”

“I mean, if I’mb forced to,” Greyson said, coughing into a fist. “Like ndow I am.”

“So you’re saying the only time you think about how you’re feeling is when you’re already down bad.”

“Uhh. Yes,” Greyson admitted, sniffling. “Pretty much.”

Elijah cracked his neck then, as if gearing up for a fight. “Get help, Grey,” he said, laughing. “That’s fucking crazy work.”

But it was true. From the time he was young, Greyson was busy. Sports as a teen, then restaurants the second he graduated – there simply wasn’t time to take inventory of how he was feeling. Taking inventory meant spending time thinking about how shitty things were, or could be, or would be eventually. In all honesty, Greyson had no interest in thinking about how or when things would all fall apart. They always did, eventually. No need to dwell on it.

Again, the two of them stood in silence, until finally Greyson broke the tension. “You said we have Dayquil?” he asked. Elijah just nodded.

“Want me to bring you some?”

“Yeah. Thanks, boss.”

***

By nine p.m., Greyson so done, if he were a steak you’d need a bone saw to cut through him.

“Huh-!” For the millionth time that evening, Greyson’s breath hitched painfully, and he folded completely in half to -

“HRRTSZHH-ue! Huh...hhITZHCHH-ue! ETSCHH-ue! Huh -! Hhnnn… Fuckigg – HRRETSZH-ue!”

“Bless, Chef,” the cooks called. Matt raised his eyebrows at his boss from behind the line.

“Ready to admit defeat yet?” he asked as another ticket printed. Fuck, Greyson thought, pulling the ticket. Yes, I fucking am.

“Order ind,” Greyson called, his voice dipping on the second word. “Two scallops, one ribeye. HRRTSHH-uhh!”

“Yes, Chef. Bless, Chef,” called the cooks.

Okay. Even he knew when it was time to call it.

“Mbatt, combe expo,” Greyson said, yanking his apron off. “I’mb going home, I’m fuckigg dying.”

Matt just nodded and walked around his coworkers to the other side of the line. “Feel better, Chef,” he said, pulling another ticket. “Order in.”

Greyson trudged to the office and slammed the door. Fucking Reed. Fucking Matt. Fucking Elijah, he thought, unbuttoning his coat and yanking his hoodie over his head. Just as he was about to open the door to leave, someone knocked timidly. “Come in, ndo one’s naked,” Greyson muttered.

Elijah opened the door and stood in the entry. “Admitting defeat?” he echoed the sous. Greyson rolled his eyes painfully.

“I guess,” he said, coughing into the sleeve of his jacket. “Gotta go face the all-seeing-eye at home. Can’t wait.” Elijah nodded, shifting from foot to foot as if weighing what he wanted to say next.

“Greyson,” Elijah said finally; gently, carefully. “I know what you’re used to. We all know what you’re used to, and it’s what Collin gave you. Neglect. Nothing. I get it, dude. You aren’t used to a partner really caring about you. But Reed? He’s like us, like me and Mark and Matt. He cares about you.” Elijah shrugged. “Let him.”

Even if he didn’t feel like shit, Greyson probably would’ve teared up. As it stood, he felt the tears fall down his face before he could even look away. “What happens whend he leaves?” he asked, his voice small. Elijah placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, looked him in the eye.

“What happens if he doesn’t?”

***

When he walked in the door, Greyson was surprised to find that the TV was on and Reed was nowhere to be found. The TV was almost never on in this apartment, and Greyson could almost always hear the click-clack of Reed’s keyboard when he walked in, no matter the time.

“Reed?” Greyson called, his voice straining. “Are you hombe?”

From the bedroom, Greyson heard a crash, then a “Fuck,” then suddenly Reed was standing in front of him in a t-shirt and pajama pants, looking very much not like his usual put-together self.

“Grey,” he said, throwing his arms around Greyson’s neck, “you came back.”

Greyson pulled back, looking at Reed’s face – had he been crying? “Of course I cambe back,” he said. “What do you meee – HRRTSCHH-ue! Fuck, ’scuse mbe.” Greyson wiped his nose on his jacket and Reed, ever-prepared, handed him a box of tissues from the entry table next to them.

“Bless you,” Reed said. “I mean… you never answered my text. You kinda stormed out this morning I figured… I don’t know. I had freaked you out too hard and you were done with me.” He shrugged, one hang wringing the other. “I’m sorry for being such a freak.”

Gently, Greyson pulled Reed’s hands away from one another, placed them on his own face. “Please don’t be sorry. You’re ndot a freak,” he said. “You’re just… you care. And I’mb ndot used to that. That’s on mbe, Reed. Ndot you. Caring, noticing… it’s a good thing.” He smiled then. “It’s something I admire about you. I’mb sorry I’ve never said it.”

Reed looked down, blushing. “You’re really warm,” he said, finally. Greyson coughed out a laugh.

“You’re also a bit of a prophet,” he said. “I feel like dog shit.”

Tutting, Reed moved one of his hands from Greyson’s cheek to his forehead. “Want me to get you some ibuprofen? Or I can make you tea, we have a ton, or let me run you a bath, or -”

“What I want,” Greyson cut him off, pulled him close, “is to go sit ond that couch. With you. And rot for the next few hours. Mbaybe order Doordash.” He coughed into his sleeve again, then, prompting Reed to attention once again.

“Shit, I should’ve made dinner or something, I honestly was just so worried you weren’t coming back I haven’t done anything today, I’m sorry baby I should’ve -”

“Hey,” Greyson said, pulling him back. “I just want you. I don’t want you to do sombething for mbe, or get something for mbe, or mbake something. I just want to be with you. Is that ok?”

Reed stopped in his tracks. “You don’t want anything?”

“Just you,” Greyson said. “And – HRRTSSH-ue! Snrf. And mbaybe the tissues.”

A smile spread across Reed’s face then. “I can handle that.”

[sky-snz]

September Ballad (M, Cold)

Ok, time for a longer one (2.4k words :P). Here’s a fic with some busy autumn vibes, and cold that sneaks up on Jonah hard at work. xx

cw: mess

-

[A video recording. The Anderson Cottage attic, midday. Jonah squeezes the clamp of the black capo, and brings it down from the sixth fret to the third fret. His eyes drift toward the ground, and slowly, he begins to pluck out a melody on the guitar. In a soft voice, he starts to sing. ‘It’s her that brings me there She’ll say welcome back to earth It’s been far too long for me to bear…’]

It wasn’t quieter, just more chilly. Things in the world seemed to slowly acquire rougher edges - there was the rustling of trees and stacks of dog-eared papers that were important.

[‘Dig my body from the dirt, Gentle, so the roots wouldn’t tear…’]

The width of each day was gradually compressing. Their evening walks had been happening earlier to catch the sunset. And Lily was more often tired, and into September, Jonah tended to work late nights. It seemed he’d exchanged sunsets for a covered pot on the stove in the empty kitchen. Memes sent without additional text. A warm hand ran gently down the back of a thick sweater, a whistling kettle, and curated canisters of vitamins and such that mysteriously appeared on the cluttered counter.

“heeihhHh, HUHdt’EEISSCHHIEWWW!!!” 

Jonah’s long form bent double with a sudden violent, desperate sneeze. His hand quickly gripped onto the edge of the kitchen sink and held tightly, as the force of the expulsion shuddered through his shoulders and threw him forward. It was like a clap of thunder following far behind a streak of lightning - seeming to coming out of no where. He straightened and gave his head a small shake.

His perpetually rosy nostrils flared as he sniffed gently. His long, dark hair seemed to be behaving a bit more than it had just a few days ago, as the temperature subtly began to drop. And that was the bittersweet gateway to autumn. The end to one type of suffering, and onto various others - but with it, came a tradition of compiled solutions by humanity to maintain warmth. Life. Spirit.

He’d chalked up his usual congestion these days to the pollen, although it was trickier to tell for sure, since it had been rather cold. The temperature shift often gave his sinuses grief on its own. Nonetheless, he had work to do. One of his favourite parts of the day was making himself a tea before playing piano, which usually helped with the congestion.

“huht’JSCHH!!-unhh…” He muffled a sneeze into his shoulder, his hands occupied with a bottle of honey and a tablespoon. He sucked in a damp sniffle and sighed softly. 

This game of ‘is this a cold or allergies?’ was getting tiring. He supposed as long as he had the ability to get things done, he’d be fine. But still, “-Ah’TDSCHHhh-!!!” it might be kinder on his sinuses if he was able to tell which was the cause.

Shit. Honey dripped down the side of his mug of tea, as did his nose, dripping into his moustache and onto dry lips. He sucked in a harsh, frustrated sniffle, and reached for the roll of paper towel.

“Bless you.” Jonah heard Lily approaching down the stairs.

“*hsnff!* Thagk you.” Jonah set down the bottle of honey on the counter. As he gently wiped his face with some folded paper towel, he turned to see her enter the kitchen. 

“You doing okay?” she asked softly, lifting a hand and gently running it over his back.

“Just sdeezi’g,” he exhaled. 

“Ah, right on time.” Jonah gave a small, exhausted chuckle. Lily smiled, and reached up to brush his hair out of his face. “You had your meds?” she murmured. Her sea blue eyes stared into his earthy, moss-coloured ones. Jonah grew a bit flustered - every now and then he would forget, but this time he actually did.

“Yes, love,” he said with a gentle grin.

“Yeah? When’d you last use the nose spray?”

Jonah barked a soft, wheezy laugh, then tried to stop as she kept her strange, flirty gaze. He knew that she’d worry. Lily’s eyes ran over his impossibly handsome features. As she moved closer, his hands gently found her waist.

Jonah’s eyelashes fluttered as he gazed down at her. “This morning,” he mumbled hoarsely. 

“Take some now, it should be at least twice a day, right?”

“Once I’ve made my tea,” Jonah replied.

“Let me,” Lily said, gently touching his hand.

“Lil, I’ve got it,” he said gently, his hands still in the task of wiping the side of the mug.

“‘Kay,” Lily breathed. She ran her hand over his back once more, then went to get a glass for herself.

Jonah sniffled gently, but liquidly. The way he cleared his throat again, gruffly, had Lily’s spider sense on guard.

“What time’s the dinner tomorrow?” she asked, once she’d poured herself some water.

“Uh, *snrff!* Seved, I believe. *snrk!*” he said, turning to lean back against the counter.

Following a sip from the hot mug of tea, Jonah let out a soft, shaky exhale. Watery mucus ran down his upper lip, and he sniffled thickly. He held the breath, his chin turning to the side.

“Oh,” he huffed softly, and quickly set down the mug of tea. He lifted his other hand and pinched his sniffly nose, half-stifling a wet sneeze. “KGCHH-!! -unh, *snrff! sdrf!*”

“Bless you,” Lily breathed, and gently rubbed his back. 

“'Scuse mbe, thagk you.”

Lily wandered off to the study corner of the living room to double check her schedule. The dress she’d planned to wear was hung on the door of her closet. She hadn’t worn it in a while, and perhaps it had seen better days, but it was plain, elegant, and reliable.

[‘Eyes above the chasm where the golden hour illuminates her hair… And I’m stood there…’]

There was a heavy ceramic thud against the hardwood floor, the jingle of a teaspoon, and Jonah crying out at full volume.

“Ah-! Fuck…”

Lily straightened quickly like a meerkat, hearing Jonah’s muffled grumblings from the kitchen. From the desk chair in the living room, she tried to peek around the doorway to the dining room.

“Jonah?” she called. She stood and went to the doorway. “You okay, sweetie?”

“I’b fide,” he mumbled as she spotted him in the kitchen, crouching to pick up his empty mug and teaspoon from the puddle of tea on the floor. He had to reign in his temper, it was just a minor inconvenience…

“Oh,” Lily couldn’t help but say, her heart sinking a little. “Did y-“

“AAESSCHIEWW!! -ESSCHIEWW!!-sshieww!!” Before she could get a question out, he dissolved into another rapid, itchy spell of sneezes. “*snnnrgk!* EEEISSCHH!!! *hsddrff* God, I’b soh… *sddrffh!* I’b so sorry, *sdDDRFF!* Jesus,” he murmured hastily, struggling to sniffle back the abundance of mess oozing from his red, dripping nose. His expression was still hazy with desperation.

“Bless you, darling. Here, I got it.” Lily set the mug and teaspoon down in the sink, then tore some paper towels from the roll. She couldn’t help but continue to eye Jonah. “Are you hurt? Did you spill any on yourself?”

“*sdrff!* D-Doe, just… hh-! just- *sddrffh!* hh’just od by- hh’odbypadts-ISSCHIUE-!! HRR’ISSCHIEWWw!!” Jonah barely choked out an answer before the burning irritation overwhelmed him. He groaned softly, sounding stuffy and miserable.

“Bless you. Here, baby love, blow your nose, okay?” Lily offered him a spare handkerchief that she found in the drawer of the phone table. With bleary eyes, Jonah accepted the handkerchief, and rose up from crouching.

“Hh-haH-! Hehh!” Eyelids fluttering, he quickly leaned a hand on the counter before letting out a rapid, itchy triple. “HAAD’SCHHIEWW!!-sshieww!! ESSCHHIEWW!!!”

“Bless you,” Lily said soothingly.

“EEIY’ESSSCHHIEWWW!!!” Oh. Yikes, that sounded like it hurt. He bent double over the sink with that one, and let out a couple of chesty coughs.

“Bless you, love.”

“Thadk you…” Jonah mumbled wearily into the cloth. 

He turned and began to blow his nose. It was heavy, gurgling, sounding much needed. As Lily wiped the last of the spilt tea on the floor, she heard him pause for breath and blow again, producing congested honks. She felt sympathy as he panted for breath, sucking in several sniffles that didn’t seem to be moving much.

After a bit, he turned back around to find that Lily had finished cleaning up his mess.

“Oh,” he said softly. He stared at her, still making a few itchy rubs at his pink nose with the folded hanky. He let out a hoarse, timid chuckle. “Thagk you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Lily stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and lifted a hand to rub his back.

“I’b sorry, I’b such a klutz, *snrgk!*”

“You’re okay,” she said firmly. Lily switched to gently scratching his back instead. Jonah leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Your poor tea, though. Let’s make you another one.”

“Hh’I- hhh’oh, I still deeh- huhh, Gods sakes, *gsdrff!*” he muttered breathily, turning away again. “haaH! HAAASSCHHIEWW!!-Ohh, hih-! RR’AASSCHHIEWW!!! -AASCHIEWW!! …haht’Chieww-!! … g’nhh. *sdrff!*”

“Bless you.”

“*snrgk!* Pardod be, thagk you, *snnrk!* Hold od,” he uttered with defeat, and went to the living room. 

More sad, honking blows could be heard as he walked away. Lily poured more water into the kettle. The switch made a satisfying click as she turned it on, and again, the pot began to heat up.

-

[‘Rendered speechless by silence of it all, And with it all, I’m taken-‘]

Jonah’s noisy, drawn out snores were interrupted by some itchy coughs, ones that came so fast that they startled Lily as she’d begun to nod off. His big torso expanded as he took a wheezy, shuddering gasp, then came a sneeze so vicious that it jerked his head and shoulders forward from the incline of pillows.

“hhHAAASSCHHIEWWW!!!” It was explosive, too - Lily could see the spray in the low light, and hear the wet bursting of thick mucus as the sneeze came at full force.

“Oh, bless you love,” Lily hummed, and reached over to rub her hand soothingly over his thigh.

“HAADSSCHHIEWWw!!!” Just as he was getting his bearings, another wet, thick-sounding sneeze forced its way out of him. 

“Bless you.”

Jonah rolled over, facing away from Lily and feeling dizzily around the bedside for the box of tissues, or a hanky, anything there to catch the sudden abundance of mess he’d just sneezed all over himself. His entire head felt heavy, and his sinuses were aching. Sitting up made his head hurt. He felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Here, babe,” she said softly. Soon his long fingers were squeezing around a handkerchief.

“RRAAHh’CHHIUEWW!!!” Lily winced a little. The one had just sounded so wet, and any attempts to sniffle did nothing, leaving him to sigh and hurry to lift the handkerchief over his swollen, dripping nose. “AASSCHhiu!!-EEISSCHHhh!!”

“Bless you.”

Jonah sat there, panting. The poor thing. A bead of sweat rolled down his face. Lily could hear his weary, heavy breathing as he wiped his face. She lifted the backs of her finger to feel his forehead.

“-hhhh… hHehhhh… HAAAESSCHHHhh!!!”

“Bless you. Ohh, dear. Yup, that’s a fever.”

“HRR’AASSCHHIOOO!!! ....ngh..” 

“Bless you. Here. Breathe in for me.”

Jonah took in a tight, shaky breath. His sore, sensitive sinuses were burning. He needed to blow his nose badly, or his head was going to burst. The attempt at it made an awful noise - the congestion that sat heavily in his sinuses was restricting, and there was so much mucus, an ungodly amount. The handkerchief was damp by the time he finished blowing. 

“ahh’CHIEWW!!hhh….” God, he shouldn’t have blown that hard. The sneeze that it triggered was sudden and scraped across his throat. 

“Bless you, poor thing,” Lily murmured.

“*sngk!* D-Deed- hUHt’CHIEWWw!!!” He winced and rubbed at his nose with the hanky. “g’hh… h-heiHhh?? HAAEESSSCHHiuhh!!-’ISSCHH!!!-CHH!!-TCHHhh!!!”

Oh no. They were coming rapidly again. And they still sounded wet, if not wetter, soaking the humble handkerchief in his hands. Lily reached toward the bedside table and opened the drawer. She found a good, thick handkerchief and touched it to Jonah’s hand. He took it eagerly and shakily lowered the soaked cloth in his hands. Lily caught a glimpse of his red, chapped nostrils, which flared wide again before pitching forward into the fresh cloth.

“YY’AASSCHHIEWW!!!”

“Bless you, sweetie.”

“*snrgk* Thagk you,” he barely croaked. He blew his nose again, cautiously, then emerged with a sniff.

Lily ran her fingers through his loose, frizzy curls. “Want ice?” she breathed.

Jonah nodded. Lily moved towards the other bedside table and reached for the thermos. She opened it and shook some ice into an empty cold pack she’d left there just in case.

“hdt!‘CHIUEWW!!! *snrk! snnnrk~*”

“Bless you.”

“rr’SSCHHIEWWw!! -nnh, *sddrff!*”

“Bless-“

“EEEISSCHHIEWWww!!! *snNrgk!* ‘b so sorry, 'scuse be.” Jonah kept sniffling liquidly. His poor nose just kept running, gushing mess with each itchy sneeze.

Lily gave his thigh a small rub. “Shhhh, you’re okay.” 

He gave another thick, flooding blow into the hanky, and lowered it, panting softly. His eyes were still sunken and hazy with sleep. He looked ready to return to his slumber - then Lily turned to him with the ice pack.

“Here, hun.” Jonah snuffled softly and peeked over at her. “Lie down?”

He did just that, exhaling heavily as his back flattened onto on the mattress. Lily placed the small ice pack on his forehead, and watched his flushed features loosen.

“That good?”

Still panting slightly, he nodded. It felt so good that he could’ve fallen asleep then and there, but-

“I’ll grab you some Tylenol, okay?” Lily leaned down to kiss his warm temple. His bleary eyes followed her as she got out of bed. She came back to the bed and sat by him. “Here. Can you sit up?”

[‘I’m taken, taken, taken…’]

“It’s just a moment, and you can go back to sleep.”

A soft groan of effort tickled Jonah’s scratchy throat, as he pushed his aching body into an upright position. There was some ease as Lily’s hand touched his shoulder. Her thumb grazed over the fabric of his shirt as he downed the two pills in a wrenching gulp. 

Not saying much else, her hand moved to brush back his hair. She left a kiss on his clammy forehead, and murmured for him to lay back down.

[‘And it’s her It’s her that brings me there.’ Jonah looks up from the ground towards the camera. His lips muster a gentle grin, and he reaches over to stop the recording.]

[clovesnz]

don’t really know how to write smut (finally edited this)

it's very heterosexual and also there is no actual spelled out sneezing. lots of nosefucky and snotfuckery. very self inserty for me. lots of uhhh dry humping? idk guys.

“Oh my god you can’t just sit there in front of me like that my horny brain is going to actually fucking explode”

He sits at the edge of the bed. She is leaned against the headboard, blushing in spite of herself as she watches him sniffle and scrunch his nose up and down, over and over, in an obvious exaggeration of what are, to be fair, very real allergy symptoms. He lets out a long, labored sniff and scrubs at his nose vigorously.

“What? What am I doing?”

His eyes are twinkling, mischievous. He’s watching her practically squirm. She can't take her eyes off his nose. It’s glowing pink from all the rubbing and irritation, and as she watches, he pinches it between two fingers and locks eyes with her, one eyebrow cocked in amusement, and wrings his hand back and fourth, producing an obnoxious, messy squelching noise.

“Stopppp oh my god you fucking evil bastard” 

“Whatt why am I evil?” 

He puts on an ironic grin of feighned innocence, eyes wide, lip slightly curled. 

“I can’t help it. It’s just…” another sniff. Another theatrical scrub.

“...my nose”

“Oh my GOD no stop it”

She’s waving her hands in his direction, feebly attempting to shew his hands off of his nose. He really is laughing at her now, the fucking asshole, and she starts to laugh too. But he’s not gonna get away with it. She scoots towards him on the bed. They’re both completely cracking up now, and between breaths of laughter she struggles to grab hold of his hands, still going at his nose. 

"You’re so…mean this is not…not…okay just…get...no no no, uh-uh… there”

She’s half on top of him, and has managed after a bit of a struggle to get his hands pinned behind his back, away from his itching nose. There. No more teasing. They are both grinning silly at each other, their faces close. Close enough that she can see a little dampness around his nostrils. But just as she’s going to kiss him, arms still holding him firmly in place, his face changes. His upper brow wrinkles, and he looks genuinely panicked enough that she loosens her grip in concern. She is about to ask what’s wrong, when he tilts his head up and takes in a sudden breath, and she realizes, completely entranced, that he’s fighting the urge to sneeze. 

His teasing facade has completely disappeared, replaced with a frantic sort of embarrassed concern.

“Shit, I swear this wasn’t…I didn’t…”

It’s like she sees it in slow motion. He brings one hand to her side to brace himself, leans the other way, takes two more wavering breaths, and then lets out a harsh, wet sneeze into the back of his wrist. She feels her stomach drop, down, a sharp ache that pangs harder when he lowers his hand to reveal two strings of clear snot running from his nose. Holy shit. Her head rushes, and her heart races, and she just…stares, frozen.

“Sorry, does that make it un-sexy?”

He cringes down at his hand, face full of the self disgust of someone who's body has made a mess that they can’t control.

“What, no! I…sorry,”  

She doesn’t know how to explain, but she also doesn’t want him feeling that way, because god, she would watch him do that all day if she could. She tries anyways,

“It got a little too real and my brain kinda short-circiuted”

But he just looks more concerned, for her now instead of himself. Fuck why can’t she get the words out right.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Too real how?" He looks down at his hand again, deciding that must be the culprit.

“Here I’ll go get something to -”

He makes to slide off the bed and grab the tissues on his desk, but she tugs him back to her by his shirt.

“No! No wait, please.” 

He turns for her, and lets her take his hands, looking back down, eyes searching. She takes a calming breath, but before she can try to make words out of the paralyzing waves of desire coursing through her, another drip of snot slides out of his left nostril, and he winces, “Ugh, sorry,” and lets go of her and reaches a hand to swipe at it. But now her brain is working enough to send signals to her body, at least, and she stops his arm, firm but more gently than when he was doing it to tease her.

“...no.”

He obeys, and lets her pull him down to her level again. He’s holding her gaze, curious. Waiting. For her to explain, to communicate. Her whole body is shaking, just a little.

“Just…”

She reaches one hand up and cups his cheek for a moment, letting her thumb graze the very edge of the sparkling wetness covering his upper lip. He accepts the touch, leaning into it,  but his eyes are still searching.

“Wh-”

Before he can ask, she lifts her other hand, and gently, methodically, the way someone might delicately run their finger over a beautiful piece of jewelry, touches the pooling snot with the tip of her pointer finger. She breathes in and shudders, her whole body zinging and tingling at the feeling of it on her fingers, and that’s when she can see it click for him.

“....oh.”

She takes another shuddering breath. She wants to do more, wants to swipe at his nose, to cover her fingers in his snot, to make him blow into them, to have it in her mouth, but it’s all so much and it’s so…it’s so odd, it’s got to be so add, to him, and now she’s too embarrassed to keep going but also too captivated to stop and she drops her hand a lets out a whimper of frustration that is maybe actually just neediness and he looks at her, just as enthralled. He’s not laughing anymore, he is all attention, his own breaths picking up pace with hers.

“Yeah?”

He’s asking her without asking. Yeah, you like me like this? You like all of it?

“....um. Yeah.”

His eyes sparkle, fiery and exited

“Oh, fuck, okay. What do you…what do you want me to do?”

It’s such an open-ended question, and a dozen deeply held fantasies, the kinds of things she never thought she'd ask of anyone, flood through her mind. But the thought of speaking to them is so scary, it’s so ingrained in her head that she’ll gross him out, that he’ll find it all too weird, and she feels that rising panic again, and it makes her want to stop all of this and curl up in a ball and hide.

“I’m..oh my god no I’m embarrassed”

She breaks away and falls back onto the bed, covering her face defensively, her cheeks prickling and burning in mortification. But he just follows, propping himself up over her, and some of her embarrassment vanishes as he lowers himself against her, because holy shit, apparently it’s not just her who is wildy, embarrassingly turned on right now. He leans down to one of her ears, and she feels the dampness of his upper lip pressed, purposefully, almost nuzzled, against her cheek as he whispers, not teasing this time but tantalizing, serious, like he’s daring her:

“Stop being embarrassed”

And it’s too much, he’s too good like this, she can’t…she wants it too badly. She groans and rocks into him, and when he gasps a little in response she catches his breath in her lips. She feels her whole body tingle and sparkle as she realizes she can taste the bit of salt still on his lips. She can’t help it - she whines, and thrusts against him again, and kisses him deeper, and steals herself and lets herself nip at his upper lip, and god when she does it she feels it, like really feels it, the snot smeared onto her own lip now. And she wants to do it again, wants it in her mouth, wants to have it, his cute red nose and his snot, so she kisses him there, right under his nose, and she feels him smile beneath her but he doesn’t flinch away, and it’s not enough so she does it again, and when he brings her back to his mouth it's encouraging, and kind of messy, and he breaks away by running kisses down her chin until his dripping nose is pressed up against her mouth. Now she’s not thinking, she’s not thinking at all she’s just wanting and so she nips at the tip of his nose and oh god she likes it so much, so she does it again but lets her tongue feel it too, and he just nuzzles into it so she lets her mouth explore. Nipping and his nostrils, gently squeezing them together with her teeth, running her tongue up his septum and around one nostril and then the other, peppering his upper lip with generous, licking kisses until all the snot there is gone, so she follows it’s path, slipping her tongue ever so slightly up to one nostril. She feels his nose twitch as she does it, and it sends a thrill through her body so she does it more, flicking it back and fourth at the opening of it. He gasps,

“You’re gonna make me…oh fuck I’m…”

And he leans to the side, disengaging to let out a forceful sneeze into his elbow. He stays turned away, frozen with his face turned upwards, building to another one.

“Hey - ”

She reaches for his crooked elbow, gently bringing it down from his face, and he catches her meaning and turns back to her right as it hits him, pitching forward into her chest with the force of the sneeze that spills out of him. Strings of snot wet the front of her t-shirt and she feels her hips thrust reactively at the pleasure of it.

“Fuck me, oh my sweetheart…” she coos, and he whimpers a little at the pet name and lets out snuffling little squeek as she presses into him harder, bold enough now to tenderly, adoringly swipe at the snot running from his twitching nose. 

“Oh..fuck, oh my darling, can you do that again?”

And he does, bending forward into her again with the force of another sneeze, and holy shit she doesn’t know if her cunt can take it she's aching so badly but he’s so preoccupied, hitching and blinking and twitching, and when he starts getting close again he leans into her again but she doesn’t want to stop watching this time so she asks,

“Hey…look at me”

And he does, obedient, meeting her gaze and keeping it until his eyes are forced shut and he sneezes, barely turning away this time, misting her face in spittle and sniffling helplessly at the aftermath. 

“Bless you”

She gasps, and his face is already crumpling again but he keeps himself level with her, and this time the spray is thicker and hits her face and god the way his whole body tenses and releases and his cock presses against her with the force of it and if he doesn’t start touching her she going to have to start touching herself.

“Uhhnn, bless you. Fuck, I-I can’t…this is…fuck”

He grins at her loss of composure, teasing again even as he fights back another sneeze, and she gasps and cries out a little as he moves against her, wrapping her legs around his waist. He laughs a little,

“Y-yeah?”

She just nods, yes, thrusting harder to emphasize the point, and god this is stupid why don’t they have their fucking clothes off already, and he’s still sniffling and hitching but he props himself on one arm and reaches to the button of her corduroy jeans and she can’t bare to wait for him to fumble with them one handed so undoes them herself and and slides them off, and he groans a little between hitches when he slides his hand under the waistband of her boxers and lets out a breath, like he's relieved to finally be there. She sucks in a breath as he begins to he tease the opening of her cunt, infuriatingly. She whines in protest and he obliges quickly, slipping two fingers inside of her and pulsing softly against her, all the while still hitching and blinking, building up to sneeze again, and she realizes after a few moments, in complete amazement, that he’s going at her harder the closer he gets to sneezing. She gasps,

“Keep… keep doing that”

And he does, faster and faster and then pulling up with his whole arm as his body shakes with it, spraying her in snot and spit and she cries out and begs, cause he’s got her so close and she needs more but he’s slowed again. He's slowed and she’ll have to wait, have to wait for the tickle to built up because that’s how this game works now. But two can play at that, so she reaches for the back of his neck, a little forceful in her want but he lets her, and she flicks her tongue against the opening of his nostril, fast, like she did before, and he matches the rhythm of it with his fingers. It’s getting faster, and she’s so fucking close with him on her and inside of her and under her tongue and she’s breathing so heavily it’s hard to keep her tongue moving but she does until he pulls back, only slightly, still going at her faster than her fucking vibrator, and his eyes flutter shut and oh god she wants it, wants to feel it, to hear it to see it to taste it and she does, right as she hits her peak, screaming out as he erupts once more, the spray landing against her open mouth, and she grabs for him desperately, ravenously, and kisses him, deep and sticky as she rides out her orgasm on his fingers.

**************

Epilogue: he pulls off her shirt and blows his nose in it and then she makes him do the same thing with his own shirt and then his pants and then her underwear and then she gets on top of him and fucks him while he sneezes all over himself but she stops before he cums and finishes him off with her hands so that she can see him make that much more of a mess of himself and then she takes him to the shower to get cleaned off and the sneezing has died down but they fuck again in the shower anyways and then she lovingly rubs soothing lotion around his irritated nostrils and forces him to take the Claratin she bought him because the whole thing started when he ran out and forgot to buy more. The end.

**************

anyways so yeah. sorrry for the weird formatting. ya girl used to read a novel every week back in high school but still doesn't know how to structure dialogue. if u read this i love you <333

[waterfallofspace]

Allergic To Concepts

Is anyone else still into the M/agnus Archives? Maybe, maybe not, but I have had this fic sitting in my google docs for months, and I just finally managed to get myself to finish up the last bit, so here is part one of a possible two part fic, if I can ever manage to get myself to write the next part!

So, if anyone wants, please enjoy a little Allergic to concepts Jon. aka, Jon is so allergic to dogs that just the idea of them gets him a bit worked up~

I'll never be over this podcast, and I might start sharing small (tiny) drabbles of these guys if anyone would be interested <3 or even just to start coaxing myself back into writing~

Characters: Jon, Martin, Tim, and Sasha Word Count: 2.7k

“-so to conclude, we absolutely, most certainly, cannot do that,” Martin finishes, hands woven into his hair. Seems to happen more often nowadays; getting a job you’re not exactly qualified for tends to bring on a touch of added stress. What brings even more stress, however, are the faces staring back at him, twin smiles painted across worryingly calm canvases. Seems once a poet, always a poet, even in your own thoughts. 

Tim chuckles, mischief running through his eyes. “How do you even know that? You been stalking our new boss?” 

“W-well no, it’s just that…” Martin starts, beginning to study the floor as his rambling starts to take over. “Well there may have been an… incident, of- of sorts, with a uh… well it was, I was trying to open this door, but see I was holding files, and there was this dog, and they kinda just- well I was trying to stop it but it got in and- so I went to Jon’s office and he was just kinda… and then I-” 

“So what?” Tim interrupts, mercifully saving Martin from his own tongue. “Why should his issues stop us from havin’ a good time?” With a snap of his fingers, Tim casts Sasha a devious wink. The colour seems to drain from Martin’s face as he holds up a shaking finger, aiming somewhere behind Tim’s shoulders. 

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Sasha mutters, her smile never wavering. 

Spinning on his heel, Tim turns to greet the newest arrival to the hallway. “Fancy seeing you here, boss! Burning the midday oil?” 

Jon pauses, papers nearly spilling from his crowded arms as he fumbles with some keys. “That’s not an expression. And what are you all doing cramped in the hall? Don’t any of you have work to do?” 

Martin nearly keels over as Jon’s glare settles against him, seemingly deeming him responsible for this lapse in progress. As if! In fact, he’d been the one begging them to get back to work. Honestly, Jon should appreciate the fact that he talked them out of-

“Actually, we’re thinking of heading off for the day,” Tim cuts in, leaving Martin’s mouth nearly hanging open. Had they not just gone over why this was a horrible idea? As if to answer his unspoken question, Sasha joins in with support for Tim’s cause. Martin’s pretty sure there’s actually a gap between his lips. 

Jon, having opened the office by this point, merely stops and stares. Seconds pass, though it feels more like minutes. There appears to be some sort of staring match between the three of them. 

Finally Jon breaks the silence with a short… well, it’s hard to call it a laugh, more like a huff. His posture tightens as he attempts to pull himself to his full height, casting Tim a wary glance. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Quite serious in fact! See, me and Sasha have been thinking,” Tim pauses, gesturing to the aforementioned with a sickly sweet smile. Merely performance charm, which given the eye-roll she shoots back, Sasha’s well aware of. “All of us here need a chance to bond.” 

“Bond, you say,” Jon’s monotone voice offers no insight to how he’s taking this suggestion. As Martin’s mouth begins to dry, his hands start working their way back into his hair. 

“Indeed!” Tim continues, seemingly oblivious to Martin’s rapidly increasing heart rate. “We’ve all been stuck here together, figured we should become more of a team, you know? A team-building exercise you could call it. Something to get us more on the same page.” 

“And what is this ‘team-building exercise’ you have in mind?” 

Well, his heart may have been racing before, but it’s not anymore. In fact, he’s almost entirely convinced it’s just stopped completely. Jon’s eyes meet his own, and Martin drops his gaze fast enough to leave him dizzy. 

This time Sasha speaks up, her coy tone doing nothing to alleviate the heart attack symptoms Martin’s now convinced he’s feeling. “An animal rescue cafe. They rescue dogs and cats, the ones that need rehoming, and bring them there so you can get to know them before you adopt. One opened just down the street from here, and me and Tim have been looking into going. We figured, might as well drag you and Martin along with us.” 

Jon’s glare narrows further, a single hand coming up to rest between his eyes. The movement is completed by pushing up his glasses with a sigh. “And how exactly does drinking tea in a room full of animals qualify as team building?” 

“You can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat animals,” Tim offers. “Not to mention the fact that there’s a whole study about how psychopaths are more likely to hate cats, which is mostly due to the fact cats have willful behaviour.” 

Martin can almost taste his heartbeat at this point, a fact he’s finding quite alarming. Still rummaging through papers, Jon steps into his office. Much to Martin’s chagrin, they all seem to be following him. 

“Are you suggesting someone working in this office is a psychopath, Tim?” Jon continues, huffing out another sigh as he notices the entourage entering his office. Jon’s glare lands on Martin once more, something he’s almost gotten used to at this point. 

Laughter begins to flow from Tim, Sasha joining in with a mild chuckle. “Of course not, but hey, this job’s all about researching things that probably aren’t true. Better safe than sorry, right?” 

Seemingly the only one noticing Jon’s growing apprehension, or maybe just the only one that cares, Martin can’t peel his eyes off their boss. Unaware of the scrutiny, though perhaps expecting it nonetheless, Jon pushes up his glasses again. Martin doesn’t miss the way he lets a single finger brush against his nose during this action. Nor do his eyes skip over the light scrunch forming at the bridge of said nose. 

Oblivious as always, Tim’s still going on about the cafe. Something about which animals are available, what tea they serve, scones, and more useless information. Sasha’s typing something in her phone, apparently fact checking his current ramblings. Still, all of that fades into the background as Martin’s attention is drawn to Jon once more. 

At first, he can’t figure out why he’s watching. Jon didn’t speak, and from his posture he hasn’t made any significant gestures. There doesn’t seem to be anything specifically that should have caught his eye, and yet-  

And then it happens again. Jon’s brows tighten, his eyes begin to flutter shut, and his lips part just enough for his tongue to peek out between them. There’s a beat of silence, then a single breathy inhale, barely noticeable above Tim’s monologuing. 

“ihh-” 

Just as quickly as it began, Jon crushes it back once more, a hand roughing swiping against his nose. There’s a quiet feeling of– perverse excitement as Martin watches him. Why? No earthly idea. It’s not as if there’s anything specifically… exciting about the action. There’s no physical stimulation beginning, to phrase it politely. 

Still, there’s something… almost electrifying, about bearing witness to a moment so personal and private. As if the only person in the room is Jon, and he’s opened the door for Martin to join him in his world. Which, as you think about it, just becomes more and more– creepy as hell! Damn it! 

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Martin manages to peel his gaze away from Jon. Zoning back into Tim’s rambling, he just barely catches the tail end of a rant about different toppings on cinnamon buns. His silence was entirely unnoticed. Understandably, given only Tim had said anything in minutes. 

“Personally, I’m a fan of the regular cream cheese icing,” Martin offers, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Tim as another soft sniffle sounds behind him. The others don’t notice it, Sasha rolling her eyes as a light begins to dawn in Tim’s. 

“Well, interesting you say that Martin, they actually have those at the cafe down the street! Isn’t that such a wonderful coincidence?” Tim swirls his body towards Martin, casting a playful glance back at Jon as he continues. “Wouldn’t you like to stop by and get yourself one of those delicious buns?” 

Martin feels his face begin to pale again, and barely manages a meek, “W-well… I don’t need to… get one right now… but if you want-” 

Thankfully he’s saved from himself as a gasp sounds out from the desk. Everyone in the room turns, Martin included, just in time to see Jon duck into his wrist with a tight, “ih’nGXt–uih!” 

“Bless you!” Sasha calls, Tim and Martin echoing the sentiment. A flush begins to spread over Jon’s cheeks, but it’s brushed off as he waves a hand, continuing to scribble on some papers. Casting a glance over to Tim, Martin sighs as the mischief floods the other man's face. He’s very clearly not letting this go. 

“Was that actually a sneeze?” Tim laughs, mimicking the sound as Sasha suppresses a giggle. 

Jon keeps his head down, pen still moving across the paper in disjointed movements. “It was in fact a sneeze, yes. Happens to everyone from time to time, no need to make a big deal out of it. Now, I believe you were going to a cat and do- hiHh! rescue cafe?” 

The hitch manages to escape from Jon’s tight grip, his posture shuddering slightly with the force of continuing the sentence. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Martin that just the word dog seems to leave him breathless. 

“A dog cafe, yeah! You’re coming too, right boss? Come see all the adorable little puppies?” Tim offers, gesturing towards the door. Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed by him either. 

An audible gasp sounds out, and all eyes turn back to the rapidly hitching boss. Jon manages to stifle the first one almost silently, only a rush of breath escaping at the end. 

“Bless you, boss.” 

Jon waves a hand, wiping away the water beginning to flood his eyes. “Was just sihh… sighing, Tim.” He finishes the statement with another stifle, this time his whole body jerks along with the rough exhale.  

“Really? Because that sounded like another sneeze,” Tim taunts, poking a finger towards Jon’s face. “And given the way your nose is twitching, you seem far from done.” 

Jon seems to consider debating, but another frantic hitch decides it for him. Giving up the ruse, he ducks into his shoulder with another, “eh’tNGxt–uh! ih’NTchhuh!”  

“Bless yo-” 

“eH’DGZSHhh –uu!”  The volume makes everyone jump, seeming to surprise even Jon. 

“Oh- mby apologies, I seeb to be… hiehh–” Jon trails off, one hand frantically searching for a tissue, nose visibly trembling behind the other. In a move of uncharacteristic pity, Tim pushes the box within reach. Jon mumbles out a thank you, before swinging his chair around for a touch of privacy. 

The silence is almost deafening, cut up only by the rustling of fabric as Jon attempts to subdue the onslaught. “eh’nGNt –oo!” And fails miserably. 

“Do- maybe do you want… well possibly we should, actually I think you might- I mean he might want–” Desperately trying to find a way to fill the space, Martin rambles on, gaze bouncing between all three of his coworkers.

“Martin,” Jon cuts him off, “just say it.” 

The annoyance Martin’s come to expect seems unaffected by the breathy quality of Jon’s words. Unless you notice the flushed nature of his ears, which… is kinda hard to miss when his nose is starting to match. 

“S-sorry! I just figured you may want a touch of uh… privacy..? You seem… itchy,” Martin offers, already beginning to back out of the room. 

Jon glares, lining up a retort before pausing as the first syllable comes out muffled with congestion. A sharp sniff and quick rub later, he continues in an easier tone. “I’m quite alright. No need for such concerns.” 

“I mean- If… if you’re sure…” 

Tim interrupts this time, draping an arm across Martin’s back. “You heard the boss, he’s fine. Now, onto that cafe?” 

Before Martin can get a word out, Jon stands from his chair, dropping the tissues in the wastebasket next to his desk. Sasha chuckles out her approval, sticking her phone into a pocket and beginning to exit the office. Tim follows suit, leaving Martin standing alone with Jon. 

There’s a beat of silence, Martin watching, horrified, as his body refuses to move an inch, silently waiting for Jon’s approval. 

“Well?” 

It’s not exactly an invitation, but it’s more than enough to send Martin scrambling for the door, muttering more sheepish apologies under his breath. If Jon heard them, he gave no indication, busy rustling through a desk drawer. A few more muffled stifles make their way through the noise, no indication given they were heard either. 

As Martin makes it into the hallway, he catches Tim waving from the door. He’s propping it open with one foot as Sasha waits outside, once again on her phone. Martin waves back his acknowledgement, before gesturing towards the kitchen. Tim simply shrugs, calling something about ‘not waiting around’, before joining Sasha in the crisp autumn air. 

Making his way back to the kitchen, Martin pauses at Jon’s door. He’s not eavesdropping, just… listening in, to see if Jon’s alright. It’s his boss after all, and he’s an assistant! He’s supposed to… assist! Perfectly natural thing to do, isn’t it? 

A harsh double pulls him from his spiralling, Jon’s voice coming through audibly in the groan that follows. Alright, enough listening in, this is starting to feel more creepy than curious. 

With what little confidence he can muster, Martin works his way through his plan. The mugs are where they always are, but the water in the kettle was a bit more cold than a proper cup of tea would allow. Flipping the switch, Martin began heating it, and hurried out of the kitchen to his desk. He picks out a fairly bland tea, Jon seems the bland type… right? 

Another few sneezes sound out from the boss’s office, and Martin almost starts to feel guilty for still being in the office. It’s obvious Jon assumes he’s alone, if not from the sneezes themselves, from the groans that come after them. Ever the stickler for a Professional Appearance, he’d never allow himself to be seen or heard in such a state willingly. 

The kettle sounding pulls Martin from his thoughts once more, and he pours the water over the tea bag. Moving carefully, as not to spill, he makes his way back to Jon’s office, knocking softly on the door. 

“Yes?” The reply is sharp, a frantic sounding shuffling occurring as Martin begins to slide open the door. 

“Hey, yeah sorry I just- you sounded like… I just thought that maybe you’d want… you might need some…” 

“Spit it out, Martin,” Jon sighs, giving his nose a subtle swipe. Unfortunately for him, this seems to have been the wrong choice. His nose twitches, eyes beginning to unfocus, and Martin finds himself pausing for the interruption. At least, until Jon gestures at him to continue. 

“Well, I just ma-” 

“ih’tNGT–uu!” 

“Bless you. I just made you some tea, it seemed you cou-” 

“hHUh’dNT–uh!” There’s a pause, Jon’s breath catching dramatically, before he swivels around in the chair and aims a harsh, “eH’dZSHH– eih’DSCHhhh–oo!” at the fistful of tissues he managed to grab. 

It wasn’t exactly quiet, and Martin finds himself flinching against the noise, but holds it together as he places the mug on Jon’s desk, hurrying through the rest of his sentence. 

“Seemed you could use some tea, bless you again by the way, anyways I’m gonna head off with Sasha and Tim, I’ll see you there I guess! Or, well- not just me, we’ll all see you there, as a group, if you choose to come that is! Which of course you don’t have to, though we’d lik-” 

“Martdin,” Jon, mercifully, cuts him off, congestion seeping through his words. With a deep sigh, he finishes his sentence. “Thagnk you. You mbay go ndow.” 

Taking the out, Martin gives one last nervous smile, sliding out into the hallway. Another desperate sneeze leaves him wincing, Jon’s vocal groan sounding out yet again. The poor guy sounds miserable, and Martin almost considers going back in and telling him not to come. If he’s this bad from just the thought… well… 

But he’s embarrassed himself enough for the day, and, albeit hesitantly, Martin heads off to meet Tim and Sasha at the cafe.

[prohistamine]

M Allergies, 1.6k words

I'm back with another fic gang. This time featuring two high society exes reuniting at a fancy gala. In proper prohistamine fashion this one features allergies, a character with the fetish, and fun power dynamics.

Be warned! somewhat explicit sexual content and general unforgivable horniness

“Lovely of you to come, truly I’m so glad to see you both.” Lorna shook the minister's hand in hers, firmly and warmly. A handshake practiced a thousand times over. “Ms. Windsor arrived a few minutes ago I believe, I’m sure she’d be delighted to catch up on your party's substantial victories in the recent election.”

As he turned away Lorna selected a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and took a healthy sip. She’d need it to get through the rest of the night. She turned towards the door, ready to resume her assessment of each new guest as they arrived, but when she saw the man who’d just walked through the doors her stomach dropped. His dark hair was shorter than the last time she'd seen him, falling in waves around his face. He looked smug as ever, and when he caught her eye he started walking her way. 

“Colin,” she murmured through gritted teeth, “I didn’t think you’d be caught dead here.”

Colin grinned thinly. “Ah well, you would assume I’d choose to be petty, you always thought the worst of me.” 

She scoffed. “That is a charitable way to describe two years of you repeatedly lowering my expectations.”

“Now Lorna, can’t we put the past behind us? What is it we always said, not to let pleasure interfere with our business?” 

“Stirring up unnecessary rumors will interfere with business. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for us to be speaking in public? The dust has barely settled, people will talk.” 

“‘Oh the worst fate!” he said in mocking horror, “to be the victim of gossip! Do you think we’ll make it out alive?” 

“Oh of course, because you're so above petty politics. I’m the one who’s obsessed with gossip and you just let it roll off your back.”

“Do you think you could say that again for me? Maybe I can get it on tape.” He smiled and rubbed at his nose absentmindedly. 

“You know what? I’m glad you came. I really missed that familiar little headache you gave me. It's this sort of… gentle throbbing at the base of my skull? I’m just not the same without it.”

“I knew you missed me. I missed the exercise I got from our conversations, we should really make a habit of it.” He rubbed his nose again, with more intention, and was she imagining it, or was the motion accompanied by the faint sound of wetness? 

“Are you just here to flaunt your ability to get yourself out of bed?” Lorna asked, “ Because if so, point proven. This is kind of an important night for me.”  

“Ah well, I’m glad you recognize my presence as the achievement it is, but I do have something to-” he cut himself off with a sniff and a scrubbing at his nostrils, “something to discuss. I have to ahh- hehh-” Lorna recognized the face he was making immediately, the far away look in his eye, the crease between his eyebrows. His buildup was, as always, dramatically long before he snatched his handkerchief out of his pocket and sneezed into it twice “AaaSCHU!  AaaeSTCHU!” As always, there was no attempt to stifle his violent outburst. He looked up at her blearily, “Ah, pardon me.”

There was a faint smirk in his tone. Lorna scowled. Of course this would happen, just what she needed when she was already struggling to maintain her composure. 

“Bless you.” she managed to say, intent on keeping her voice even. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of having a reaction. 

“Thank you I- oh there's- Aaah- ahh- AhGHSHUU! AESHTEW! AEGHEEW! Huhh. There were more.” 

Despite her frustration, the familiar heat was rising in Lorna’s stomach and traveling down between her legs. Composure be damned, she leaned forward and hissed into his ear. 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” 

He chuckled. “Oh that would have been brilliant. I’m not that cruel, I'm afraid, or that creative. It must be the floral decorations. I’m desperately allergic, you see.” 

Oh he was fucking loving this. 

“People will stare you know. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She was looking for any way to take back power in the conversation, and she realized she’d been sloppy the moment she spoke. 

“Embarrassing myself?” he asked smugly, “Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you.” 

“I’m leaving.” 

“C’mon now Lorna, I do have something important to discuss. How about we go out onto the balcony to talk. No worries about prying eyes, and the fresh air will be good for my nose.” 

Lorna cast a glance at the large glass doors leading out to the south balcony. They had fabric drapes in front of them, placed intentionally for anyone desiring a conversation away from the eye of the press. Regardless of the privacy they’d have once they got there, people would be sure to notice the two of them leaving together. The smart decision would be to tell him she wasn’t interested in talking, but she desperately wanted a break from the crowd, and, pathetic as it made her feel, she wasn’t sure she could pass up the chance to continue watching him sneeze. It had been months since she’d had the pleasure, and she was beginning to feel like a woman starved. 

“Fine.” 

“Marvelous.” he said, words slightly muddled with congestion. 

They made their way across the room, no doubt incurring the whispers of several guests.

Once they’d stepped outside and shut the doors behind them, Lorna turned to Colin only to see his face skewed in preparation for another sneeze. 

“Hehh- Hhh- HhhSTCHU! HaAGHSHEW- I ha- hhh hhASHEW! I haahh- hadn’t realized it was …it was-” he held the handkerchief in front of his face expectantly as he struggled through the sentence, head tilted back as he gulped in air to fuel the fit, “ATZSHUU! ASHEWW! R-realized it was so… ahh- AschUUu! so cold out here.” 

A sufficient chill had settled in the air since the sun had set, something Lorna hadn’t even considered. Colin was wearing nothing but a simple suit jacket, and he’d always been incredibly sensitive to changes in temperature. Just going outside in cold weather usually caused him a small fit, and the combination with his fall allergies was having quite the effect. He blew his nose into the folds of his handkerchief and then geared up for more. 

“heeSGHEW! EESGHEW! HESHEWW!! Hehh- haaahh- ahh- ASHEW!” He was bending at the waist now with the force of them, and reached blindly to his left in search of the balcony railing, which he leaned on for support once he found it. 

“Huhh-hhhh-hhoh god- heeehSHUUH! EESHEW! HEERGHSTEW! ESH-ESH-ESHU!!

The fit was punctuated by three violent little sneezes that tripped over each other to be released.

Since the moment he’d first sneezed, Lorna had felt like she was putty in Colin’s hand. His intimate knowledge of just what his allergies did to her gave him a maddening and tantalizing power over her. However, as he desperately wrenched forward with sneeze after sneeze, one hand shakily clasping a handkerchief to his face and the other doing its best to keep him upright, it was hard to see him as holding any kind of powerful position. For the first time that night she felt a twinge of pity for him. The feeling both frustrated her, and, of course, only served to further arouse her. 

His fit finally subsided, and he slumped against the railing, gasping for breath. 

“Sorry,” he managed, too exhausted to sound properly smug. 

“Don’t be,” she couldn’t help but reply, her voice high pitched and obvious. She was so wet that she was worried it might actually start dripping down her legs. They both stood there for a moment in silence. 

“So,” he started, still somewhat breathless, “about the election-”

“Colin-” she interrupted him, “I appreciate the effort to resume our professional relationship, but I don’t think I can listen to you talk about politics after that performance.” She knew she had admitted defeat, but in the face of his sniffling, shivering frame she found she no longer desired to one up him. What she really desired was to fuck him, to ease him open with her fingers and fill him up until he couldnt see. That or be fucked by him, bent over and  begging for it as he held her by the hips with his big hands. 

“I understand,” he said, “another time then. Perhaps then, before we go inside, I could talk to you about something expressly unprofessional.” 

“Have at it Colin,” she said, trying not to sound like she was begging for it. 

“There's something I’d like to show you. I warn you, it’s somewhat inappropriate.” 

She felt her heart flutter in her chest, “I can handle that.”

He took a step toward her and then took her wrist. He guided her hand forward, lowering it beneath his waist and then pressing it between his legs where an erection was straining against the fabric of his dress pants. She moaned audibly at the surprise. 

“Do you see what you’ve done to me?” he murmured into her ear, “this is what happens to me now, every time I sneeze. I can’t help it.”

“Colin,” her voice was strangled. 

“How am I going to explain this to future lovers? You know how I get in the spring, I’ll be hard constantly. What will I say if they notice my cock twitch every time I sneeze? Every time they sneeze?” 

Lorna’s clit was throbbing. Colin gave a liquid sniff, and she moaned again, body shuddering against his. Her hand closed slightly around his cock and he gasped sharply.

“My nose still itches terribly,” he murmured, accentuating the statement with another sniffle, “It would feel heavenly to rub it on something soft.” 

“Please,” she begged him. 

He leaned down slowly, placing a hand firmly on her hip, and dragged his nose across her shoulder, rubbing it in the nape of her neck. She trembled at the feeling of his soft nostrils, shifting as they rubbed against her, leaving her skin slightly wet. 

“Fuck, that feels nice,” he said softly. She could do nothing but whimper in response. 

She let it go on for a moment, their bodies intertwined, her hand on his cock and his nose buried against her. It took everything in her not to pull him into a kiss. Instead she stepped back, and wiped her shoulder with her hand. 

“Thank you,” she said, wrangling her voice back to her well-practiced professionalism, “for that stimulating conversation on politics.” She took a moment to compose herself, taking a long deep breath and then continuing, “I have a gala to host, and you have one to attend. I think it best we continue this conversation later, after the guests have left. Perhaps in my personal chambers. You’d have to be discreet about staying behind of course, we wouldn’t want my guests to suspect we’re doing something illicit.” 

Colin looked taken aback, and then broke into a wide grin, “Of course ma’am.” 

She turned towards the door and then, before opening it, turned back towards him. “This does not mean I forgive you, " she said sternly. 

Colin’s eyes sparkled. “Of course not.”

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to France to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did I—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the occasional car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[undercover-horn-blog]

Caretaking that is casual. Caretaking that's domestic.

You're sick, but it's just a cold. You're exhausted and sleepy, but it's nothing too serious either, so there's no need to worry.

So you're on the couch, sipping tea, trying to read, ending up just lying there, huddled under your blanket, drowsy and halfway to sleep.

Meanwhile, your partner is sitting next to you, also reading. Or playing a video game while you are watching, blinking tiredly but happy to be entertained in this way.

Or it's your friends. They're chatting, talking about their days. Watching a film. All reading. Studying. Playing cards.

And you're just sort of... there. They ignore your sniffling, don't mind when you blow your nose. They don't think you're gross or annoying. Occasionally, somebody might walk by and absent-mindedly pet your head. Squeeze your shoulder. Without even really looking at you.

"You okay?", somebody says, half-amused, when you sneeze forcefully.

"Fine", you mumble, closing your eyes again.

"You want tea?", somebody asks, but it's just an afterthought. They were already on their way to get tea for themselves.

"You warm enough? Want my jumper?", somebody offers. But it's only because they just took it off since they felt too warm.

You're literally just... there. Like a pet. Still part of it even though you can't do much. And you're so happy to simply be around them, feel included. Know you are cared for even though the illness is not that bad. Know you are loved without having to do anything for it.

[bewitchedfeathers]

Dust and Cold - Sick V/ox and Allergic Al/astor (Rad/iostatic)

Authors notes: (Credit to my RP partner for some of the Alastor’s sneeze spellings! Thanks darling!)

I imagine the Z's in their sneezes are static sounds. I hope you enjoy!

—-

“Well at least I wasn’t taken down by the common…cuh…heh'iiKSCHH! eh'TSCHhu! heh'iiiiZZSCHHUEE,” he lowered the handkerchief from his face enough that he could dab carefully underneath his pink tinged nose, ���the common cold.” He leaned back in his high backed chair and tried to look unaffected.

“Yeah dust allergies are much more dignified,” Vox retorted from the couch opposite Alastor, voice gravelly and rough from his illness.

“I am not allergic to anything. It is merely abominably dusty in h-here with Niffty on vacation,” He finished with a pointed look to Charlie who had just appeared in the doorway.

“She works so hard for the hotel! She deserved that vacation and it was so good of you to give it to her,” she said with a bright encouraging smile that did nothing to raise the dour energy in the room. “And its only for another two days.”

“Hear that Al, you’ll only have to…hahhh…have to….Hahhh’AZZzshuhh…hh’EZzSHUHHh…SNF have to deal with your terrible dust allergies for two more days,” Vox snarked back between sneezing into his fist. He grabbed a few tissues from the box tucked next to him where he was sprawled and cleaned himself up.

“I don’t have allergies,” Alastor sniffed primly, which immediately set him sneezing again. “Hih-IkkTshiuew…hh’hih’ITZZzzShiew. Snf. Surely other members of the hotel are similarly affected. In fact your cold is probably being worsened just by being here and it’d be better for you to leave.”

Charlie froze and looked awkwardly away from Alastor at the mention of others being effected by the dust. A sure sign that Alastor was alone in his sensitivity to dust, whether he admitted it existed or not. 

Vox rolled his eyes, unphased by Alastor’s snarliness. He turned towards his shoulder, away from Charlie, to muffle a coughing fit. It dragged on for a minute sounding rough and forceful, and leaving Vox panting in the aftermath.

“Oh Vox, did you need anything?” Charlie asked, face full of sympathetic concern.

“We’re fine,” Alastor said pointedly (Vox might say possessively). Charlie ignored him and waited for Vox to respond but he waved off her concern with a hand. 

“I’m alright. If I need anything Alastor can summon it for me,” He said with a smug grin to Alastor like he knew the radio demon wouldn’t refute it.

“Only because you are too pitiful to take care of yourself, dear,” Alastor said gazing down his nose at Vox.

Vox’s antennas sparked as he glared at Alastor. “You’re such an asshole.You can never -” he paused to cough before continuing, voice ragged, “-admit to having feelings or something as benign as allergies, even in the happy-Hah’TZZSHHuh.. fucking hotel,” Vox responded snippily.

Alastor’s antlers grew slightly larger as the sound of static filled the room. “It’s the Hazbin Hotel and I don’t have any such weaknesses as…ah-hah…Hih’IKZzZkshiew…” Abruptly the room fell quiet and the heavy feeling of violence disappated as Alastor’s head jolted down into his kerchief. “Hih’IKZZshiew…IKT-zZzzshew….Hih’ih’ihhhh’ZSHIEWW…”

“Gesundheit, Al,” Vox offered placidly, letting the argument go for the moment. 

Alastor blew his nose and then replaced his kerchief with a fresh one with a flick of his fingers tinged green with magic. “Pardon me,” he murmured demurely while he shot Vox a look daring him to say anything.

Vox was distracted by another fit of coughing that he did his best to muffle into his elbow. “Fuck, this is getting ridiculous. Hhh..n-not ahh-again…” he groaned as he slowly built up to another sneeze.

As Vox's eyes fell shut, Alastor's gaze turned slightly softer, tinged with concern. But when Charlie caught it and opened her mouth to comment Alastor shot her a blood curdling look backed by the shriek of microphone feedback. Charlie settled for smiling encouragingly at him instead. 

“Hhhh…hh’huhhh…fuh-fucking heh….hell…” Vox shed a few sneezy tears as the tickle in his sinuses continued to tease him. Alastor noticed Charlie watching Vox succumb to his cold symptoms and felt a need for no one else to see Vox like this. 

“Goodnight, Charlie,” Alastor said pointedly with a glance at the open door, followed by a trio of itchy sounding stifled sneezes. “Hih’TZzsht-IZZshxt-IZZZhew. Pardon me.”

“Gesundheit. Ah, right,” she nodded taking the hint with good humor, “Good night, Alastor. Goodnight, Vox. I hope you're both feeling better in the morning.” She left with a final wave just as Vox launched into a fit of sneezes. Alastor locked the door behind her with a wave of his hand, before turning his attention back to his sick companion.

“Good…huh…goodnight…Huhhh’hhh…HUHhhh’IZZZJSHHHOO…hh’Huh’UhZZZSHHHuhh…hhhhh…hhih…Heh’EIIZZZSHHHeww….” Vox groaned and began mopping himself up, going through quite a few tissues in the process. Alastor grimaced at the pile when Vox was finished and disappeared them with a wave of shadow.

“Gesundheit, dear. Quite the cuhhh-snf cold you managed to catch there,” Alastor commented as he dabbed at his nose. “Would you care for some tea?” 

“Thadks, Al. Tea sou’ds good,” Vox said tiredly, shivering a bit even with a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

Alastor summoned another blanket, in his favored red tones, over Vox's legs. And then snapped hot tea into existence for each of them. 

Vox huddled over the tea as if trying to soak up its warmth. He took a sip and gave a pleased hum as he found it was made just how he liked it. Then he shot Alastor a grateful little grin. 

“It's perfect, Al. Thadk you.”

“Its nothing, dear. But you're welcome,” Alastor responded, voice fond and expression gone soft around the edges.

A few minutes passed before Alastor’s breath caught and Alastor’s shadow grabbed the cup from him just in time as he started sneezing. The fit bent him forward with each sneeze, his hair falling into his face and ears pressed back.

“Hhh’hih-hihh-hehIKSH’ieww… Eh’TSHHiew..Hnn— KSH! Kshue! Hehh’HEHH?! EIISHHUE!” Alastor gave a staticky groan and dabbed at his red rimmed eyes. “Pardon mbe, dear,” he murmured before blowing his nose to clear out the sound of congestion.

“Holy shit, Alastor, Gesundheit,” Vox said, eyes still a little wide at the ferocity of Alastor’s fit.

“Thank you, dear,” Alastor said straightening his hair and jacket and reclaiming his tea. After which he pretended that nothing had happened, and Vox was tired enough not to tease him about it.

Over the course of Alastor drinking his tea Vox’s gaze grew rheumy and his face flushed in reflection to his rising temperature. Alastor began darting glances at him, Vox for once oblivious to the attention.

“Feeling alright, my dear?” He asked when Vox had stopped drinking from his tea cup for several minutes.

“Hm?” He looked over at Alastor blearily.

Alastor’s smile dipped at the corners, Vox never missed what he said. “How are you feeling, Vox?” 

“Tired…Hhhh’HDZsshhuh-Heh’SHuhh..” He sneezed openly down towards his lap and electric sparks danced across his visible skin. Alastor’s eyes went wide with a mix of alarm and concern. “Gesundheit, darling,” he murmured as he set his own empty tea cup aside.

He stood up and carefully took Vox’s tea and set it aside as well. “Then you should rest, my dear. You’re running a fever.” He adjusted pillows and eased the loose and compliant Vox back until he was fully laying down and tucked in. Once he had Vox’s long limbs tucked underneath the blankets he gave the media demon’s shoulder a pat. 

“Get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.” He stood to return to his chair when Vox let out a staticky whine and rasped, “Don’t leave…”

Alastor sighed softly and sat back down. “I’ll be here when you wake, my dear,” he reassured as Vox’s stuffy breathing grew heavier with sleep.

(And then Alastor stifled his sneezes into silence so as to not wake Vox for however many hours. (And probably catches Vox’s cold))

The End

–

Fun Headcanons that came from writing this:

+ Alastor only uses Vox's name when he's irritated or worried

+ Alastor is protective of Vox when he's vulnerable and doesn't like anyone seeing Vox in moments of helplessness (also doesn't want anyone seeing him soft on Vox)

+ If Alastor summons something for Vox its often with designs and colors that represent Alastor, he likes seeing Vox marked as his in some small way

------

[Fic Masterlist]

Let me know if you enjoyed and feel free to give me prompts for Haz/bin or Hell/uva! (Anon is on!)

(Also I think for every comment I've received I've written about 300 words - so feel free to get me writing!)

[hockeynoses]

A man wakes up with a terrible cold, and his wife, who happens to have the fetish, is thrilled.

He calls into work while they're fucking doggy style, the gorgeous expanse of her back laid out before him. A soft moan escapes her throat.

“Shhh, sweetheart. I’b on the phode," he says teasingly, waiting for his boss to pick up. The risk of having an audience is a dangerous thrill that pushes them both closer towards the edge.

"Hey, boss. Idt’s mbe." Hopefully his boss takes the dizzy lust in his voice for grogginess instead. A prickling itch builds in his sinuses, and he's unable to cover - one hand busy with the phone and the other wrapped around his wife's hip.

“I don’t… hah… I don’t thigg I-iihh – huh’AEESSSH’UH!”  The thick sneeze explodes in front of him, showering his wife's back with wetness. “I dodn’t thigg I cadn cobme in today.”

“Nng!" His wife stifles a breathy moan as best she can. He leans forward to wrap his wide hand gently over her mouth, feeling her hot breath moist against his palm. The tempo of his thrusts quickens, his hips stuttering with need.

“I thigk I just dneed to stay in bed all d-day. Hih… hih’ZZIISHH’iue!" Another harsh, heavy sneeze sprays over her, settling cool on her skin.

As much fun as this is, he needs to end the call quickly. He can tell she's already so close she can barely stand it -

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Safe (M, cold)

Well, here I am.

It's been a few months since I've written anything in the Elliot's universe, but recently someone asked for a Mark-centric story, and this behemoth is what ensued. Allow me to preface by saying this: Mark is basically my self-insert. This was a very hard story to write. If it sucks, my apologies, hah.

In this, Mark gets sick from Matt and wants to hide it from Elijah. It is significantly more hurt/comfort-slash-sickfic than snzfic, honestly. It starts fairly benign, fluffy, and silly and gets really intense a few pages in. There's a lot of musing, a lot of being inside Mark's head. Idk. I'm not sure if I love it or hate it. This is the first story I've written on here that has taken me a full week to get down, and that I've written and scrapped multiple scenes. It is very long. I really hope you enjoy it if you read it. I'd love to hear your thoughts, but also understand if it's just too long-winded for people to read. Also, there's a real chance of spelling/grammar errors because I just can't look at this monster of a fic any longer, ha.

Anyway. Onward.

CW: Male snz, illness, coughing, contagion. 6K words (almost exactly)

Safe

“Don’t go near them.”

It’s the first thing that hit his ears as he pushed through the swinging kitchen doors; no ‘hi, Mark,’ no, ‘good morning’, just a barked order with absolutely zero context thrown in. Mark whipped his head in the direction of the stern voice of his boss.

“Good morning to you, too,” he muttered, making his way towards the office, where Elijah was stationed, seated, but not doing any computer work. “Who and what are we avoiding?” he asked as he entered.

“The chefs,” Elijah said, moving his chair to let the younger manager in to sit. Mark placed his backpack on the ground, tossed his coat over top of Greyson’s on the second office chair. Waited for further explanation that did not come.

“Okay…” he said, sitting beside his boss. “And we’re not going near them because…?” Mark hadn’t even seen Greyson or Matt yet this morning. The avoiding was being done for him, so what was Elijah’s deal?

Elijah hummed a low disapproval – of what, Mark couldn’t guess – and turned towards his computer. “You’ll see,” he said, shaking his mouse and pulling up an order guide. “Just don’t breathe your boyfriend’s breath, okay?”

Mark colored at the implication; it had only been a couple of months since Matt and Mark had been outed to the restaurant, and the floor manager still wasn’t used to their relationship being casually dropped into conversation. While Elijah busied himself with admin work, Mark stood – time to figure out what the fuck Elijah was on about.

You would think that finding chefs in a kitchen would be a relatively banal business; they’re chefs. They’re cooking. Hardly a moving target – but you’d be wrong. Somehow, the second a front of house manager starts looking for a chef, they become a ghost. They haven’t existed for a thousand years – are you sure this restaurant even has a chef? Mark couldn’t help but ponder how the fuck this hundred-square-foot kitchen somehow became a labyrinthian nightmare the second he wanted to find his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s boss; c’mon, he’d checked the walk-in, the back kitchen, even the dock to see if they were smoking, where the fuck were they?

Maybe Elijah had told the two of them to stay away from Mark and the front of house staff before the floor manager arrived, and they were playing a cat-and-mouse style keep-away game that Mark was unaware of. Or maybe they had gone to the store to pick up chicken or some shit. Either way, Mark was done looking. Elijah said don’t go near them, he thought to himself, heading back towards the front of the kitchen, easy enough.

Of course, it was the moment that Mark decided he was done looking that he quite literally bumped into his boyfriend coming through the kitchen doors.

“Oof,” Matt grunted as they collided. Greyson, not even a step behind him, turned their two-person bump into a three-car-pileup that nearly ended in hot coffee being spilled over all of them.

“Christ, Chef, watch where you’re going,” Matt muttered untangling himself from the middle of the pack.

“Mbe watch where I’mb going?” Greyson asked, wiping his coffee-covered hand on his chef’s pants. “The two of you are practically grinding on each other here and I ndeed to watch where I’mb going?”

Mark clocked it in the chef’s voice immediately – oh. That’s what Elijah meant.

But… he had said both of them… right?

Mark’s head shot up from checking to make sure he didn’t have coffee all over his button-down to look Matt directly in the face – ah. Fuck.

“Hh-! Hh’ITSHZH-ue! HRTSHH-ue!” Matt collapsed to the side to sneeze, seemingly in lieu of responding to Greyson’s dig. “Snf. Fuck off, Chef.” There it was.

“Bless you,” Mark said, attempting not to sound accusatory. Matt just nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Sorry.”

Before Mark could respond to the unnecessary apology, Elijah’s voice rang out once again from the office. “Mark, I told you to stay away from them!” The GM stood from his desk chair and strode into the kitchen, physically pushing Mark and Matt away from one another. “Six foot distance,” he said, pointing at both of them. “And you,” he said, addressing his counterpart, “didn’t I tell you to go get some tea and sit the fuck down? We have a big night tonight and I need you conscious, please.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and held up his cup. “I was on mby way to sit when the children starting gyrating on each other in the mbiddle of mby kithcen,” he said. “Don’t put this one on mbe.”

Elijah squeezed the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “First of all,” he said, moving towards Greyson and plucking the cup from his hand, “that isn’t tea.”

“The tea we buy is gross,” Greyson whined. “And I’mb ti – hh! Hh...hhuh-ETSHZH-ue! Snrf, fuck.” Greyson took a moment to collect himself, to wipe his nose on his sleeve and cough – a wet, concerning sound – before finishing his sentence. “I’mb tired,” he said, snatching the cup back.

“Which is why I told you to go sit down,” Elijah said, pressing his palms together and accentuating each word with his hands. “And please do not get my front of house manager sick. I beg, Greyson.”

“Talk to him,” Greyson said, thumbing towards Matt. “I’mb ndot the one with my tongue in Mark’s mbouth twenty-four-seven.”

Mark’s face flamed once again, but Matt, either too sick to care or beyond the embarrassment that was a public relationship in the work place, just rolled his eyes.

“Jealous, much?” Matt asked under his breath. Greyson shot daggers with a glance at his sous, and Mark decided it was probably time to step in.

“Listen, how about I go grab the two of you some medicine from down the street, you both take a rest, and then by the time the meds have kicked in, everyone should be good for service.” Mark looked to Elijah for his blessing; his boss was obviously mulling it over, considering. “And this way, I’ll be out of the metaphorical splash zone,” he finished, which finally prompted a nod from Elijah.

“Okay,” his boss said. “Good idea, Mark. You two – come with me.”

The GM led the two chefs back into the dining room to lay in the back booth while Mark let out a sigh. He was happy, of course, to be out of the fight, to have seemingly calmed everyone down, and to have put his boss’s mind at ease.

Unfortunately, he was fairly sure that – despite Elijah’s eased mind – it was already too late for keeping himself away from the newest restaurant pestilence.

***

“Elijah is going to kill me, Matt.”

“Oh, please, he is ndo – ITSZCHH-ue! ndot,” Matt said, swiping the bottle of Dayquil from Mark’s hand and chugging it. “You gonna sit?” he asked, sniffling and patting the milk crate beside him and shivering. Mark sighed.

“I’m not gonna sit, because Elijah is going to kill me even more if he sees me sitting right next to you.”

“I’mb gonna go out on a limb here and say that’s ndot possible,” Matt said, dissolving at the end of his sentence into a chesty cough.

“You’re coughing now, too?” Mark asked, worry about Elijah’s anger usurped very suddenly by concern for his boyfriend. Mark placed a hand to Matt’s head. “Oh, honey.”

“Sorry,” Matt said, not bothering to move Mark’s hand. Mark huffed out a little laugh.

“Don’t apologize for being sick. Please,” he said, moving his hand to cup Matt’s cheek. “Even if Elijah might kill us both.”

Matt smiled, pressed his face harder into Mark’s hand. “You might ndot get sick. You ndever know,” he muttered, eyes closing as Mark held his head up.

“Matt,” Mark laughed, “I mean… I don’t think that’s, uh, possible after last night.” Matt’s eyes blinked open at the mention of it, and a little smile flitted across his lips.

The apartment had been quiet.

“Matt?” Mark called as he stepped inside. “Babe, are you home?”

He strained his ears; the shower was on. Mark had an idea.

He tiptoed across the cold apartment floor, quietly stripping as he went; by the time he got to the bathroom door, he was nude as the day he was born. The bathroom door wasn’t closed all the way, so he pushed inside silently and pulled back the curtain.

A fact about Matt that shocked Mark more than anything was that the man did not get scared. He had yawned through their first haunted house together; he fell asleep during the Terrifier movies, for Christ’s sake. So Mark was unsurprised when, instead of screaming bloody murder the way he would’ve if Matt snuck up on his in the shower, his boyfriend simply turned away from the spray and smiled.

“You’re early,” he murmured, ushering Mark in.

“I came right from the gym,” Mark said, wrapping his arms around the shorter man. “I wanted to see you.”

“Mmmm,” Matt hummed, pressing himself into Mark’s arms. “That’s nice, baby.”

They stood that way for a few minutes, until Mark tipped Matt’s chin up towards his face. “I wanted to see you,” he said, pressing his lips onto Matt’s neck, “but I also wanted to… do things. With you.”

Matt’s breath caught in the back of his throat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice low. “Like what?”

Mark stood back to his full height, and pushed Matt against the shower wall. “Let me show you.”

“Fair enough,” Matt said now, lifting his head. “But, I mbean, are you feeling okay right ndow?”

He was, for the moment. But, Matt had seemed alright last night, and clearly he’d already been on the trajectory towards ill – despite that fact that he had been very good at hiding it. Whatever he and his boss had picked up was certainly quick to come on.

“I’m fine, baby, don’t worry about me,” Mark said, rummaging through the drug store bag to hand Matt, who’d fallen into another paroxysm of coughing, the Robitussin. “I’m more worried about you than anything.”

Matt snapped the top off and chugged this medicine as well, seemingly without any concern about mixing two medications. “Babe, it’ll be fine. I kndow Elijah is worried about getting through the weekend, but it’s ndot like any of us haven’t worked with a cold before.” He shrugged then, handed Mark the medicine, and stood. Mark stood as well, and once again cupped Matt’s hot face – this time with both hands.

“Please just take it a little bit easy tonight, okay?” Mark said. “I know Greyson is sick, too, but don’t try to do too much. We don’t need another moment like a few months ago.”

“And to think I’d just forgotten about that,” Matt said, going on tiptoe to kiss his boyfriend. “I’ll be okay.” Mark kissed him back, a little longer than was maybe necessary; long enough that neither of them heard the back door open until it was too late.

“Mark, what the fuck are you doing?”

Oh, fuck.

Elijah.

***

By the end of the night, Greyson and Matt were shadows of their former selves.

“Hh-! Hhhuh… hhNGTSHH-ue! HRTSHH! ETSZCH-ue! Fuuuck mbe,” Greyson muttered as he wrenched into the sleeve of his hoodie – chef coats had been abandoned about an hour into service, when both he and Matt started shivering hard enough to fuck up the plating on more than half the dishes – for the millionth time that night. He attempted to clear his throat, prompting a flurry of congested coughs.

Behind him, Matt was sitting on the cold, industrial kitchen ground, head between his knees. “I’mb gonna pass out, I just kndow I am.”

“Don’t fuckigg pass out,” Greyson growled, pulling his sous to his feet. “You ndeed to get your blood mboving, you gotta stand up. Idiot.”

The two of them, bickering and sneezing in near-unison by the pass, had captivated the attention of both front of house managers, who had turned away from their computer work to watch the mess unfold.

“Hope you like what you see,” Elijah said, finally. “Because that’s gonna be you tomorrow.”

Behind his boss’s back, Mark rolled his eyes. “Boss, I’m fine. I don’t feel sick at all, trust me, I’m going to be okay.” It was mostly true; he’d sneezed a few more times today than was normal for him, yes. And he was a little tired – no more than usual, surely. The rawness in the back of his throat was easily ignored with huge gulps of water. He was fine.

“Mmm,” Elijah said, swinging his chair around to look the younger man in the eye, “sure. Whatever you say, Mark; just remember, if you look even close to how bad Matt does tonight, you’re off the floor. And I mean off the floor until you return to normal. A cold is one thing; whatever these two have is entirely another. Understood?”

Mark swallowed around his burgeoning sore throat; off the floor. Off the floor didn’t mean relegated to busywork behind the scenes; it meant sent home. Being sent home meant days without a backup manager to help Elijah on the floor, and no one to help on the floor meant Elijah would realize there was a gap in their team. A gap in management. Mark had been the only floor manager in all the years Elliot’s had been open; Elijah had mentioned a few times that maybe they should hire another person, someone to cover if both Mark and Elijah couldn’t come in, but Mark had been vehemently against it. Elijah couldn’t hire another manager, because if he did, he’d see how truly unqualified Mark had been for his position all this time. Once he saw how unqualified he was, he’d be out on his ass. No job, no money… no second family. No place he truly belonged.

Mark’s face flushed, and he cast his eyes towards the floor. “Yes, boss,” he said. “I understand.”

“Good,” Elijah said, nodding. “Now, go collect your boyfriend and take him to bed.”

***

The first time Mark was sick while working at Elliot’s was well over a year into his tenure.

Elijah had regarded Mark with concern, clocking him as unwell the second he sat in the office. “You don’t look well,” he said. “Are you feeling okay?”

Mark’s face had flushed, embarrassed; not getting sick for over a year working front of house was honestly a feat of accomplishment in the restaurant industry, but he still felt guilty for coming down with something, despite its inevitability. He shrugged, an attempt at playing it cool.

“I’mb okay, boss,” Mark croaked. “Just a cold.”

Elijah nodded slowly. “Are you sure it’s just a cold? You feel okay to work?”

Mark raised an eyebrow, confused. Did he look that unwell? “I mbean… yeah?” he said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Why?”

“Well,” Elijah said, opening a drawer and pulling out cold medicine, along with a small bag that looked like it could’ve come from his mother’s medicine cabinet. “A cold, we can work with.”

The GM explained to him, then, that there were marked differences between the front of house cold, and the back of house cold. “You’ve seen Greyson sick at work a dozen times,” Elijah said, passing Mark a cup full of pills and a water bottle. “Right?”

“Sure,” Mark said, swallowing the pills around a painfully sore throat. “It’s ndot like he’s hiding it.”

“Right. Right,” Elijah said, popping open a stick that looked like – was that concealer? “The chefs, the cooks – they don’t have to hide anything. Us, though? No one wants to be served soup by someone with a stuffy nose. We all get the same shit, but only they’re allowed to look like shit.” He dabbed the concealer under Mark’s eyes, used an expert finger to blend it into his skin. “That’s the industry for you.”

“Are you… putting makeup on mbe?” Mark asked, laughing a bit.

“Sure am,” Elijah said. “A little concealer goes a long way in this profession, Mark. Concealer, and enough meds to tranquilize an elephant.” His boss closed the little concealer pen, put the medicine and makeup away. “I want you on the floor, but I want you to look… alive.” Elijah shut the drawer, shrugged. “Let me know if you start feeling really shitty. Otherwise? Come to the back to blow your nose, and feel free to help yourself to whatever you want in here.”

Mark blinked, a little confused, but grateful for the advice. Elijah seemed… almost fatherly, like this, and he could feel embarrassing tears welling in his eyes at this, the smallest gesture of being cared for. Mark looked down, cleared his throat. “Uh… okay, boss. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Elijah said, patting Mark’s knee. “We’ve gotta take care of each other in this hell hole of an industry, y’know?”

Mark couldn’t look up. The thought of his boss seeing him cry was entirely too much for him to handle. “Right,” he whispered. “Right.”

***

The hardest part of hiding an illness, Mark knew from experience, was speaking.

Putting on makeup and looking like a human instead of a corpse? Easy. He’d learned how to apply concealer so it didn’t look like he was in drag – just enough that in the dim lighting of the restaurant you couldn’t tell if those were dark circles or shadows. He’d learned if you added a tiny bit of blush to your cheeks, no one noticed that your nose was also red, and he’d figured out the hard way that there was never a world in which he needed eyeliner, even if it made his eyes look less bloodshot.

He always dressed immaculately when he wasn’t feeling well; extra-crisp button down, sport coat, his expensive Ray Ban glasses, not the cheapos from Zenni he usually donned. Mark shined his shoes the second he felt a tickle in his throat, broke out the cuff links if he suddenly sneezed more than thrice in a row. He’d been trained well by Elijah to hide the visual cues of any oncoming malady.

Hiding how he really felt came even more naturally; he’d been practicing that since childhood. Complaining wasn’t in his nature, or had maybe been stamped out entirely at some point – either way, Mark could be actively passing out, unable to breathe, coughing so hard he couldn’t form a sentence, and he wouldn’t even mention it. Of course, he’d been sent home from work for being ill before, but never once had he chosen to go. Even the thought of saying ‘I’m sick’ made him dizzy with unease. You need to work through that in therapy, Matt had said to him multiple times, and he knew it was true, but it was also helpful. In this industry, admitting defeat was akin to admitting you sucked at your job.

The voice, though? That was always what gave him away. No matter how much medicine he took, he could always hear the rasp that overtook his voice immediately. His m’s and n’s turned to rounded shadows of their former selves even if he blew his nose every five minutes. His timbre lowered considerably, to the point that when Matt first saw him sick he asked how it felt to be able to do a perfect Johnny Cash, but only when he felt like shit. It was a problem, but Mark was a pretty quiet guy in general. If he was quieter than usual, usually no one was the wiser.

That’s what he hoped – that his boss would be none the wiser – as he dressed in his perfectly-tailored suit that morning, stifling sneeze after painful sneeze into handfuls of tissue all the while. Just don’t talk, he thought as he dotted Maybeline under his eyes. No one has to know.

Of course, not talking was a bit… difficult when his boss was around. “Good morning,” Elijah called to Mark as he buzzed through the kitchen, trying to make his way into the dining room without having to make small talk. Dammit. Mark stopped, begrudgingly, and nodded at his boss, who raised both eyebrows at the younger manager’s outfit choice. “Is there an event tonight I’ve forgotten?”

Mark shook his head, straightened his tie. “Just felt like dressing up,” he said, tactfully avoiding words with too many nasal letters. “How’re you, boss?”

“I’m well,” Elijah said, pointedly. He patted the empty chair next to him, prompting Mark to sit; don’t let him get a good look at you, a voice in Mark’s head chastised. Don’t get taken off the floor. “Greyson’s not coming in till three, if you want to do your preshift report in here today.”

“That’s okay,” Mark said. “I like the dining roomb.” Fuck.

Elijah cocked his head to the side, but didn’t mention Mark’s voice. “How’s Matt feeling?” he asked, another pointed question.

“He’s okay – a little better. Said he’d be here at four.” Mark patted himself on the back for maneuvering around any pesky m’s or n’s that time. Elijah nodded slowly.

“Glad to hear it,” Elijah said, standing. The younger manager was several inches taller than his boss, but Elijah was still able to look him fairly closely in the eye. Once again, one word rattled around in Mark’s head: fuck. “How are you feeling?”

Mark allowed a smile to form on his rapidly-chapping lips. “Good, boss. Ready to work,” he said simply. God, he needed to clear his throat. And more than that, he really, really needed to blow his nose.

Elijah nodded. “Alright,” he said, apparently placated. “Go ahead, then.”

“Thanks, boss,” Mark said, stepping out of the office doorway and pushing through the swinging kitchen doors before Elijah could say anything else. He’d made it through the first test, somehow. Just in time, too, he thought, making a beeline towards the bathroom. Because I really fucking need to -

“NTSHH!” Mark stifled a near-silent sneeze into his wrist as he yanked open the guest bathroom door. Finally, locked in the bathroom alone, he allowed himself to be as disgusting, as sick as he really was.

“Hhuh -! Hh- ETZSCH-ue! HRRSHH-ue! Huh… hh’RRSHH-ue!” Mark collapsed in on himself, scrambling to collect a handful of tissues so he wouldn’t ruin the sleeve of his suit. He blew his nose as thoroughly as he could – not that it made any difference, he was still stuffed up to the gills. A pathetic little cough escaped his lungs, prompting another tickle in his sinuses. “HUHTTSCHH-ue!”

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chastised himself, blowing his nose again. He’s going to fucking hear you.

He waited a moment or two to see if Elijah would push through the door – he didn’t – before sitting fully clothed on the toilet and pulling out his phone.

11:56AM

Mark

what is this, the fucking plague?

Almost immediately, Matt texted back.

11:57AM Matt

o shit, did we get you already? baby im so sorry. u shouldve told me u weren’t feeling good last night u couldve stayed over

11:57AM Mark

not your fault. and I’m ok, just trying to avoid Elijah, he’s gonna be so pissed.

11:59AM

Matt

omfg he’ll get over it. its not like someone in that restaurant isnt sick every other week

Mark sighed, his lungs crackling at the effort. Matt was right; someone was almost always sick at Elliot’s, that was the way of things in this industry. They all shared drinks, they worked in close quarters, it was bound to happen. This was less about the illness itself – of course he’d been sick at work before, who hadn’t? - and more about the look he knew he’d see on Elijah’s face when he’d finally have to crack. He’d gone directly against his boss’s orders, had put his job and the restaurant second to his baser desires. That’s no way to get ahead in this world, his dad’s voice bellowed from the base of his brain. Mark shuddered; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face Elijah’s look of pure disappointment. He wasn’t sure he had it in him.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, Mark stood and washed his hands. He took an inventory of his face in the mirror – eye bags poorly covered by drugstore makeup, his nose raw and red, his mouth slightly open to allow him to breathe – and realized how truly awful he looked. Was there even a chance that Elijah didn’t know he was sick? Doubtful, his dad’s voice muttered.

You have to just try, another voice in his head pleaded. Just push through, you know how to push through. You’ve done it a million times before. He doesn’t have to know.

That voice, Mark knew, was delusional – a child’s gnawing plea to be accepted, to not get in trouble, to not be thought of as a burden – but he knew that sometimes you had to be delusional, had to listen to the saddest, smallest part of yourself to get through a day. He pulled his phone back out before leaving the bathroom.

12:04PM

Mark

just please don’t say anything to Elijah when you get here, ok? I’m fine, I promise. its honestly probably just in my head, it’s probably nothing so just don’t say anything. see u soon.

Pathetic, his dad’s voice spat, and Mark knew the voice was right. But that was nothing new, nothing to dwell on; he’d always been pathetic. Mark switched off his phone then, not wanting to be comforted by his boyfriend, and stepped onto the floor.

***

“Mark,” Matt said, reaching up to touch the front of house manager’s forehead, “you really need to go.”

Mark pulled away before Matt could touch him, though not by choice. “HRRSHH-uhh! Hh-! HhNTZSHH-ue! Snrrf. Leave mbe alone.”

Matt’s hand recoiled at the ice in his boyfriend’s voice, obviously hurt. Normally, Mark would’ve nearly fallen to his knees at the thought of hurting Matt’s feelings, but today, with the cold from hell progressing quicker than he ever could’ve anticipated, he couldn’t even find it in himself to apologize. Obviously he needed to go, but that would mean admitting to illness; it would mean begin taken off the floor until god-knows-when. It would mean Elijah replacing him.

No. He wasn’t about to go.

“Honey,” Matt said carefully, touching Mark’s hand across the expo board, “I’mb sure Elijah would understand. It’s a slow ndight, he already sent Greyson back home. What are you trying to prove?”

Of course, Matt was right; last night’s crazy shift was in stark contrast to this evening’s steady pace. There were hardly twenty more covers for the evening, and yes, even Greyson had admitted defeat and slunk out right at six p.m., in a fevered haze. The only reason Matt was still here was because his fever had broken this morning and, despite the lingering cough and stuffy nose, he was clearly feeling better. Good enough, even, to have gone behind Mark’s back and talked to Elijah.

“Matt told me,” Elijah had cornered him right before preshift started, in the back server station while everyone else ate family meal. Mark felt his stomach sink. Fucking Matt, he thought, clearing his throat to address his boss in the most normal voice he could muster.

“Told you what?” he asked, straightening his tie. Elijah gave the younger manager a knowing look.

“You don’t look like you feel well, Mark,” he said, obviously trying a different tactic. This time, Mark’s stomach knotted; he felt, for a moment, like a little kid, wanting to fall to the ground in front of his mommy and just allow himself to be comforted. He thought for a fleeting moment of how good it would feel to just admit it; I’m sick, he would say, if he were a normal fucking person, I want to go to bed.

Instead, Mark shook his head. “I don’t kndow what Matt told you, but he doesn’t kndow what he talking about,” he managed, his voice cutting out only once. “I’mb fine.”

Elijah sighed. “Mark, listen, I know I was an asshole yesterday -”

“Boss,” Mark cut Elijah off. “Please. I’mb okay. Just please, let mbe work.”

He’d walked away then, hadn’t let Elijah say whatever it was he wanted to say, and had avoided Matt as well as he could throughout service. Now, mid-shift, when all the cooks and servers were side-eyeing them from he expo board, was not the time to hash this out.

“I’mb ndot trying to prove anything, Matt,” Mark said now, grabbing two plates from the window. “Just stay out of mby business. What table?”

Matt bit his cheek, peaked at the chit. “Please don’t be mbad,” he said, voice quiet. Mark prickled; he couldn’t help it. He was mad. He’d asked one stupid thing of Matt, and now here he was, career in trouble, embarrassed in front of both of their staffs, and once again gearing up for another painful -

“HTTSHH-ue! God, fugck,” Mark swore, ducking expertly away from the plates he was holding. He sucked in through his nose hard enough to make himself dizzy, and looked back at Matt. “What table, Chef?” he asked, pointedly. Matt winced.

“Thirty-three,” he said finally. Mark nodded.

“Great. Thangks.” He turned on his heels and pushed out the kitchen doors.

***

Before it happened, Mark found himself thinking exactly what his boyfriend was moaning the night previous: I’m gonna pass out, I know I am.

The only difference was, Mark was correct.

He’d been feeling shittier and shittier as the night went on. It began with spells of dizziness that came anytime he moved his head too fast, then moved on to an ache in his chest every time he coughed. A cold is one thing, he remembered Elijah saying the night previous. Whatever they have is entirely something else.

Elijah the prophet.

He kept pushing through. Plate after plate came out of the kitchen on his aching arms; he shook drinks while coughing into his shoulder, and sniffled his way through seating guests. Mark could feel Elijah’s eyes on him, though his boss refused to speak to him throughout the shift. I’ll show him, his fever-addled mind kept saying. I can do this. I’m fine.

It wasn’t until the last table had sat that his body well and truly told him he’d had enough. Mark was seeing stars when he grabbed a filet and swordfish, and once again he ignored it. He ignored the room swimming before him as he pushed out of the kitchen. He ignored the sway in his step.

“Shit, Mark!” was the last thing he heard, standing in the middle of the dining room with hot plates in each of his hands. There was no way to tell who said it – Elijah? Matt? – but it didn’t really matter, because before he could respond, his vision became a tiny pinkprick, his knees buckled, and the lights went out.

***

When the world came back into focus, he had somehow teleported into his bed.

At first, Mark tried desperately to get up; he’d fallen in the middle of the restaurant, that he unfortunately remembered immediately. There had been people around, guests watching, and he immediately felt his face flame with embarrassment. Oh, Elijah is going to kill me.

That was when he realized he was no longer in the restaurant. Mark placed a hand over an aching eye; was it all a dream? He looked down – no, it couldn’t be. He was still in his tailored suit, the tie and ciff links missing, but otherwise dressed to the nines.

“Whoa there, kid,” a familiar voice came from the doorway. “Go ahead and lie back down.”

Mark blearily glanced towards the voice. There, just outside his bedroom, stood Elijah, a steaming cup in one hand and a thermometer in the other. Fuck.

“Shit, Elijah, I’mb so sorry I ca – HTSHH-ue! HRRSHH-ue! Fuck, ’scuse mbe,” Mark, any facade of health finally washed away, used his expensive suit jacket to wipe his nose. Elijah glided across the small room and sat on the foot of the bed, handing the younger man the cup. Tea.

“Save your breath,” Elijah said. “You already apologized about a hundred times at the restaurant.”

He had? Mark gave Elijah a confused look, and sat back on the pillows behind him. He hadn’t even realized he’d come to at the restaurant at all.

“Mmhmm,” Elijah said, nodding. “To me. To Matt. To the guests. To the EMTs. I would think you’d be apologized out.”

EMTs? Mark cringed; as if he hadn’t been embarrassed enough. He wanted to ask, but at the same time he figured it was probably better that he didn’t remember. Small mercies, he thought.

“Lij,” Mark croaked, taking a sip of the tea, “I really amb… sorry. I mbean, I can’t imagine how mbuch I embarrassed you. Thangk you for bringing mbe home… I understand if you can’t…let mbe, uh. Work there. Anymore.”

Mark, destroyed by fever, and aches, and what was probably some sort of bronchitis-sinus-infection super-fucking-hybrid, couldn’t help but let the angry, ashamed tears fall as he said it. Matt wasn’t here, which most likely meant he was out both a boyfriend and a job. You fucking idiot. You stupid, fucking idiot, how dumb could you -

Elijah broke through the screaming in his head – he took Mark’s arms in his hands, placed his cup on the side table, and pulled him in for a hug. “Mark,” his boss said, “you really had us worried.” He pulled the younger manager back, concern painted on his face. “Of course you aren’t fired, I don’t know why you’d think that of me,” he said, a moment so raw that Mark felt like he’d been sucker-punched. “You should’ve just told me you were so sick. So you could go and rest. I would’ve even let Matt go with you.” Elijah patted his knee then, and handed Mark back the mug. “It’s just a restaurant, Mark. You’re more important than service.”

Mark felt his eyes well up once again. Had anyone ever told him he was worth more than the work he did? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure, and that felt like an even harder gut-punch.

“I just…” he managed, wiping beneath his eyes. “I just didn’t wandt you to replace mbe. I’mb sorry for letting Mbatt get mbe sick.”

At this, Elijah actually laughed. “Mark,” he said, “you’re young. You’re in love; it comes with the territory. I was annoyed because Greyson and Matt are constantly getting everyone in that restaurant sick. I wasn’t trying to attack you.” He smiled then, a small and slightly sad smile. “I’m sorry if that’s how to came off.”

Mark didn’t know what to say; he felt awful, like he’d been hit by a semi, and he just wanted to sleep. See Matt. Apologize for being a dick. And sleep.

“Is Mbatt mad at mbe?” he croaked, pulling his legs into his chest. This time, Elijah actually laughed.

“I don’t think Matt knows how to be mad at you,” he said. “He’s just closing up the line; he was actually the one who brought you back here, but you were racked out so I said I’d come keep an eye on you till he got back.” Elijah shrugged, gave a little knowing smile. “He’ll be back soon. Okay? We don’t have to talk any more about this now. Just… try to sleep.” He patted Mark’s shoulder; a fatherly gesture from a man who claimed to know nothing about being a parent. “I’ll call Matt.”

Finally, finally, Mark conceded. He wanted to thank Elijah, or maybe apologize again, but he couldn’t make his mouth form words. Instead, he just nodded, grateful, and sank back into his pillow. He felt his eyes close, and allowed himself, for once, to let someone else take care of him.

He knew, maybe for the first time in his life, that he was safe.

[snzcold]

Someone with a cold so bad that each time they have a sneezing fit, they always end it with a groan. Bonus if they are being taken care of someone, they keep complaining about how they feel so awful and wished the sneezing would stop.

"Hh-Ik'shiew! Hah- HECHOO! Ugh.. Sdfft. Dabbit, I caddot breah- H'IKSHEW! Hdn, Ugh Please.. Bage it stob" Their partner could only look at their poor companion's state and help them wipe the mess on their partner's nose witha tissue. "You sound congested. You should blow" The partner suggested.

"Ugghd, Id's do use. Id would juh- Hahh-H'EKSHOO! Ih-ITCHHEW! Sdffrk, bage by dose idtchier. Ugh" They groaned as they savour what was last of the tissue they kept sneezing on. The day went by with them sneezing and complaining all day with their partner just listening and taking care of them.

[aller-geez]

Flight 676 To Anchorage

Written & Illustrated By: allergeez ✨

Just shy of 6.5k words, and more snz than my typical fics cause this one is definitely self indulgent ~

After a month of working on this fic despite my crippling depression and self hatred, it’s gotta be one of my favorites I’ve written✨

Mentions public contagion, but honestly it’s just a bunch of Remi suffering 😏

And as always, Levi belongs to the lovely @thekinkyleopard 🌱

The airport was a bustling maze of noise and movement, with people rushing in every direction. Despite the chaotic atmosphere, Levi's face still held his trademark cheerful smile as he strolled hand in hand with his mate through the throngs of travelers. However, today there seemed to be a weariness in his step, slowing their progress through the sea of bodies. Remi's features were set in their usual scowl, his sharp green eyes scanning each passing person with suspicion, ready to push them aside if necessary. A messenger bag adorned one of the leopard's thin shoulders, containing their boarding passes, an extra jacket, and the book he was currently engrossed in for the flight. Remi's dingy backpack hung carelessly from his back, weighed down with their belongings for the trip ahead.

Almost silently, the wolf muffled a small, dry cough into his shoulder. “14B is our gate, yeah?” His deep voice pierced the silence between the two, and Levi’s bright eyes flew back to meet his mate’s.

He nodded, his smile faltering as he took in Remi's anxious demeanor. "Yeah, that's our gate." He squeezed his mate's hand reassuringly, silently hoping that the flight would be a smooth and uneventful one.

They weaved their way through the crowds until they reached their designated gate, finding two empty seats nearby. Levi gestured for Remi to take a seat before settling down next to him. The leopard let out a small sigh of relief as he sank into the cushioned seat, grateful for the brief moment of rest.

With a small yawn, the leopard fished through his bag to pull out their boarding passes, and handed one to his mate. Remi took the boarding pass from his mate's outstretched hand and glanced at it, then up at the departure screens above them, which flickered with information about their flight: "Flight 676 to Anchorage," he read out loud, tucking the pass into the inside pocket of his coat for safekeeping.

"Boarding starts in 20 minutes, love." The leopard gave Remi's hand a reassuring squeeze. Despite being awake almost all night packing both his own luggage AND Remi’s, then quadruple checking that they had everything possible together for their journey the following day, Levi was thankfully more cognizant than his mate and was able to keep up with more than one direction at a time.

The wolf looked away, his emerald eyes darting around the busy waiting area with renewed vigilance. It was hard for him to hide the fact that he wasn't feeling well; he felt feverish and nauseous from the car ride over here, and he was just barely able to hide the rounding of his consonants that came from the ever growing congestion behind his eyes. The press of bodies against him didn't help either; behind the wet cement block within his sinuses he could smell sweat and perfume mixing into a cloying cocktail of odors that made it hard for him to breathe comfortably.

Remi sighed through gritted teeth as he leaned back into his stiff chair and closed his eyes for a moment. His ears subconsciously twitched at the low rumble of the crowd, filtering out snippets of conversation: someone arguing about lost luggage...a baby crying in the distance...the scent of overcooked pretzels wafting from a nearby snack bar...

When did airports get so loud? And crowded? The wolf’s head spun as he sat in the leathery airport seat, a stubborn tickle gnawing at him and trying to get him to blow his cover in front of his mate. He had managed to smother a few sneezes into the plush collar of his sweatshirt earlier that morning when Levi was out of earshot but blowing now would definitely raise even the most sleep deprived leopard’s suspicions.

Silently he scrunched his nose back and forth before attempting a soft sniffle, although he quickly had to abort at the sheer waterlogged sound he produced.

With a determined glare, the wolf sat up straight in his seat and managed to knuckle at his overly sensitive nose before clearing his throat.

“I gotta pee, I’ll be right back in two seconds.” He tossed offhandedly to the other who sat tentatively, his blue eyes still locked on the many screens above to ensure they were in fact at the right gate. His expression twisted in surprise, then flickered to more concern.

“A-Are you sure, Rem? Okay but please hurry back we can’t miss the flight!” Levi called back anxiously but by then Remi was already weaving through the sea of people, in a B- Line for the nearest restroom, his nostrils flaring helplessly as he held his breath. Thankfully, the bathroom was right around the corner from their gate and as always, the men’s room had no line, allowing him to quickly slip into an open stall and nearly slam the door behind him, snatching a fistful of the single ply toilet paper from the roll before crushing it to his face as he pitched forward forcefully.

“hdt’ishhhh! Hhh—! Hihh’ISSHh! ihH’ktdSHhh!!! iH’tSSH! H— hhHiHhh! hhEhh-! HhEHh’iiTShh’iiEW!” His large frame was wracked with a fit of violent sneezes, leaving the wad of toilet paper in his hands a sopping mess.

Remi's body tensed as he braced himself against the stall wall, the force of his sneezes surprising even him. He had managed to keep them at bay for most of the morning, but now they were coming in rapid succession, each one stronger than the last.

Tears streamed from his emerald eyes as he gave a cautious inhale, then a slow exhale, and he tossed the sodden ball of paper into the open toilet.

“Bless you!” Called a stranger’s voice from another stall.

“Nnnngh—“ Remi grumbled low in his chest in acknowledgment as he unrolled more of the toilet paper on the wall and blew his nose with a soupy gurgle. With a grimace of disgust, he managed to clean himself up and toss the wad into the toilet with the other.

“Fuck me, I always feel like shit every god damn time we have to do ANYTHING.” The raven haired male growled loudly again, this time more to himself, and forcefully kicked the plexiglass walls of the stall he stood in, the sharp bang echoing loudly throughout the bathroom. Suddenly, the entire bathroom fell silent.

Frustrated and feverish, Remi finally exited the stall to an empty bathroom and stopped at the sinks to give himself a once over. He couldn’t look too much like walking death if he wanted to pass off as healthy to his ever inquisitive mate.

The wolf’s slightly dimmed green eyes scanned his reflection in the mirror, taking note of the deep purple circles under his eyes and the very subtle bulges of redness across his cheeks from how swollen his sinuses had started to become, as well as the slightly pink hue his nose had taken on.

The wolf took a second to turn on the water at the sink and splash some cool water across his face, using the bottom side of his shirt to dry himself afterward, finally taking a determined breath. “Let’s get this show on the road I guess…” he breathed before turning on his heels and making his way slowly from the quiet bathroom back out to the overwhelming mass of people. He swiftly wove through the other travelers until making it back to their gate, and Levi’s worried expression melted into happiness as soon as Remi’s face came into his line of sight.

“Perfect, you’re back! I think they’re just about to—“

Cutting the feline off, a voice came over the intercom, announcing boarding for their flight and Levi couldn’t help but giggle. “Perfect timing~”

Remi adjusted his backpack on his back before stretching his arms above his head with a loud yawn while he subconsciously gave his nose a good rub, a feeble attempt at looking “relaxed”.

With a knowing chuckle and a shake of his head, Levi followed suit and they made their way towards the line forming at the gate.

As they boarded the plane and found their seats, Remi couldn't help but feel a sense of anxiety creeping up on him. He had never been a fan of flying and always felt restless on long flights. But somehow he just had a feeling that this one would be even worse than usual.

As they approached the seats labeled clearly on thier boarding pass, Remi gestured to the leopard to slide in first to the window seat. He hated being able to see outside anyway; plus, this way he could avoid anyone trying to be overly friendly with his mate. He didn’t want to have to cause a scene. Levi tossed the wolf a grateful, tired smile and slid in to the seat closest to the window, his messenger bag clutched tightly in his hand.

Remi took an extra second before taking his seat while Levi was distracted to scrub his red rimmed nostrils within an inch of their life, you know, for good measure.

He could feel that stubborn tickle start to dislodge itself from his sinus cavity and he only had a few more moments before he’d be forced to just grin and bear it while in flight.

Suddenly, a strange man brushed against one of Remi’s broad shoulders before a friendly voice brought Remi back to reality.

“Excuse me sir,” Dressed in a crisp, white button-up shirt and expensive-looking brown slacks, the voice had come from a man that exuded an air of importance that was simply lost on Remington. As he blinked his dulled green eyes, trying to shake off his daze, the man asked politely, "Sorry, sir, are you sitting here?" The contrast between their appearances was stark - the man's pristine attire against Remington's rumpled clothes and unkempt hair.

Hearing the conversation, Levi grabbed his mate’s wrist and gave him a gentle tug. “Yes I’m sorry, sir, He was just sitting down, weren’t you Acushla?”

Levi’s face displayed a sheepish smile towards the man before he glared at Remi who raised his hands in front of him in defense as he sat in the middle seat next to the leopard.

“Uh, yeah.” The wolf cleared his throat, and nodded towards the man as he took off his backpack and sat it on the floor in front of him.

“No problem at all.” The man graciously smiled and waited a moment before scooting into his own seat on the aisle.

Levi already began to pull out his extra blanket and pillow, slipping a pastel blue hoodie over his head while he got as comfortable as he could against the metal window. He had his book in his hand, but Remi could instantly tell that he wouldn’t be reading much, taking into account how exhausted he was.

Shortly, the wolf tried to stay incredibly still as the strange man got into his seat. He had been interrupted while he was trying to rid himself of the tickle that now licked up the tip of his nose before burning like wildfire up through his entire sinus cavity.

Remi could barely hold back a small whimper than was almost inaudible within the seat of voices around them, crushing his index knuckle to his septum in hopes to smother the sneezes instead, and he held his breath with his eyes squeezed shut……

One…..two……three….

Then, suddenly as if a dam had given way, the tickle bloomed within the tip of his nose and he was no match for its intensity. Remi sucked in a deep, involuntary gasp before pitching forward, his face deeply buried within the fabric of his sweater collar.

“Huh'GDTS'ue! Hnkt'KNXTuhh! Hh’NDKT’ih!” Three deep, nearly stifled sneezes were extremely muffled into his sweater, although the stranger who took his seat directly next to the raven haired man offered a wary smile. “Bless you!” He nodded his understanding towards Remi, who by now wanted to shrink into his stiff airplane seat, although the wolf ignored him as he glanced over at his mate who studied him with one eye open for a second, then both of them.

“Bless you, Acushla, are you okay?” The leopard asked with concern, although it was quite obvious the exhaustion from the morning was weighing on the feline as he stretched out a hand to gently rub the back of his fingers against his mate’s cheek. Remi couldn’t have been more red, both from embarrassment and the fever he was sure he was running.

Remington shook his head to dismiss the leopard’s worry and his touch, although he wanted nothing more than to melt into the felines gentle hands, he was determined not to slow down the plans this time. No matter how much his brain throbbed with every breath he took, or how much his head felt airy— yet packed tightly with wet cement at the same time.

“I’m fine, it’s just the temperature difference from these ACs or something.” Remington reassured his mate with a gentle smirk before he reached up towards the small spout in the ceiling that was blasting him with cold air and turned it off.

To an exhausted Levi, this sounded like a plausible explanation. Remi’s nose was sensitive; he was a wolf after all… and sometimes he would just get set off by things— it wasn’t like that was out of the ordinary…

The leopard yawned quietly with a nod, readjusting his pillow against the window and closing his eyes. “Okay my love.” The smaller male murmured as he relaxed into his seat.

The wolf’s anxious eyes darted around the cabin as Levi began to doze off, and he quietly sniffled into the hem of his coat. Remington couldn't help but study him with a mix of love but also an underlying anxiety —the way his eyelashes fluttered against his freckled cheeks were just too adorable.

Even now, with the plane lights dim, and the constant low drone of the chatter throughout the cabin of the plane, Remi covertly knuckled at his nose, a bead of moisture gleaming in the scarce light, earning him a quick uneasy glance from the stranger next to him as he shuffled through his own carry-on bag.

Suddenly cutting through the white noise of the cabin, a gentle chime echoed through the plane’s intercom, followed by a gentle, velvety soft voice of what the wolf could assume was the pilot.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking. Welcome to flight 676 to Anchorage, Alaska. Your flight today is looking to take around 9 and a half hours, and we’re not expected to have any delays or run into any turbulence.” The pilot explained slowly as the flight attendants began to walk up and down the aisles.

Without missing a beat, the emergency escape plan as well as the normal explanation and demonstration of the overhead oxygen masks in case of cabin depressurization was recited, followed by the bell of the Fasten Seatbelt sign becoming illuminated above everyone’s head.

Remi couldn’t help but look around anxiously, tossing a worried glance to his mate who was already sleeping peacefully while the hustle and bustle of the plane continued on around them, unaccustomed to handling the initial take off of the plane by himself. But with a determined grit of his teeth, he prepared himself none-the-less.

The plane rumbled and shook as it began its ascent, its powerful engines straining against gravity to haul the heavy metal bird into the sky. Brushing his long bangs from his forehead with a tense sigh, the raven haired man stared out of the small window from the corner of his eye, watching the world below turn into a colorful blur of tiny lights and shapes that were quickly turning into stars. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat while his long fingers twitched at his side. He wondered whether he should just ask for a drink to calm himself down, despite the fact that the plane had just left the ground moments earlier, but decided against it as the plane continued to climb into the sky.

The air at higher elevation was so dry and stale that it was scraping across his tongue like sandpaper, making him want to lick his lips over and over again, but he knew better than that. Better not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary… Although, he definitely felt his nostrils twitching; as if with a mind of their own. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the tickle that was beginning to dance deep around his sensitive sinuses. This only seemed to aggravate the blooming sensation, and he attempted to stifle it with a fist but failed miserably, sending a loud "heh’iTTSHH’iEW! ihh- ih’TTSSHH!" rippling through the otherwise quiet cabin.

Immediately, all eyes turned towards him - including those of the man sitting next to him who was now visibly uncomfortable with the unexpected noise and possibly contagious wolf. The stranger quickly moved away from him, trying to create as much distance as possible between them while pretending to be engrossed in his book.

The wolf held his breath while his fever flushed cheeks seemed to beam a darker shade of vermillion. Despite the entire cabin seemingly focused on him, Remi’s entire focus was on Levi, although to the downtrodden man’s good luck, the leopard didn’t even seem to stir in the slightest.

He desperately tried to hold back his breath, afraid of what would happen if he let it out. But as his lungs burned and his throat tightened, he knew he couldn't hold it any longer. He released a shaky exhale, only to be met with a harsh cough that rattled through his congested chest. He was torn between relief at being able to breathe and fear of the consequences of his actions.

He did his best to stifle the next few coughs into his sleeve, though they still echoed through the quiet cabin. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

The man next to him, who had recoiled when the canine first started coughing, now leaned over with concern in his eyes. "Hey buddy, you doing alright?" he asked kindly. Remi nodded, bristling slightly at the question, not meeting the man's gaze.

"Sorry," He mumbled, his voice raspy and slightly deeper than usual. "M’ fine, just allergies," the wolf replied tersely, turning his attention back out the window.

The man didn't look convinced. "That cough doesn't sound too good. Here, take some of these," he said, offering Remi a packet of cough drops from his bag.

Remi hesitated before accepting them with a quiet "thank you." He hoped taking the cough drops would show the man he was okay and get him to stop pressing the issue. Fuck, he hated people. Especially people who stuck their nose in his business….

Unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth, the menthol provided instant but temporary relief to his irritated throat. He knew the cough suppressant would only mask his symptoms, not cure the cold that was quickly progressing, but maybe it would get him through the remaining hours of their flight.

Within seconds, however, the wolf could feel another round of wet, chesty coughs rising up from his lungs. He tried to suppress them but it was useless, as always. He doubled over as a string of harsh coughs wracked his body, spraying fine droplets of contagious germs into the recirculated air.

The man next to him who just seconds earlier seemed sympathetic to the raven haired man’s situation, now recoiled in disgust, grabbing a napkin to shield his face. Other passengers nearby shot Remi angry glares, and a flight attendant hurried over with concern and offered the wolf a plastic cup full of water, which he eventually accepted hesitantly. Tossing another anxious glance at his mate curled up against the window, his cheeks almost couldn’t get any more red. Thankfully, the leopard still slept like a rock.

“Sorry," Remi croaked miserably, his usual deep, almost booming voice barely a whisper. He wanted to disappear, honestly. But as his embarrassment grew, so did his increasing frustration, causing his left eye to twitch every time a new pair of eyes bore into him.

As the flight attendant finally made her way back to her seat, he tried to sink back as far as possible into his own chair. His throat burned fiercely and his chest felt heavy. The wolf's ears were starting to plug up and he could feel pressure building in his sinus cavities. His whole body ached with feverish chills. He just wanted to curl up somewhere dark and sleep for days.

“Uh,” Remi snorted back the congestion miserably, dragging one of his wrists under his streaming nose, a glimmering trail of moisture deposited on his clammy skin. “I deed to get through…” he stated to the man next to him simply, pressing a wrist to his septum as the ever-present irritation blooming in the recesses of his nose made itself known again.

The man groaned, irritated that he had to set down the SkyMall magazine he was leaving through, but still rose to his feet and slid out of way to stand in the aisle, obviously recoiling as the wolf slipped by him.

Remi made his way down the aisle towards the bathroom at the back of the plane, stifling a few raspy coughs into his sleeve as he went. He could feel thick congestion building in his sinuses, packing tightly behind his eyes and making his head pound. As he reached the bathroom, he let out an explosive fit of ticklish sneezes that he barely had time to aim at his elbow.

"hh’IISHH! —hd’ISCHhhh!! —hhh’dtTISHhh! —hdt’ISHHhh! Ugh..." Remi groaned, quickly letting himself into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He leaned heavily on the sink, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he fished in the inside pocket of his coat for a travel pack of tissues he had conveniently stashed there earlier that morning. He blew his nose forcefully several times, filling up each consecutive handful of tissues instantly. Crumpling them in his fist, he tossed them in the trash can with a miserable, unproductive sniffle.

Despite blowing his nose, Remi could still feel pressure building inside his sinuses. He snorted again thickly, tasting the unpleasant discharge in the back of his throat. His ears felt clogged and he worked his jaw, trying to get them to pop, but to his dismay, it was seemingly impossible.

After washing his hands, the wolf wet a paper towel and held it to his flushed face, hoping the coolness would provide some relief. But his head continued to pound and his nose tickled maddeningly.

“God, fuck ME.” the frustrated man growled, finally managing to make eye contact with himself in the mirror; but even he couldn’t help but grimace from the image he was faced with.

The usual blindingly bright gleam from his emerald eyes was considerably dimmer, and the purple bags under his eyes now looked like trenches that bordered his flushed, swollen cheeks, and bright red nose. His forehead was littered with beads of sweat, and his normally tanned skin had become uncharistically pale.

“Geezus fuck, Remington, you’re lookin’ mad rough, bud.” The wolf snarled under his breath to himself in disgust, shaking his head as he stood up straight.

He couldn’t believe how terrible he looked and felt. This cold or whatever it was, was really taking a toll on him.

But he had to keep pushing through. The two men FINALLY had the money together that they needed to buy some land; something him and Levi had been talking about since they first met. He couldn’t let something so stupid, like another illness, slow them down this time.

With a defeated sigh, Remi splashed water on his face and took a deep breath before unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out.

He nearly collided with the flight attendant who was just about to knock on the door. “M’bad.” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with one hand as he stumbled past her towards his seat. She gave him a concerned look but said nothing, moving on down the aisle to check on other passengers.

Noticing Remi standing in the aisle next to him, waiting to slip back into his own seat, the once concerned, kind business man rolled his eyes, once again closing his magazine before rising to his feet and making enough room for the raven haired man to shimmy by him.

The wolf let out a groan as soon as he sat down, trying not to think about how much longer this flight still had left. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, hoping for some relief from the pounding headache and congested sinuses. But no matter how much he tried to relax, the pressure in his nose and behind his eyes only seemed to intensify.

After only a few moments, the wolf groaned softly as he felt another fit of sneezes building in the back of his nose. Just as his jaw fell slack and his long eyelashes fanned his cheeks, the wolf cupped his hands over his face just in time as the forceful explosions burst out of him.

"iit’shHiEW! hh'IETSH’UE! heh’iTTSHH’iEW! ITSCCCHH’ah!! Hih—! Hd'TISHHHh!"

The poor wolf shuddered with each messy sneeze, helplessly spraying his hands with germ laden saliva. The loud sneezes echoed through the quiet cabin, causing several nearby passengers to turn and stare at the miserable canine. He sniffled thickly as he grabbed tissues from his pocket to blow his sore, irritated nose. At this point, he was actually surprised that all of his loud outbursts hadn’t woken his mate even once, although he couldn’t say he wasn’t thankful.

Remi blew his nose wetly, filling the tissue in an instant. He leaned back and sighed, tugging his hood up in an attempt to hide his face.

The man seated next to Remi shook his head in disapproval. He had been growing increasingly annoyed with the ailing canine's noisy sneezing and coughing throughout the short time that the plane had been in the air. As the raven haired male blew his poor, raw nose yet again and crossed his arms over the fold-out tray in front of him, burying his face in the fabric of his coat sleeves, the man finally had enough.

"Excuse me," he called out to a passing flight attendant. "Could I possibly switch seats? The person next to me seems quite ill." He grimaced in disgust as he gestured towards Remi’s crumpled form.

The flight attendant gave a sympathetic nod and began scanning the cabin for an open seat to relocate the disgruntled passenger. "I'll see what I can do, sir," she replied.

"Thank you," he said with relief in his voice, before glaring in Remi’s direction.

The flight attendant soon returned with a new seat assignment for the man, and he quickly gathered up his belongings and moved away from the ailing wolf. Remi didn't even seem to notice, as he was too preoccupied with his miserable state, although after a few moments when he finally lifted his head from his arms to desperately scrub at his streaming nose, he couldn’t help but feel relieved to have the space.

As the plane continued on its journey, Remi's condition only seemed to worsen. His sneezes became more frequent and forceful, and his coughs grew deeper and more persistent. He desperately tried to muffle them with tissues or by coughing into his elbow, but it was no use. The other passengers were starting to shoot him dirty looks, clearly annoyed by his constant noise.

But the wolf couldn't help it. He was feeling absolutely dreadful. His head was throbbing, his throat was raw and scratchy, and his whole body felt achy and exhausted. He tried to close his eyes and sleep off the illness for the rest of the flight, but every time he started to doze off, a desperate sneeze or cough would jolt him awake again.

Eventually against his better judgment, when the same flight attendant came around with her cart full of refreshments, he ordered a small mug of hot tea. If Levi had been awake to see the uncharacteristic events unfold, he would never let the stubborn wolf live it down.

The warmth seemed to provide some relief for a few moments before another fit of sneezes tore thorough his raw throat, hitting him hard.

"Hihh’ISSHh! ihH’ktdSHhh!!! iH’tSSH! " The wolf groaned pitifully through each loud sneeze as he blew through yet another tissue.

The passengers around him were growing increasingly agitated at this point, but Remi couldn't bring himself to care. He just wanted this flight to be over so he could go home and crawl into bed.

Remington sighed and slumped back in his seat, completely exhausted. He had used up the last of his tissues and was now resigned to just letting his nose run freely. The wolf glanced over at Levi, still sound asleep despite all of Remi's explosive sneezes.

A fit of harsh coughs suddenly seized Remi's chest. He tried to suppress them but it was no use, a harsh barking cough burst from his lips followed by another and another. He leaned forward, shoulders shaking, as he hacked painfully into his elbow. The wolf curled forward, one hand over his mouth while the other grasped the armrest tightly. The spasm left him gasping for breath, ribs aching. Remi groaned, wiping his watering eyes with the back of his hand before sighing and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. The pounding in his head was relentless and he could feel another round of coughs building in his chest.

The man in the seat across the aisle shot him an irritated glare which the wolf didn't see. He was too focused on trying to catch his breath between coughs.

Finally, the fit eased up, though it left the poor man’s throat feeling like he'd swallowed broken glass. He slumped back in his seat completely spent, wanting nothing more than to be home; not running around the entire state of rural Alaska looking at land to purchase.

Just then, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom announcing their initial descent. They'd be landing soon.

Remington scrubbed a hand over his face for the millionth time.

‘Almost there,’ he told himself, ‘just a little longer…...’

Beside him, Levi finally stirred, blinking sleepily as he woke, looking around the cabin as if he was trying to figure out where he was. The feline rubbed his tired, icy blue eyes, sitting up as a small yawn escaped his lips, stretching his thin arms over his head.

Taken off guard by the sudden movement from his mate, Remi held his breath, sitting completely still in his seat.

In hindsight, he should have had a better cover planned. The smaller male wasn’t a T-Rex; it’s not like the wolf’s immobilization and silence would make him disappear from Levi’s curious gaze.

"Morning, Acushla, you alright?" Levi asked with a soft tilt of his head, frowning with concern at the sight of his mate. Remington looked absolutely miserable; there was no hiding his exhaustion-laced features or the hue of his cheeks and nostrils.

Still, Remi tried to keep up his badly damaged facade.

The wolf nodded, trying to force one of his trademark smirks but wincing as a string of harsh coughs escaped him, sending another wave of pain through his aching body. He squinted his eyes shut as the sound echoed around the cabin, making the other passengers jump and scowl in his direction in annoyance for the millionth time that day. Quickly glancing around sheepishly, he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment at his lack of control.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, coughing again, albeit quietly this time, into his fist. "Just allergies or something," he added weakly.

The wolf couldn't imagine how he was going to convince Levi of that when he looked - and sounded - so damn sick. But he had to try.

The feline made a skeptical face, rolling his eyes at his mate’s attempt at deception, but he knew better than to challenge the other’s explanation with so many people around. Offhandedly, the leopard took note of the empty aisle seat next to canine that once had a heavier set businessman sitting in it at the beginning of their flight.

While he didn’t verbally acknowledge it, Levi could easily assume the events that unfolded during his nap.

"We're almost there," Levi said gently, reaching over to ruffle Remi's hair that was clearly drenched in sweat with a reassuring smile spreading over his own tired features. "The hotel I got for us isn’t too far from the Anchorage Airport, anyway. We can spend a few days there before we meet with the realtor~"

The wolf seemed too tired to protest or even do much more than acknowledge Levi's touch, his head lolling against the headrest as the leopard’s fingers carded through the thick, raven colored strands.

As they touched down on the tarmac and the aircraft finally rumbled to a stop, they heard the hydraulic brakes hiss and saw the flashing lights reflecting off of their snow covered surroundings, blinking in sync with their tired hearts. With a deep inhale, Remi forced himself to stand up stiffly, grabbing their bags from the overhead bin while Levi stuffed their various belongings that were strewn about between the seats into his messenger bag. The feline meticulously combed through the space, determined to leave with everything they had brought with them, and once he was satisfied that everything was safely put away, the leopard stood up with a cheerful grin and squeezed past the wolf’s large frame to lead the two off of the plane.

Remi felt like he was wading through mud as he made his way down the aisle, trying to match Levi's quick, excited strides. He couldn't help but think the cool air outside would feel glorious against his flushed skin.

Passengers around them shifted and grunted irritably, avoiding eye contact with the visibly sick canine and the leopard who seemed to be inexplicably oblivious to their plight. Some even went as far as pulling their jackets closer around themselves, noses wrinkled in disgust at the readily apparent sickness that clung to Remington like a second skin.

The buzz of the engines faded into silence under the mix of voices of passengers throughout the cabin, bathing them in relative quiet for a moment before the hiss of the exit door opening filled their ears. Levi took lead, shoulders back and head held high, seemingly oblivious to the dirty looks he received for walking alongside his obviously contagious mate. The whiff of engine fumes mixed with with pine trees and sea salt assailed their senses as they pushed through the crowd, waiting for their chance to disembark.

As they approach the exit of the plane, the two men are gently stopped by the same tired looking flight attendant.

"Here, put this on," the attendant offered kindly, yet firmly as she held out a surgical mask to the wolf, who took it wordlessly, too exhausted to protest, and strapped it over his nose and mouth.

His mate’s silent compliance causes Levi to blink in surprise, although he still kept his thoughts to himself. There was always a time and a place with Remington.

“Thank you, Miss.” The leopard smiled gratefully towards her and she nods with a sympathetic expression before allowing the two to exit.

After what seemed like an eternity to Remi, they were finally able to make their way off of the plane, and they stepped down onto the gangway, the wolf’s heavy feet clanking softly against the metal grating. The sound was muffled by the thick rubber soles of his boots as he stumbled down the portable hallway behind Levi in sort of a fog, feeling every ache and pain in his bones from the long, miserable flight.

As they navigate through the bustling terminal and towards the baggage claim, without warning, Remi's steps start to slow down and he began to lag behind slightly.

Suddenly, a harsh “HI’DTSCHIEW! hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih!” echoed through the massive airport from behind the feline, startling him.

Levi spun around to see his mate’s hand covering his face, and an unproductive, waterlogged sniffle made the leopard‘s eyebrows knit together immediately, his expression filled with worry.

The smaller man hesitated before placing a hand on Remi's forehead with a frown. “Bless you, my love…” Levi whispered gently, his eyebrows furrowing more intensely. After a moment, he tried again.

“You’re sure you’re feeling okay, Acushla? I heard you sneeze a few times on the plane, too…”

Remi feels like he’s burning up, his skin hot to the touch. Pulling down his mask to expose his face, the wolf gives his mate a weak smile, trying to reassure him.

“—I’b fide, just wadt to get goigg…”