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duffel bag, packed light (yves/vincent AU fic)
Hello! Happy (definitely-not-late) Valentines day. <3 I hesitated on posting this because it's a little disjointed, but I think I need to kick it out of my drafts (go! leave!) before it gets stuck in there forever.
My kind anonymous prompter dropped some of the most fire prompts known to mankind in their submission đđ These are the two which I went with:
Write an AU oneshot that is completely different from the current Yvescent setting using a combination of 3 or more of the following emojis: đď¸đđłď¸đď¸đđ§ď¸đąđ đŹ + hear me out what if we got um spicy kink!Yves or kink!Vincent au đ and flowers or an irritant of your choosing
This whole fic is AU!Yves + AU!Vincent w/ the kink, in which they are not coworkers, but instead meet as strangers on a cruise, and Yves turns out to be allergic to something unexpected đââď¸đââď¸. I should apologize for the long exposition; the first half of this reads more like a character study. If you don't care about how they meet, you can scroll down to the section labeled "Firsts"!
â
The stranger breaks the silence first.
âItâs a nice view,â he says.
Theyâre on one of the rooftop floors. Itâs surprisingly crowded out hereâapparently Vincentâs idea to take an evening walk was far from original. Vincent looks out at the unending expanse of water before them, the sky dark, the cruise deck high enough that the waves below them are almost too small to make out.
âIt is,â Vincent agrees.
âIâm sure youâve seen the ocean plenty,â the stranger says, leaning out onto the railing. The wind picks up on the strands of his light brown hair. âAssuming youâre a cruise person.â
Vincent contemplates going with the assumption. He is not obligated to tell the truth, of courseâthat he is terribly out of place here; that, if heâs being honest, it is a little strange and embarrassing to be here alone.
âI am not a cruise person,â Vincent says. âI won the tickets through a work raffle.â
âA work raffle?â The stranger turns to him, perking up.
Vincent nods.
âYouâre kidding me,â the stranger says, suddenly animated. âYou shouldâve bought a lottery ticket right after, with that kind of luck.â
âI think Iâve used up all my luck reserves,â Vincent says. âOut of everyone who could have won, I may be the least suited to be doing this.â
âWhat does that mean? That you donât like cruises?â When Vincent shakes his head, the stranger stills, contemplative. âDo you get seasick or something?â
âI am not the kind of person who would pay for a cruise.â
âHuh. Well, I guess itâs a good thing you didnât have to pay for this one.â
Vincent supposes that is true. His coworkers had been happy for him when the announcement had come outâare you serious? Iâm so jealous! And youâre going to love it! And Take lots of pictures! Weâll definitely be grilling you for them when you get back!âhe thinks he probably ought to be happy, too, considering how expensive this kind of thing would be normally, considering how statistically unlikely it had been for him to win.
Instead, heâd felt a sort of blankness, bewilderment veering on apathyâbut it would be ungrateful to turn this kind of thing down, or to sell it off to someone else, wouldnât it? In the end, heâd nodded a little stiffly at them, and smiled, and promised them their pictures.
âAnd what about you?â Briefly, Vincent entertains the possibility that this stranger is someone who takes ten cruises a yearâthe exact opposite kind of person that Vincent is, the kind of person who likes being hundred of miles out from the nearest coast, who likes the extravagance of the room service and the on-deck waterslides and the quaint high class diners, who likes talking to strangers. âIs this your hundredth cruise?â
The stranger laughs. âItâs actually my second. I was planning to go with someone. We bought two tickets way backânot company-sponsored, by the way, though I wish they were.â
âDid they decide to call it a night early?â Vincent asks.
The stranger laughsâa short, curt laugh. Vincent cannot tell if itâs genuine. âSheâs actually not here. She couldnât make it.â
It seems strange, to Vincent, that someone might miss something as expensive as a cruise. âSomething else came up?â
âTo be frank, I was in a relationship with her up until two weeks ago,â the stranger says. Then he laughs again, a little self-deprecatingly. âSorry, thatâs probably too much information.â
âOh,â Vincent says. âIâm sorry about the breakup.â
The stranger waves a hand. âItâs fine. She left me the tickets, which wasnât cool, but I found someone to resell hers to, even though it was sort of last minute. Facebook marketplace is the maker of miracles. The guy who bought it is somewhere on this ship, though I donât think I could point him out to you.â
âAre you alright?â
The stranger blinks at him. He looks a little caught off guard. âSorry?â
âWith the breakup,â Vincent clarifies. âTwo weeks ago is still recent. Are you alright?â
The stranger is quiet for a moment. âThatâs very considerate of you to ask,â he says, at last.
Vincent looks away from him. âThatâs not an answer.â
The stars are starting to come out. The ocean stretches out, wide and dark, beyond them. The stranger says, after a moment: âWith a view like this, who wouldnât be?â
He reaches up a hand to swipe at his eyes. His sleeve doesnât linger for very long. If Vincent werenât looking, he might mistake the motion for something casual, something unassuming.
The stranger squeezes his eyes shut, and takes in a breath. The exhale that follows is carefully, meticulously even.
Vincent doesnât know what it is that prompts him to open his mouth. Itâs a stupid, impulsive decision, directed towards someone to which he has no allegiance. Itâs entirely unlike him.
And yet.
âMy cabin numberâs 3-75-F.â he says, before he can think better of himself. âIf you need company, or if you want to talk about how your ex was the worst person on earth, we can get dinner, or just take a walk. If you donât, I wonât take it personally.â
He turns, starts off in the direction of the deck entranceâthis is preferable, he thinks, to sticking around to hear the strangerâs response. Judging by the size of the cruise ship, there are probably two thousand people on board. Vincent tells himself that itâs statistically unlikely he will run into this particular stranger again, which means his offer doesnât have to mean anything at all.
âWait,â the stranger says, falling into step with him.
Vincent turns.
âThat actually sounds really nice. Iâm glad you offered. Dinner, tomorrow at 6?â The stranger extends a hand. When Vincent looks up, he is surprised to find that heâs smiling. âIâm Yves.â
Vincent takes it. âVincent.â he tries to keep his surprise out of his voice. âIâll be free.â
Yves says: âGreat! I hear thereâs a restaurant on the third floor which people really like. Do you like seafood?â
âSeafoodâs great.â
Yves grins. âIâll make the reservation tonight. Goodnight, Vincent.â
âGoodnight,â Vincent says, before he can second guess himself into taking it back. He has the distinct sense that heâs just gotten himself into something heâs fundamentally ill-equipped to handle.
â
In truth, the first time Yves meets Vincent is not the first time they meet. Vincent meets Yves for the first time when heâs in line to board. This, like their second meeting, is a coincidence.
â
Before.
The stranger is smiling.
The girl heâs talking is interested in him. Thatâs the first thing Vincent notices. Itâs not a secretâitâs evident in the way she cranes her entire body towards the stranger as he speaks. Evident in the way she laughs, her shoulders shaking, after he tells her something Vincent canât quite decipher; evident in the way her eyes snap to his hands as he gesticulates.
Briefly, Vincent wonders how they know each other. A couple? But the more Vincent watches, the more he realizes that that doesnât make sense. His body language is so deceptively open, as if to dismantle any line upheld between the two of them, but he is careful not to touch her. Likewise, she doesnât reach for him, even thoughâfrom the way her gaze lingers on his arm, too long, loadedâVincent thinks she probably wants to.
Long-time friends, then? Whatever the stranger is saying is too novel, and the girl is nodding vigorously at him, now, and Vincent can see that sheâs trying to make a good impression. Have they just met tonight, then? The girl rummages through her purse for her phone, pauses briefly to type something out. Holds the screen up so he can see it.
The stranger leans in, his face intimately close to her, to peer down at it, too. There is something so confoundingly thoughtless about the gesture. It is almost as though there is a gap in how long they have known each otherâas if she is, to him, already a longtime friend. There is no nervousness to the way he regards her, no pointed self-consciousness.
Itâs a little interesting, Vincent thinks. He wonders, briefly, if the stranger knows that she likes him.
What strikes him about the arrangement is how open he is. Itâs peculiar. It is as if they are not strangers at all. He holds the conversation seamlessly, with such warmth that Vincent marvels at it, as easily as if he has known her for years.
â
Dinner.
Itâs around 5:41 when Vincent hears the knock on his cabin door.
The cruise room is more comfortable than heâd expected it to be. The ship is large enough that it feels oddly stationary, and the roomâdespite its relatively low ceilings and narrow walkwaysâhas an excellent view of the ocean when he pulls back the curtainâthe unmoving blue line of it, the inky sky above it, the clouds low on the horizon.
Vincent, who had been half expecting Yves to not show up at all, puts his book down on the nightstand and heads towards the door.
When he opens it, Yves is dressed in a button-down collared shirt and slacks. He looks boyishly handsome, Vincent thinksâkind of like he could be a movie star, probably someone who would play a childhood-friend-turned-lover.
âYouâre early,â Vincent says.
Yves checks his watch. âI guess I am. Did I catch you unprepared?â
âNo, Iâm ready,â Vincent says, nodding towards the hallway. âLead the way.â
The living quarters on the cruise are ordered in neat rows. They head down a long hallway toward the central elevators. Yves talks about his morningâabout how heâd spent his time perusing the second floor shops, how heâd played one game at a casino, won twenty dollars, and now heâs determined to never go back. (âI need to keep the net positive,â he says, âstatistically unlikely as it is.â âYouâre already doing better than everyone else in the casino,â Vincent says.)
The elevator ride is short. The cruise technically has fifteen floorsâmore if you count the partial floors at the top: the rooftop bar, the rooftop garden and grill.
âI canât wait till we get to shore,â Yves says. âNot that the cruise isnât nice, and all, but whenever I take a walk on deck, it never really feels like Iâm stretching my legs.â
Itâs Thursday evening. Theyâll dock early tomorrow morning at the Amber Cove cruise island, spend a few hours there out on the beach, and then head back onto the cruise for their next stop. Vincent has packed swim trunks, sunglasses, a couple bottles of sunscreen, but the idea of going to the beach on his own feels distinctly out of character. Heâs never been the kind of person to seek out experiences like thisâsunny and indulgentâon his own, without someone else to pull him into them.
He supposes this isnât really an exception. The company tickets which landed him on this ship in the first place were the catalyst to everything.
âYou havenât eaten here before,â Yves asks, as they round the corner to the door of the restaurant, âhave you?â
âNo,â Vincent says. âIâve only been to the diner on the second floor.â
Yves smiles back at him. âThatâs good. I donât have to cancel my reservation, then.â âI wouldnât have made you cancel it anyway.â
âYou seem too polite to do that sort of thing,â Yves says, with a laugh. âThere are too many things to do on deck for me to be dragging you to the same few places.â
Yves relays his reservation name and time to the waiter, who shows them to a table by the window. The restaurant is dimly litâthe majority of the light is coming from a single candle that sits in front of them, next to a vase of tastefully arranged flowers.
âThis place is very romantic,â Vincent says.
Yves blinks at him. âI guess it is. Does that bother you?â
Vincent thinks that he can easily imagine another version of this eveningâa dinner in which the seat across from Yves is occupied by his ex. An evening where they talk and laugh over a shared bottle of wine and eat the best seafood on the ship.
âI can see why you would have wanted to come here with her,â Vincent says. âIâm sure you had a lot to look forward to. Iâm sorry.â
Yves glances back at him, his expression unreadable. Then he looks down. âYou donât have to be sorry,â he says. âYou didnât have any part in it.â
âIn your decision?â âIn hers.â He shakes his head with a laugh that doesnât quite show in his eyes. âIt wasnât mine to decide. She rekindled an old relationship at a bar. It was with this guy who went to the same college as the both of us, though I didnât know him that well.â
He unfolds his cloth napkin and positions it gingerly on his lap. âI didnât even know that they were friends, or that she would be meeting up with him. We were still together when it all happened, and then suddenly we werenât.â
âThat must have been painful for you,â Vincent says.
âI probably shouldâve known better,â Yves says, tilting his head up to the ceiling. He smiles, a little self-deprecating.âI think there were probably signs that I missed. Itâs the sort of thing you dwell on, you know. If everything really came out of left field, or if sheâs already been falling out of love for a long time. This is depressing, but I keep thinking aboutâwell, if maybe I couldâve done something to fix things if Iâd realized it sooner.â
âYou shouldnât have had to,â Vincent says.
Yves blinks at him. âWhat?â
Vincent looks downâat the flowers between them, arranged artfully in a shallow glass vase. âYou shouldnât have had to do anything. You shouldnât have had to speculate at all.â He doesnât know why heâs saying this. It is none of his business, he knows, and besides, itâs not as though Yves has asked for his opinion. He finds himself thinking, abruptly, to Yvesâs conversation with the girl in line, a couple spots ahead of himâthe girl smiling, leaning close; Yves somehow reflecting back her interest with warmth.
It is part of the reason why Vincent is here, right now, if heâs honest with himself. Vincent understands exactly why people would be drawn to that particular sort of warmth. Itâs the sort of warmth he doesnât know how to cultivate, probably wouldnât be able to cultivate, even if he tried. It is evident even now, in the way Yves seems to so readily offer his ex the benefit of the doubt, in the way his warmth extends towards her still.
âIf she was having second thoughts, then she shouldâve said something. You shouldnât have been expected to read her mind,â Vincent says. Perhaps being so honest is overkill, but even if no one else in Yvesâs life will say it, Vincent finds he has no such reservations. âAt the very least, she shouldâve ended things with you before looking for other options. Frankly, your ex sounds like a terrible person.â
Yves blinks at him, a little taken aback. âIâm sure Iâm giving you a very biased impression of her. Sheâs a pretty reasonable person.â
âReasonable people can do bad things,â Vincent says, crossing his arms. On some level, he understandsâof course Yves, with his proximity to the problem, would not see it this way. âYour ex hooked up with someone behind your back. I find it hard to believe that someone who had your best interests in mind would do that.â
Yves seems to consider this.
âI donât think Iâll be in the business of forgiveness anytime soon,â he says, as if he is choosing his words carefully. âYouâre right to say that what she did was pretty terrible.â
Vincent raises an eyebrow. âBut?â
Yves is quiet, for a moment.
âI think it would be easier,â he says, at last, with a small smile. âIf I thought about her that way.â
Itâs a confession that Vincent has already figured out. âYou still think highly of her. It makes sense.â
âShe was my best friend for three years.â he shakes his head, smiling. âI thoughtâI donât know what I thought. When I thought about a future with her, everything seemed so intuitive. Like all the problems that could come up would be things weâd already know how to work through.â
The waiter stops by their table to ask them for their choice in refreshments. Yves greets him with a polite smileâone that Vincent finds no holes inâand asks for one of the drinks on the cocktail menu. Vincent picks something at random, to match.
âSorry,â Yves says, after the waiter leaves. âI didnât mean to get into such a depressing tangent. We donât have to talk about my ex. Iâll give you time to actually look over the menu.â
Vincent says, âYou donât have to apologize. I wonât take long.â He opens the menuâit is nice, he thinks, that all the food and drink is included in the cruise fare which he didnât have to pay forâmakes a mental list of all the items which look interesting, and stack ranks them in his head. Then he shuts the menu and sets it off to the edge of the table, so the waiter wonât have to lean over to pick it up.
He feels, without looking, that Yves is watching him.
âYou werenât kidding. Youâre very efficient.â
Vincent meets his eyes from across the table. Yves has his own menu open, too, but heâs pretty sure Yves has been waiting for him. âYou decided more quickly than I did.â
âI cheated and looked up the menu beforehand,â Yves says. âI didnât want to subject you to my indecisiveness.â
This makes sense to Vincentâas does the early knock on his door. âYou were looking forward to eating here.â
âWith a hot stranger,â Yves says, with a laugh. âYes.â
The compliment is unexpected. It settles something inside of him, something nervous and wanting, though Yves says it offhandedly enough that Vincent thinks he probably shouldnât take it to heart. He raises an eyebrow. âAm I still a stranger? Weâve exchanged names.â
Yves laughs. âI guess we can be acquaintances, then.â
The waiter arrives with their cocktailsâYvesâs has a sprig of lavender near the rim, and Vincentâs has a dried orange slice and a stem of mintâand sets them down in the middle of the table. They place their orders.
After the waiter leaves, Vincent shifts his cocktail a little closer to him. Heâs not much of a drinker, but his drink of choice is usually on the sweeter side.
âDoes it live up to your expectations?â Yves asks.
âThe drink?â
âThe cruise.â
âI donât know if I had many expectations to begin with,â Vincent says. âThe ship is bigger than I thought it would be. Iâm still finding my way around.â
âHave you explored everything already?â
âNot everything.â Vincent thinks through his morning. âI walked around the shopping center, and then the fourth floor plaza.â he says. âI stopped by the theater, too, though I didnât sit down for a show.â
He thinks, distantly, that perhaps the shipâs amenities are getting wasted on himâduring his walk through the shopping center, heâd briefly thought about bringing gifts back for his coworkers and ultimately decided that if heâs going to do any shopping, it should probably be on his last day here, not his second. âI went up to the deck to see the pools. There were more distinct pools than I imaginedâI had assumed theyâd all be connected.â
âDid you go swimming?â
âI didnât.â
âSo you just walked around all twelve of the pools,â Yves says, incredulous, âwithout ever getting in?â
Vincent can see how this fact could potentially be off-putting. âThe pools were all pretty crowded. I decided itâd be more symbolic if the first time I change into a swimsuit is tomorrow, after we dock.â
It isnât entirely the truth. Truthfullyâand he thinks this might be worseâheâd been more preoccupied with taking pictures of everythingânicely framed shots of the different pools, the different entrances of the shopping center, the crowds gathered around the theater for the midday showâhalf so he can have something to show his coworkers when he gets back to work (and thus, dispel any accusations of his own ungratefulness around winning) and half so he can have something to send back to his family (particularly Ji-Sung, who he thinks will get a kick out of seeing all of the amenities).
âYouâre really serious about this,â Yves says, looking strangely amused. âAre the vacations you go on always so structured?â
Vincent says, âsomething like that. The cruise is not the main attraction, anyway.â
âFor some people, it is.â
âFor the same people who make it a mission to take a swim in all twelve of the pools, maybe,â Vincent says, and Yves smiles.
Yves, as it turns out, is an easy person to talk to. Vincent finds out that he doesnât get seasickâor carsick, for that matterâbut that he feels a little claustrophobic if he doesnât go up to the deck (âto remind me that weâre actually still making progress towards some destination,â he says. âThat way, I donât feel as though Iâm trapped in some giant feat of human engineering.â) He finds out that Yves has two siblings, both of them younger; that most of his extended family lives in france; that he likes vacationing in warm places; that the next time he steps foot onto a cruise, it will probably be with his younger sister and his younger brother. That heâd been working late for three weeks in a row to make this trip happen; that it feels a little wrong, now, to have nothing pressing to do.
It turns out to be a nice night, after all.
â
Firsts.
The cologne is an offhanded purchase.
Itâs not something Vincent thinks much about when he picks it up. Itâs on the third day that he purchases it, after he holds too long of a conversation with the sales assistantâwho seems to have an uncanny ability for translating whatever it is he says into one recommendation, and another, and anotherâto feel like he can walk away unguiltily. In the end, he settles with a tall, sleek bottle with a wooden cap. The cap is lined in goldâto suggest that this is a classy choice, presumablyâto match the serif lettering on the front, which says Wood & Flame.
Itâs not something he intends on using, eitherâthat is, until Yves messages him, dinner? And then, a moment later: feeling kind of lazy tonight. Mb we can order in
Vincent texts back, Sure. Letâs order in. 6:30?
Yvesâs response is immediate. You havenât been to my room yet, right? I can host :)
It doesnât mean anything, Vincent thinks, that the dress shirt he picks out is the newest one he owns, that he spends time ironing the creases out of it. It doesnât have to mean anything, when he lingers longer than usual in front of the bathroom mirror, suddenly apprehensive. Yves is asking him out of friendly camaraderie, and nothing more. He runs another hand through his hair, catches himself, lowers it. Fixes his tie, straightens his collar, finds himself having to fix it again.
With a hot stranger, Yves had said, as if it was nothing. So offhandedly it seemed almost like it didnât even matterâa throwaway comment, maybe.
The cologne is an afterthoughtâhe spritzes some on his wrists, and then, upon further thought, sprays some in behind his ears. Itâs probably not going to be noticeable anyways, unless Yves gets close enough, which is unlikely. The scent of it is somewhat mild, understatedâthat had been one of the factors which had led him to pick it up in the first placeâeven when he lifts his wrist to his face, itâs not nearly as obvious as he expects it to be.
The bottle is large enough that it seems as though it will never run outâthe liquid in it seems to be at the same level as before, even though he feels like heâs been generous enough in his application of it. Heâs starting to think he wonât have enough occasions to wear it to.
Perhaps he will get some mileage out of this purchase tonight. Or perhaps, optimistically, this bottle will last him the rest of his life, heâll never have to shop for cologne again in his lifetime. If he thinks about it that way, it doesnât seem like such a financially bad investment.
â
Through his walk down the long, narrow hallway, and up two flights of stairs, Vincent prepares himself for the moment when Yves opens the door.
Heâs still caught off guard, though, when the door swings open. Yves is dressed in a green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbowsâthe shirt is loose-fitting, but the way the fabric tightens around his arms does not do a good job of obscuring the muscle definition underneathâand well-fitted khaki chinos. His light brown hair is tied up in its usual low ponytail, but the strands which were too short to secure are tucked behind his ear.
âYou made it!â He grinsâitâs the kind of charming smile that completely overtakes his featuresâand steps aside to let Vincent in. âNow you can compare how different the rooms are three floors up.â
Vincent looks past him, at the arrangement of the room. âIt looks like the same elements have undergone a few different transformations,â he says. âThe wall art in this room looks more like itâs trying to remind you what youâre here for.â
Yves follows his gaze to the large landscape painting which hangs in the living room, to the right of the TV. Itâs a watercolor drawing of waves crashing onto a white sand beach, except itâs drawn in a way that the waves closer to shore are saturated and dazzling, and the waves further from the shore fade out in color into the horizon. Thereâs faint detailing of buildings in the distance, too. Vincent is pretty sure itâs supposed to be the shoreline of Nassau, which theyâre set to dock at two days from now.
âHuh,â Yves says. âItâs sort of like itâs taunting me. Whatâs in yours?â
âMostly abstract art,â Vincent says. âAside from that, a photograph of a conch shell, up close. Thereâs also a photograph of a ship out at sea, with no land in sight.â
Yves laughs. âThatâs pretty ironic. I heard that lower floors are better for seasickness. It would probably suck to be seasick, and then when you look up youâre forced to look at some sailboat in the middle of nowhere. Super on-the-nose.â
Vincent smiles. âItâs probably a good reality check.â he presses closer in to leave his jacketâwhich he is realizing now that he doesnât need, but which he brought with him just in case, on the occasion that their evening culminates in a night-time walk on the deckâfolded on Yvesâs couch. âWere you thinking of ordering room service?â
âYep,â Yves says. âI think everything on there is complimentary except for the wine. Do you need the room service menu?â
âI took a look at it already,â Vincent says. âI recalled that a certain someone does his research early.â
Yves looks briefly taken aback. Then he laughs. âYou caught me. I totally did look at it beforehand. Though I was ready to act indecisive if you needed more time.â
âVery gentlemanly,â Vincent says. âShould we call in?â
Yves ends up calling for room service, on both of their behalf. (âThat sounds really good,â he says, when Vincent recites his order to him. âIt was probably my second choice.â âYou can try some when it comes,â Vincent says.) He orders wine, too, to share, and waves off Vincentâs offer to split the cost.
After that, they settle on the living room couch. Yves says: âIâm thinking we can put something on while we wait for dinner to arrive? But probably not something you care about too much, because I might talk over it.â he passes the remote over to Vincent.
Vincent flips through the channels. Thereâs some sitcom which is playing which seems somewhat suitable, up until one of the couples gets into a sincere-seeming argument onscreen and Vincent thinks that, considering Yvesâs semi-recent breakup, maybe everything with romance should be quietly vetoed. He eventually settles on one of those reality TV shows where people have to partake in increasingly difficult obstacle courses in order to not get eliminated.
âThese are always fun,â Yves says. âYou know about hysterical strength? Iâve always wondered if being nervous on these kinds of shows helps you or hurts you.â
He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his eyes. Vincent looks over at him with a frown.
âAre you tired?â
âNo,â Yves says. He blinks, and then snifflesâif Vincent isnât mistaken, his eyes are a little watery.
âBored of the competition already?â
âNot at all. I think these kinds of shows are manufactured so that you canât get bored.â
âThereâs probably an optimal amount of nervousness,â Vincent says, âto answer your question. Iâve found that to be true with public speaking.â
âHuh,â Yves says. âDoes your work require a lot of public speaking?â
âNot particularly. Mostly internal presentations, occasionally a conference.â He looks over at Yves. âIf you werenât tired before, talking about my work is going to make you tired for sure.â
Yves laughs. âNo way. I love hearing about other peopleâs work.â
âItâs not very life or death. There are no obstacle courses. Just a lot of regression analysis.â
Yves blinks at him. âDo you work in business, by any chance?â
Vincent nods. âIâm a quantitative analyst.â
âHuh,â Yves says, contemplative. âI heard itâs very competitive.â He sniffles again, quietly enough that it almost goes unheard. âYou must be good at math.â
âA small subset of math,â Vincent says. âWhat do you work in?â
âWealth management. Itâs a little more client-centric, so I had to plan pretty far ahead to take time off for thihh-!â The inhale is sharp, unexpected. Theyâre sitting close enough to each other that Vincent can feel Yves stiffen beside him, can feel the sharp upwards stutter of his shoulders as his breath hitches again. âhHeh-!â He pivots away from Vincent, burying his face into his elbowâpolite, Vincent thinksâand then, after a long, torturous moment, loses the fight to a loud, vocal, âHhHEh-IIDZschH-iEEw!â
Vincent wills himself not to look. âBless you,â he says, staring straight ahead. Onscreen, a contestant loses her balance on a high mounted totem and drops straight down into the water, much to the dismay of her teammates. It is a wholly ineffective means of distraction.
Yvesâs sneezeâlike Yvesâis painfully Vincentâs type.
âUgh,â Yves says, sniffling again. He lowers his elbow slowly. âSorry about that. Where was I?â
âYou said you had to plan far ahead to take time off,â Vincent says. Itâs no small miracle that he remembers this.
âRight, yeah,â Yves says, and launches into a story about the hoops heâd had to jump through to make sure all the clients he was assigned to would have their needs accounted for.
âThatâs a lot of work for a weekâs absence,â Vincent says.
Yves laughs. âYeah. Sometimes the pickier clients really hate the idea of not getting round-the-clock attention. Iâmâ hh-! hHEH-!â He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his nose, though the look of ticklish irritation doesnât quite leave his expressionâVincent really shouldnât have looked. After a moment, he lowers his hand, takes in another uncertain breath, as if heâs still testing the waters. âUgh, I lost it. Iâm sorry. I donât know whatâs gotten into me. This must be distracting for you.â
Distracting is an understatement. âDonât worry about it,â Vincent says. âIs it worse during tax season?â
âOh, yeah. No one in their right mind really takes off during tax season, snf-! Itâs not like, officially against any rules, but itâs pretty openly acknowledged as one of those suggestions thatâs not actually very optional. That doesnât affect you guys as much, does it?â
âNo,â Vincent says. âMy free time is mostly dependent on project deadlines.â
âThe ticket you won happened to not conflict with any of those?â
âI brought my work laptop with me,â Vincent says, a little sheepishly.
Yvesâs eyes widen. âNo way.â
âItâs not like Iâm working long hours,â Vincent says. âJust some catch-up work, here and there. I donât want there to be any surprises when I get back.â
âAlways putting out fires,â Yves says, shaking his head. âItâs probably good that you won theââ He reaches over to lay a hand on Vincentâs armâpresumably as a comforting gestureâonly he wrenches away at the last second. âTheâ Hheh-! Hh⌠hHEH-!â Thereâs another brief pause, as though whatever is affecting him has left him stranded again on the precipice of a sneeze. For a moment, Vincent prepares himself mentally for another false start.
But then Yves takes in another sharp, ticklish breath, and it turns out to be enough to set him over the edge. âhhâhEHhâiITSSSCHh-EEw!â
The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist to meet the crook of a hastily-raised arm. Itâs just as attractive as the first, if not moreâVincent can hear his voice in the ending syllable, can hear the ticklish desperation in the release. Yves keeps his face buried in his elbow for a moment longer, sniffling wetly.
It takes everything in Vincent to not visibly shiver. What are the chances, really, that the attractive stranger-slash-acquaintance heâs having dinner withâsomeone who, when this cruise is over, he probably will never see againâjust happens to have a sneeze which happens to be perfectly aligned with his tastes?
âBless you again,â he says. âAre you okay?â
âI feel fine,â Yves says, with another sniffle, his eyebrows furrowing. âI donât think Iâm getting sick. I was fine earlier.â
âAre you allergic to anything?â
âNot that I know of,â Yves says. âNo seasonal allergies. Nothing pet-wise, either.â
Vincent tries, and fails, to think of what else might be causing this. The cabins seem too clean, too well-ventilated, to be dusty. There are no flowers anywhere in sight. Is Yves coming down with something, then? But heâd said I donât think Iâm getting sick, with the certainty of someone who probably isnât.
âLet me know if you start feeling worse,â Vincent says.
Yves smiles at him. âI will. Iâm really fine, I promise. Itâs justââ he reaches up with a hand to rub his nose. A distant look crosses his expression for a momentâas though heâs warring against the need to do something about itâbefore his breathing levels off. ââtickish, snf! Not unpleasant.â
The sneezing doesnât stop. Yves, for the most part, proceeds as though heâs completely unaffected by itâheâs no quieter than usual. Itâs as though every time he feels the need to sneeze, he is intent on ignoring it until the need is too pressing to ignore. When that happens, he turns away just in time, except for a couple close calls when he misjudges and instead doubles forward with a sneeze directed into his lap, sniffling afterwards.
Vincent blesses him intermittently, but otherwise offers up no comment. Yves apologizes sheepishly, after the fourth or fifth sneeze, for interrupting the show. Vincent doesnât tell him that he probably couldnât care less about the show. Truthfully, he has no clue whatâs going on onscreen anymoreâobstacle course shows are interesting, but not that interesting.
Dinner arrives not too long after. Vincent can barely focus on the seafood pasta heâs ordered, though he offers Yves a bite, as promised. Yves unfolds one of the napkins room service leaves for them and blows his nose quietly into it. He sniffles afterwardsâas though his nose is properly running, nowâand resumes talking as usual.
Vincent crosses his legs, does his best to ignore the heat radiating below his stomach. This is really bad timing. The entire inexplicable setupâthe fact that theyâre sitting so close to each other; the fact that he can physically feel Yves tense beside him, rigid with anticipation, his shoulders jolting upwards with every inhaleâis honestly nothing short of torturous.
Itâs worse, too, that Vincent can see the ticklish irritation in Yvesâs featuresâthe crease of his eyebrows, the fluttering eyelashes, the sharp, uncontrolled gaspâbefore he wrenches forward with another desperate sneeze. Itâs always a full-body endeavorâsomething that snaps him forward at the waist, leaves him bent over, a little breathless, sniffling wetly.
It absolutely doesnât help that the underside of Yvesâs nose is slightly flushed red, now, from the unusual attentionâperhaps this is to be expected, seeing as Yves keeps rubbing it. More than once, Vincent contemplates asking to use Yvesâs bathroom, and subsequently, well, getting rid of the problem at hand. Yves has no idea what this is all doing to him. After all, how would he know?
Itâs only when theyâre almost done with dinner that it clicks.
âHold on,â Vincent says. Yves had said he wasnât allergic to anything, but thereâs a first time for everything, right? Particularly, thereâs always a first time exposure to allergens. That first time might come later in life for those that are less commonplace.
It seems glaringly obvious, in hindsight. Yves hadnât been sniffling when heâd opened the door for Vincent, had he? From the way heâd reacted to the first sneeze, it didnât seem like this has been going on for long.
But of course. Heâd been so focused on the environment that he hadnât considered it. Thereâs only one thing Vincent did tonight which was pointedly out of the ordinary.
The realization leaves him feeling suddenly cold.
âYves.â Vincent flinches away. âI think I know whatâs causing this.â
Yves pauses. âWhat is it?â
âIâm wearing new cologne,â he says. âI donât know why I hadnât thought of it earlier. I didnât think much of it when I was applying it.â He feels a little like an asshole, now that theyâre discussing it. It wasnât his intention to leave Yves suffering. He hadnât known. But still, the fact that theyâve been sitting in such close proximity this whole time definitely hasnât helped.
The last thing he wants to do right now is look at Yves, but he forces himself to, anywayâwrenches his gaze upwards until he meets Yvesâs eyes. âIâm really sorry. I shouldâve made the connection earlier.â
Yves blinks at him. He doesnât seem as upset about this as Vincent thinks he should beâstrangely, he doesnât seem upset at all. âAre you saying you think Iâm allergic?â
âAllergic, or sensitive, yes,â Vincent says, frowning. âIn any case, I take full responsibility. I should probably justââ
âWait,â Yves says, reaching out with a hand to latch onto Vincentâs wrist. âI havenât been allergic to anything before.â
âItâs probably not something common,â Vincent says, wondering if he should pull away.
âYou applied it to your wrists?â Yves asks.
Vincent nods, a little stiffly. He doesnât quite trust himself to speak. It feels like Yvesâs fingertips are burning holes into his arm.
Everything that happens after happens in a flash. Yves tightens his grip around Vincentâs wrist, pulls it gently towards him, and leans down to take a long, indulgent inhale.
Vincent feels all of the blood drain from his face. He rounds on Yves, wide-eyed. âWhat are youâ?â
The reaction is almost immediate. Yves drops Vincentâs arm as if heâs been scalded. He shuts his eyes, barely turns to the side in time for a harsh, âhhEHHâiiDZZSHH-iEW!â
The sneeze is so forceful he coughs a little afterwards, his eyes watering. His shoulders jerk upwards again, his nose twitching. âhHEH⌠HEHH⌠hehHâIITSSCHh-EEW! Ugh⌠coughcough, youâre right, itâs defidetely⌠hHEHâ!!â
Vincent can only watch, frozen in place, as Yves jerks forward again, burying his nose into his sleeve. âIHHHhâDZschH-IIEW! Snf-!â He lowers his arm slightlyâVincent can see him scrunching his nose up, trying to rid himself of what must be the worst tickle heâs been faced with all night. That thought sends a wave of electricity down Vincentâs spine. âHh-hHeh-! Definitely the cologne thatâs⌠hh-! thatâs⌠hEHH⌠setting me⌠hh⌠HhEHâIDDzShHH-IIEW!! âoff, snf, f-fuck⌠hh-Hehh-hhEHHâIITTSHhh-IIEEW!â The sneeze explodes from him, barely contained, snapping his entire body forward with the sheer intensity. Yves barely manages a breath in between before heâs doubling over with another: âIIIiDDDzSCHHh-YyiEW!â
Vincent swallows hard. Heâs, well, so turned on that he can barely speak. It feels a little like the heat he feelsâmore of a full-body-flush, at this pointâmight actually melt the clothes off of his arms. âBless you.â Itâs remarkable that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.
He stands, heads over to the coffee table to retrieve a small box of tissues. Takes in a deep breath.
When he gets back to the couch, Yves has cupped both his hands over his nose and mouth. Vincent tilts the opening of the tissue box towards him without comment.
âThadks,â Yves says, with a laugh. He takes a handful and blows his nose. âI needed those. That was probably ndot the best idea, in hindsight.â
Understatement of the fucking century. Vincent stares at him, disbelieving. âYour first idea after learning youâre allergic to something is to test it out?â
âScientific rigor, and whatnot,â Yves says. âI had to be sure. Like I said, Iâve never actually been allergic to something before. This was quite the⌠hHeh-!â He raises the handful of tissues back up to his face, his gaze going unfocused. âJust a secâhh⌠hH⌠hHEHâIIDZSCHh-IIEW! snf!â
âBless you,â Vincent says. âI guess this answered your question, then.â Yves laughs. âIt definitely did.â
âI think youââ Vincent places the tissue boxâwhich is at risk of falling off the edge of the couchâdirectly into Yvesâs lap. ââshould take this.â He takes a cautious step backwards. âAnd I should go take a long shower back in my room.â
Yves looks up at him, still a little teary-eyed. âIt doesnât bother me that much,â he says earnestly. âItâs just sneezing. I donât mind it.â Just sneezing. Vincent shakes his head.
Yves stills, his expression probing. âUnlessâŚâ His voice comes out a little softer, now. Uncertain. â...Unless it bothers you?â
That couldnât be further from the truth. Not in the sense that Yves means it, at least.
âIt doesnât bother me,â Vincent says. âBut Iâve been in your situation before, so I know what it feels like. I⌠know it isnât pleasant.â
This information seems to surprise Yves. âYouâve experienced this before too?â
Vincent nods. âEvery spring, more or less. Iâm allergic to tree pollen.â His face feels hot from the admissionâit feels strangely inappropriate to be admitting this, but then again, itâs not as though heâs bringing it up out of nowhere. âYou can imagine thatâs harder to avoid than a singular kind of cologne.â
Yvesâs eyes widen. âThat sounds terribly - hhEH-! hH⌠HEHhâiITSHH-iIEWW! snf-! terribly incodvenient. I canât imagine having to deal with this feeling for an edtire season.â
âIt is. Thatâs why I donât want to subject you to this for longer than I have to.â He steps past Yves to grab his jacket from the couch, which he ties around his waist. It will be better for both of them if he leaves now. âI really should shower and get changed. Your symptoms are not going to get better if I stick around.â
Yves seems to be coming around to this. âSorry to have to end things off early,â he says, frowning. âYou came all the way here.â
âIt was barely a walk,â Vincent says. âAnd this wouldnât have happened if not for me. I should be the one saying sorry.â
âItâs okay,â Yves says, with a laugh. âIt was an illuminating experience. Iâll see you, then?â
The possibility is so fleeting that Vincent almost dismisses it. Could Yves really be disappointed?
âI have some Claritin back in my room,â Vincent says, trying his luck, though a part of him recognizes that this kind of confidence is categorically unlike him. âWe can resume our night when you can get through two sentences without having to sneeze.â And after Vincent takes care of something else, and preferably spends enough time in his room flipping through boring travel pamphlets and sensational catalogues to get his mind out of the gutter, so he can face Yves again with some semblance of normalcy. â...If you still want to.â
Yves brightens.
âOf course,â he says, with sincerity. âIâll look forward to it.â
#sneeze kink#snz kink#sneeze fic#snz fic#ocpromptexchange#đ to be honest it was sort of relief to write an au fic... i felt a little less like i was betraying whatever i wrote in canon :')#i feel a slight need to apologize for the fact that there's a time skip in the middle of this (+ a few missing scenes in between);#i'm not sure how much vanilla interaction people would want to read? (this fic is probably already pushing the limits đ)#anyways. i have wanted to write kink vincent for awhile đ#not sure if this does him justice (or if this is even spicy at all đ)#a part of me feels compelled to scrap this and write something spicier. but i really need to banish this from my drafts#so i hope someone enjoys đĽ˛#yvverse#au yvverse#kink vincent#my fic#p.s. thank you dearly to the prompter (whoever you are) đ i feel so honored to have received such thoughtful prompts and good ideas đââď¸#the real au is the suddencolds who wrote an allergy fic hahah haha because she never... okay sorry i am hitting post
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of painkillers and lenience
...hello! đ 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!
â
Summary: Yves comes down with something. His best friend wonders where Vincent is, in all of this.
â
Perhaps itâs merciful that itâs on a Sunday that Yves wakes up with the slightest tickle in his throat.
Yves has an idea what it means. Heâs had the flu enough times in his life to know that it comes on quickly. Maybe if he attempts to sleep it off, heâll have a better time over the next few days.
Or maybe not. He cancels his Sunday plans, goes through his itinerary. Thereâs a slew of emails heâll have to send off, a handful of meetings heâll probably have to reschedule for this coming work week. Heâll need groceries, too, to last him the weekâideally something that wonât take too much effort to make. Resting now seems like itâd 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. Itâs perhaps just the timing that doesnât work out as planned. Between figuring out how to reschedule everything thatâs coming up with workâfiguring 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 orderâall 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.
Itâs not terrible yet, but he feels distinctly off. His head feels a little heavy, and everything he does feels strangelyâsluggish, maybe. Like he canât quite manage to be as efficient as usual. Judging by past experience, heâs probably going to crash in a few hours.
He can already feel a headache brewing. Staring at his computer screen probably hasnât helped with that. If he takes something for it, itâll 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. Heâs out of Advil.
Itâs no matter. Just a quick grocery trip, thenâhe can grab the rest of his groceries while heâs 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 maxâbut that canât be right, because heâs 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, andâafter some thoughtâcalls Mikhail.
Mikhail picks up on the second ring. âTo what do I owe the pleasure?â
âAre you busy?â Yves starts, but the words catch on his throat, and he has to stop immediately to muffle a cough into his elbow.
Thereâs a moment of silence on the other end. âIt depends what youâre about to ask me for,â Mikhail says.
Yves swallows. Shuts his eyes. He doesnât like asking for help, but he doesnât think heâll be in any state to be doing this on his own over the next few days. âItâs not that urgent. Just if you have time,â he says.
He can almost feel Mikhail rolling his eyes on the other end. âYouâd say that even if you were bleeding out.â
Yves laughs, startled. âI promise Iâm not bleeding out. Justâdo you think you could run to the store and get me some Advil?â
Thereâs another, longer pause on the other end. âAny time is fine,â Yves says. A part of him already regrets this. âIf youâre busy right nowââ
âIâll be over in a few,â Mikhail says. Then the line goes dead.
â
He doesnât remember drifting off, but when he wakes, itâs to a knock on the front door.
The knock is just for courtesy, of course. Mikhail is one of a few people whom heâs permitted the privilegeâor the burden, perhapsâof 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. âYou look even worse than you sounded over call,â is the first thing he says.
Yves blinks at him, surprised. âDid I really sound that bad?â
In lieu of answering, Mikhail just looks at him, scrutinizing, the corner of his lip ticking downward. âWhat is it? An injury? A migraine?â When Yves shakes his head, Mikhail presses forward to pick a stray lint ball off of Yvesâs shirt. His hand makes contact with Yvesâs shoulder, and he frowns.
Before Yves has a chance to explain, he feels a tickleânot the first, today, and certainly not the lastâsurface. Itâs irritatingly difficult to ignore, more irritating still when he finds himself forced to turn away, to duck into one armâ
âhHehh-!â hEHhâyyiISCHh-HHEEW!â
The sneeze is rough enough to scrape against his throat. He coughs tightly into his raised arm.
âA cold,â Mikhail says, with a frown. âBut usually you donât take Advil for colds. Waitâdonât tell me this is something worse?â
Yves winces. What is he supposed to say to that? âThe Advil was all I needed,â he says. âThanks for making the trip. I owe you one.â
âNo, Iâm sure of it now,â Mikhail says. âIf it were only a cold, you wouldâve driven out to get this yourself.â
âIt probably isnât,â Yves says, neglecting to mention that he knows exactly where he caught this. âThanks for bringing these. Iâll take the next couple days off. Iââ
The next sneeze sneaks up on him. He ducks into his sleeve again, taking another step back.
âhHhEHâiiDzzsCHH-yYew!â The sneeze sends a burst of pain through his temples, and for a moment, heâs glad his face is too deeply buried into his sleeve for Mikhail to see.
âDoes Vincent know?â Mikhail asks.
The question catches him off guard. âWhat?â
âThat youâre apparently unwell enough to ask me to pick up Advil for you.â
Yves doesnât like where this conversation is going. âI told you not to come if you were busy.â
âItâs not a problem,â Mikhail says. âBut if youâre sick, shouldnât he be over here, taking care of you?â
âHeâs had a really busy few weeks,â Yves says, which is true, but simultaneously might be true at any point during the year. He clears his throat. âI - coughcough - wouldnât want him to catch this.â
âSo he doesnât even know,â Mikhail says.
âŚPerhaps Yves shouldâve thought of a more convincing excuse. Mikhail isnât the type of person to drop an issue after heâs raised it, and Yves had, perhaps, neglected to think about howâfor all Mikhail does to appear casually disaffectedâheâs one of the most perceptive people Yves has ever met. âHe doesnât have to know.â
âWhat are you talking about? Heâs your partner. Iâll text him,â Mikhail says. Itâs then when Yves recalls that Mikhail probably does have Vincentâs contactâexchanged before their trip to France, so that he could text them all to coordinate the rides to and from the airport.
âWait,â Yves says, unable to keep the panic out of his voice. âDonât. If you text him, heâll - snf-! - feel obligated to come.â
Mikhail doesnât lower his phone. âIâll just ask him to drop by,â he says. âYou can talk to him about it when he gets there.â
But that wonât happenâcanât happenâbecause Yves knows that if Vincent were to see him like thisâŚ
Iâd feel terrible if you caught this, heâd said. Heâd sounded so upset over it. How can Yves, after all his reassurances last week, admit to him now that heâs 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.
âPlease donât ask him anything,â Yves says.
Mikhail looks long and hard at him. He looks as though heâs trying to puzzle something out. âDid you guys get into a fight, or something?â
âNo,â Yves says. âItâs nothing like that.â
âThen, if youâre on good terms, why are you so resistant to the idea of him coming over?â
Yves squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them. He can think of a dozen more excuses to field away the questionsâthat isnât 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 againâ
Maybe itâs 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.
âVincent is my coworker,â he says, slowly.
Mikhailâs eyebrows creep up. âYes, Iâm aware.â
âThatâs not what I meant,â Yves says, with a cough. âHe is just my coworker. Nothing else.â
The alarm that flashes across Mikhailâs face is unmissable. âYou two broke up?â
And there it isâanother 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, âWe were never together in the first place.â
âBut you went with him to France,â Mikhail says, confused. âNot to mention, to Margotâs new year party, and then to Joel and Cherieâs housewarming. Are you telling meââ
âThat was all an act,â Yves tells him, and waits for this information to register. âThere is nothing between us thatâs real. Thatâs the reason I havenât called him.â
The recognition settles on Mikhailâs face. Then he laughs, a little disbelieving. âYouâre really not dating him? Why would you lie about that?â
âDo you remember Margotâs party?â Yves asks. It seems like the right place to start, after everything. âErika was there with Brendon. And I was bitter, andâto be honest, jealousâand I wanted to show her I was fine. So I asked Vincent to go with me.â
âThat was months ago,â Mikhail says.
âIt was easier to just keep up the act, after that.â Yves says. âEasier 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 havenât figured out when itâs going to end.â
Mikhail is quiet for a moment. Yves looks past him, at the staircase that leads down to the first floor.
âYouâll be fine, then,â he asks. âIf you two break it off.â
âOf course,â Yves says. âI know itâs going to happen someday.â
âYou wonât be upset at all?â
âWhat is there to be upset over?â
âFrom the way you spoke to him, I really thought there was something there,â Mikhail says.
âHe is a good liar,â Yves says.
âMaybe so,â Mikhail agrees. âBut you are not.â
He says it so calmly, it barely registers as an accusation. But Yves hears it, loud and clear.
âVincent is attractive,â Yves says. âAnyone with eyes can see that. Thatâs all there is to it.â it feels wrong, even as he says it. Yves has always known Vincent to be attractiveâthat much hasnât changed. But he knows that the feeling in his chest when he sees him at work, in the break room, or at lunchâthe unusual acheâis a little more than that.
âMargotâs party was at the end of December,â Mikhail says. âItâs April, now. Margot wouldnât tell you this, but since I donât like withholding my feelings from you, I will.â
Yves waitsâwaits for Mikhail to tell him how all of this has been unduly dishonest, how Mikhail doesnât appreciate having been lied to.
But Mikhail doesnât say any of that. Instead, he says: âIf youâre still intent on keeping this fake relationship upâŚâ Here, he meets Yvesâs eyes, a little sternly. âYou should think about who youâre really doing it for.â
Itâs only for convenience, Yves wants to say. Now that weâve set things up already, itâs merely the path of least resistance. But that isnât quite right, is it?
âDonât worry about me,â Yves says, trying a smile. âVincent and I have talked this through already. Whatever happens with our arrangement, Iâll be fine.â
âOkay,â Mikhail says. He pockets his phone, and then hands Yves the bottle of Advil. âSorry for the interrogation, then. If you believe it to be fine, I trust you.â Perhaps thatâs 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 itâs not worth arguing over something they wonât agree on. Mikhail is dropping the subject because he really trusts him.
Yves just doesnât 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. âThanks for stopping by.â
Mikhail nods. âFeel better soon. If you need anything other than Advil, just give me a call.â
Then heâs gone. Yves shuts the front door behind him and wonders just what exactly heâs gotten himself into.
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snzfic#i wrote the majority of this on 4.21.2024 đ initially with the intention of writing much more#(atypical occurrence part... 3?)#but i think it feels most fitting to just end it here :') that is what i have the stamina for in any case#i feel the need to apologize for how short this is + for the fact that vincent is entirely absent#you can maybe see why i hesitated for almost 7 months before posting it#a couple notes:#mikhail (yves's former college roommate and current best friend) is mentioned in the first installment i ever posted#but he shows up most substantially in foreign home#i am fond of their friendship dynamic... is it obvious? đ#yvverse#my fic
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Atypical Occurrence [2/?]
hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence đ 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 Iâve written for these two! :)
â
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)
â
Thereâs a grocery store thatâs a ten minute drive from Vincentâs 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, itâs less than a thirty minute excursionâsomething heâs 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 isnât difficult. Heâs made it a hundred timesâheâs 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 apartmentâloading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesnât fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries heâs 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.
Itâs comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. Itâs dark enough outsideâthe sun fully set, the clouds heavy overheadâthat the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.
Yves likes cooking. He doesnât actively enjoy doing chores, but thereâs something comforting to how mindless they are. Itâs an appreciated distraction.
The rain outside is loud enough that he doesnât hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.
Yves jumps.
âYouâre up,â he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wearâhis hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.
Yves watches him take everything inâthe 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.
âAnd youâre still here,â Vincent says.
âI made soup,â Yves says, by way of explanation. âItâs chicken noodle. I wasnât sure if youâd be up for trying something new.â 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 heâd addedâthyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. âActually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so itâs almost done.â
Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. âDid you leave to get groceries?â
âEarlier, yeah. You werenât kidding about your fridge being empty.â
Vincent frowns. âI can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?â
In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yvesâs mind right now. He waves a hand. âDonât worry about it.â
âIt must have taken a long time.â
âSoup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. Itâs barely any work at all.â
Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: âThatâs an oversimplification.â
âNot really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,â Yves says. âThanks for letting me use your kitchenâthough, technically, I guess Iâm asking forgiveness instead of permission. Iâll clean everything up, by the way.â Heâs done dishes along the way, so there isnât really much to do besides rinse off whateverâs left, load up the dishwasher, and store whateverâs left of the soup in the fridge.
âYou donât have to,â Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. âI can clean up. Itâs my apartment.â
âIf you think Iâm letting you do household chores while you have a feverââ
âItâs not that high,â 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 Vincentâs forehead.
Itâs concerningly hot, still, which isnât a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yvesâs hand is a giveaway on its own.
âItâs definitely over a hundred,â Yves says, withdrawing his hand. âIf you donât believe me, Iâll have you know that I bought a thermometer.â
For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. âThat was an unnecessary purchase.â
âAre you admitting that Iâm right?â
Vincent just frowns at him, whichâYves notesâisnât exactly a denial. âFever or not, thereâs not much I can do except sleep it off.â
âYou can go back to sleep after youâve had something to eat,â Yves says. âWhat was it that you said? That you havenât had anything to eat since yesterday?â
â...You wonât leave unless I eat, then,â Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.
Yves smiles at him. Itâs not a wrong conclusion. âExactly,â he says.
��
In between the hallway and Vincentâs 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 heâd chopped earlier, for garnishâand lays it all out.
âI can help,â Vincent says, for maybe the third time.
Heâs seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like heâs perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. Itâs just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to helpâeven at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like heâs always finding some way or other to be useful.
Yves says, âWhen youâre not running a fever, you can ask me again.â
When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincentâwho is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. âYou didnât have to wait for me,â Yves says.
Vincent blinks at him. âIt would have been rude to get started on my own.â
âNonsense,â Yves says. âI made it for you.â
He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time heâs made itâlight and comforting. Itâs just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasnât cooked for Vincent beforeânot formally, at least, other than the dish heâd bought to Joelâs potluckâso itâs a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite.
Itâs worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if heâs done something wrongâif perhaps, it isnât to Vincentâs taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. âIs it okay?â
âItâs really good,â Vincent says. âI can see why Mikhail said what he said.â
âWhat?â
âThat your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.â
Yves laughs. âSo does that mean youâll forgive me for trespassing?â
Vincent smiles back at him. âIâll consider it.â Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearlyâtheyâre slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. Thereâs 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 shouldnât be allowed to have.
A crush. Thatâs new, too. Itâs ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks itâs probably supposed to make him better at thisâwhat better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?âbut 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, yesâbut heâs also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesnât get credit for. Heâs thoughtful enough to entertain Yvesâs friends, to have lunch with Yvesâs siblings, to fly all the way to France to meet Yvesâs 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 thisâthe perks of their fake relationshipâmore 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.
Thatâs the thing. Vincent isnât cruel. Itâs for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that heâd drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and thatâs what makes this so much worseâYves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached.
Now that theyâre sitting across from each other, in Vincentâs apartment, having dinner, Yves thinksâa little selfishly, perhapsâthat 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 arrangementâsomeday, inevitablyâYves will thank Vincent for everything, and then theyâll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.
Itâs 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.
âItâs been awhile,â Vincent says, after some time. âSince anyoneâs done this for me.â
âMade you chicken soup?â Yves says, a little puzzled. âIf you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.â
âNo,â Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. âJustâ since anyoneâs looked after me, in general.â
âOh.â Yves finds his mind is spinning. âHow long have you been living alone?â
âSince university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.â
âBecause you like the privacy?â
âIt was just simplest.â
Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhailâthe conversations theyâd 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 heâs over at his neighborsâ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesnât really get lonely.
âYou have a pretty spacious kitchen,â he says. âI hope you donât mind that I used your pots and pans. Iâll wash them, I swear.â
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.
âhhIHhâIIKTS-HHuhh-!â
âBless you!â 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 forâah. 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 anotherâ
âhhihâGKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hhâDDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh⌠Hh⌠hh-HH-hhâyIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!â
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. âBless you!â Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. âHere.â
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. âDid you buy these earlier, too?â
âI did,â Yves says. âI picked up some medicine, too. I didnât know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuffâyour fridge was getting pretty empty, by the wayâin case you needed it.â
Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if thereâs something heâs trying to understand. Finally, he says, âDo you do this for all of your friends?â
âWhat?â
Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. âCook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.â
âSometimes,â Yves says. Heâs certainly no stranger to stopping by to helpâsometimes 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. âIt depends on what they need.â
âSo this is just a Yves thing.â
âWhat? Showing consideration for my friends?â
âShowing consideration is one thing,â Vincent answers. âYou could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.â
âI guess thatâs true. But at that point, I was already here,â Yves says, with a shrug. âIt seemed logical to check up on you.â
âWell, now youâve checked up on me,â Vincent says. âSo you can go.â
Yves supposes this is true.
âDo you want me to go?â he asks.
Vincent says, âItâs late. I assume you have things to get home to.â
âThatâs not what I asked,â 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 wonât take it personally. He doesnât want to overstay his welcomeâarguably, heâs already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.
Thereâs leftover soup in the fridgeâenough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of thisâand Vincentâs 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 isnât irresponsible. Heâs shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. Thereâs no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longerâno reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than heâd like to admit.
âOkay,â he says. âIâll go. But at least let me clean up first.â
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 thingsânot much, just his phone and his car keysâand 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 hadnât bothered to grab his umbrella, but now itâs dark out, and itâs raining just as hard.
âI left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,â Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. âThe medicineâs in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Donât come back to work until your feverâs completelyââ
It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesnât think, just reactsâhe reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely.
âWoah,â he says, steadying him. âAre youââ
Vincentâs hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yvesâs touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. Heâs 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? âVincentââ
âSorry,â 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. âHey,â he says, trying for reassuring. âIâve got you.â
Vincent doesnât say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yvesâs touch.
Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. âI think it would be best if you laid down,â he says. âDo you think you can walk?â
Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows.
âSorry,â Vincent says, again. âI⌠didnât expect it to be an issue.â
Heâs frowning, hard, as if heâs upset with himself, though Yves canât quite piece apart why heâd have reason to be. âHey, no apologizing,â Yves says. âSave your energy for walking.â
Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until heâs in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. Itâs a short walkâdown the hallway and then off to the leftâbut Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.
Itâs 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 isnât about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.
âAre you warm enough?â Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.
A nod.
âDo you need me to get you anything else?â
Vincent shakes his head.
âOkay,â Yves says. âI guess I shouldnât overstay my welcome, then.â
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 doesnât want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. âText me if you need anything, I mean it.â
He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, thenâ
Thereâs a hand on his sleeve, tugging.
Yves goes very still.
When Vincent notices what heâs done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if heâs burned.
âSorry,â he murmurs, again. And just like that, heâs back to how he always isâhis expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. âIâm sorry.â But Yves doesnât forget what heâs seen. âYou can go.â
Yvesâs heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincentâs forehead. At the physical contact, Vincentâs breath catches.
And for a second, Yves wonders if heâs made a mistakeâif maybe Vincent doesnât want to be touched, right now. If heâs 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 hurtâYves suspected as muchâbut if heâs not mistaken, the expression on Vincentâs face right now isâŚ
Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincentâs temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincentâs 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 werenât paying close attention, he mightâve missed it.
As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.
Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincentâs hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully. He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertipsâquick and erraticâslows. Until Vincentâs 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 Vincentâs desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.
Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.
â
He doesnât remember falling asleep.
But when he wakes at Vincentâs desk, itâs to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shouldersâprobably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head.
Behind him, thereâs a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yvesâs chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehowâtoo quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.
Itâs dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincentâs 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 harshâall force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.
âhHâihâiNNGKkk-t!â
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.
âAre you okay?â
At the light, Vincentâs eyes widen. He looksâstricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. âDid Iââ he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath heâs taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. ââDid I wake you?â
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.
âSorry,â he says. âI was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.â
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 thatâs what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?
âYou donât have to be quiet,â is all he manages, instead. Itâs a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.
Vincent looks like heâs about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesnât make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds.
Itâs the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhaustingâforceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly.
âCan I get you anything?â 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 himâreally, he looks as though he hasnât slept at all. Heâs 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.
âTea?â Yves offers, because itâs better than saying nothing. âWater, cough drops. A cold compress?â Vincent doesnât say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. âExtra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?â
âWater⌠would be nice,â Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprisedâhe had half expected no answer at all. At Yvesâs split second of hesitation, Vincentâs frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. â...If itâs not too much trouble.â
Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. âOf course,â he says. âIâll be right back.â he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.
Itâs dark. There arenât 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. Itâs still early, then. Early enough that itâs quiet, around themâno 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, itâs unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasnât 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.
âI got you water,â Yves says, unnecessarily.
Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesnât 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. âAny better now?â
Vincent nods. Itâs quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stoppedâthe room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. âI didnât think youâd still be here.â
Yves hums. âTo be honest, I didnât either.â He stifles a yawn into one handâheâs still a little tired. âI didnât mean to fall asleep.â
âYou must be tired,â Vincent frowns, looking him over. âYou came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?â
âWhat?â
Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. âIâve fallen asleep there before. Itâs not very comfortable.â
Yves thinks he shouldnât be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. âItâs not that bad,â he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. âMy neck would probably be sorer if Iâd slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.â
âYou couldâve taken the couch instead,â Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. âIt would probably have been wiser.â
âI wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,â Yves says, because itâs true. âBesides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That canât have been comfortable either.â
âItâs not just about that. Youââ Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: âhh-! hhiHâGKT-sSHuh! snf-!â He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. âHh⌠hhâIIDDZshHâUhh-!â
âBless you!â Yves says, startled.
Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. âYou shouldnât have slept so close to me. I really donât want you to catch this.â
Heâs frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, itâs somehow Yves that heâs more worried about right now.
Yves isnât particularly concerned about thatâhe has no shortage of sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, heâll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasnât done before. Still, Vincent looks soâwell, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.
âHow about this?â he says. âIf youâre so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then weâll be even.â
Vincentâs eyebrows furrow. âThatâs a terrible deal for you.â
âIâll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,â Yves says, with a shrug. âIf this means I get free cough drops out of it, Iâd say itâs a win.â
He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincentâs bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like heâs resisting the urge to say somethingâto tell Yves to move further away, probably.
âRelax,â Yves says, reflexively. âItâll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.â
He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincentâs forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.
âYour feverâs worse than before,â Yves says, withdrawing his hand.
âItâs not.â Vincentâs eyes are still shut. âThe temperature is just higher because itâs night time.â
The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. âYou know,â he says, âthatâs not very reassuring.â The blanket around Vincentâs shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincentâs shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. âAre you feeling any better than before?â
Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though heâs trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. âIâŚâ
âYou can be honest.â
Vincentâs jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.
âMy head feels heavy,â he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. âAnd my chest hurts.â He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. âIâm⌠not used to getting sick like this.â
Yvesâs hands still. âLike what?â
âIn any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,â Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himselfâhis shoulders stiff, his jaw clenchedâeverything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.
Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, itâs 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. Itâs a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent havenât been physically intimate outside of the times where theyâve 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 hairâif he hasnât misread, it almost feels likeâ
Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. âIâve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.â
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 Yvesâs shoulder.
Yves curls his arms around him. Thereâs the slightest hitch in Vincentâs breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closerâas if heâs allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.
His whole body is concerningly warm. âYouâre burning up,â Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincentâs hair.
â...I figured,â Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. âWhoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.â
Yves laughs, a little surprised. âCareful. Youâre going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.â
âI canât help it if itâs true.â
Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesnât think heâd be able to list them all if he were asked to. Itâs different, though, being so close to Vincentâso 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. Vincentâs chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yvesâs neckâlike 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 collapsesâreally, 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, itâs to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.
âHh-! hhIHâIIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!â
âBless you,â Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isnât done.
His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. âhHIHâiiGKKTsSHHâ! Sorry, Iâ Ihh-! hHHhâDZZSSCHhâuH-!â
âBless you again,â 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, heâs a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasnât gone away.
âWhen I asked you to come over,â he says, âI wasnât expecting you to stay.â
Yves blinks. âIs it so strange for me to be here?â
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.
âA little,â he says. âWhen I was young, if I got sick, it wasnât really a big deal.â
At Yvesâs expression, he amends: âThatâs not to say that my family didnât care, because they did. No one spent too long in my roomâbetter to not risk catching it, if they could help itâbut back then, if I didnât have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.â he shuts his eyes. Thereâs a strange expression on his faceâsomething a little more complicated than wistfulness.
âWe 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.â His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. âSometimes heâd 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.â
âWere you and your brother close?â Yves asks.
âClose is relative,â Vincent says. âI never really knew how toâinhabit 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 didnât want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.â
He shuts his eyes. âBut I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldnât have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. Itâs strange how that works.â
âI think I know what you mean,â Yves says. Heâs always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesnât mean theyâve always seen eye to eye on things. âSometimes itâs less about what they say, and more about the fact that theyâre saying it.â
Vincent nods. âThey all cared about me in their own way,â he says, at last. âI donât think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When youâre a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.â
âDo you regret it?â Yves asks. âWhat?â
âNot appreciating them more, back then.â
Vincent smiles. âI was just a kid. I suppose itâs natural that I didnât know better.â Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. âI didnât think much about it at the time.â
âDo you ever miss being part of a large household?â
âItâs peaceful on my own,â Vincent says, at last. âI usually donât mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.â
He hasnât asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherieâs 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.
âYour apartment is nice,â 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. âI can see why you would like living here.â
Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. âItâs not the same, of course. As home. Though thatâs a given.â Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincentâs done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? âWhen Iâve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not forâŚâ
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 youâre here, now.
âI know Iâve intruded a little,â Yves says, with a laugh.
Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. âI wouldnât consider it an intrusion,â he says. âYouâve helped me a lot. I justâIâm a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.â
Your first time over. Yves ignoresâwell, tries to ignoreâthe implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasnât confirmed anything, and itâs not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the publicâs eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.
âYou donât have to worry about that. I like seeing you,â Yves says.
Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. âEven bedridden with a fever?â
Isnât it obvious? âOf course.â
âIâve been terrible company,â Vincent says. âAnd even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?â
âVacuuming is therapeutic.â
âYou said that about cooking, too,â Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. âAm I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?â
âItâs not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.â
âIâll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,â Vincent says, deadpan.
Yves laughs. âItâs like I said,â he says. âI like spending time with you. Evenââ To steal Vincentâs words from earlier. ââbedridden with a fever.â
Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously.
âThough, I promise I wonât intrude for much longer,â Yves tells him. âIâll probably head out in the morning.â Heâs almost done with the work Vincent has on his deskâheâd 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 eightâheâll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late heâd slept, but thatâs nothing new.
âIâm sorry,â Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. âYou mustâve had other evening plans.â
None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He canât say things like that if he wants to keep thisâwell, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincentâto himself.
âIt wasnât just for you,â he says, instead.
âWhat?â
âI didnât just do it for you.â
Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. âAre you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?â
âItâs like you said,â he says. âIâve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesnât happen often, right? When you didnât show up at work, IâŚâ The next admission feels a little too honestâbut thereâs a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. âI was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.â
Vincent nods. âI get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fakeââ
âIt has nothing to do with that,â Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. âI wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I wouldâve spent the entire night worrying if I hadnât come.â He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. âItâs a little selfish, I know.â
Vincentâs eyes are very wide.
âAnyways,â Yves says, with the sinking feeling that heâs said too much, âyou should try to get some more sleep.â He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow thatâs leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. âItâs still really early. If youâre planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.â
âYves,â Vincent says, from behind him.
âHmm?â
â...Thank you.â
When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.
Yvesâs heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.
(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)
â
At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while heâs 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 heâs intending to head downstairs for lunch.
V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didnât mean for you to complete my work along with it.
Yves smiles. Heâd emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterdayâs late-night work session before heâd left. Vincent mustâve 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 canât blame me for taking matters into my own hands
V: Yves.
Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snzfic#- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -#- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - (adding in my a/n under the cut)#i have a lot of thoughts about this chapter as a whole#just editing + finishing off the last 2k of this took me 12 hours T.T#(maybe unsurprisingly) emotional intimacy and caretaking are very hard for me to write;#of the fics i've posted to this blog not many of them focus on the c portion of the h/c just in general?#so this was somewhat uncharted territory for me#i hope it's not too niche to resonate w anyone else đđ#yvverse#my fic#also on a lighter note. i have been looking forward to writing yves caretaking for so long đđđđđ
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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]
Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything Iâve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)
Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)
â
Vincent is late.
Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meetingâtheir first meeting of the dayâstarted five minutes ago. If thereâs anything Yves knows, itâs that Vincent always comes in early.
In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.
Itâs five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.
Siennaâwhoâs presentingâstops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where heâs standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.
Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him.
âSorry Iâm late,â Vincent says, quietly. âIt wonât happen again.â
Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, itâs nothingâor it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, butâto anyone elseânot anything worth dwelling over.
It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didnât know better.
Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is sayingâsheâs giving a review of a clientâs current investment strategies; heâd reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.
Vincent asks good questions throughoutâhe always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.
Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if itâs taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meetingâas if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, heâs already exhausted.
Itâs subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if heâs just reading too much into itâif, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.
â
He doesnât see Vincent again until lunch.
Or, more accurately, he doesnât see Vincent again until heâs headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.
âYouâre not going to eat here?â Yves asks.
Vincent doesnât look at him. âI have some work to get done at my desk,â he says. He clears his throat again, like itâs irritating him.
âOkay,â Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.
âYou look tired,â he settles on, instead.
He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isnât true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if heâs surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.
He doesnât deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.
âThe sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,â he says. Yves supposes he canât argue with that.
âI guess Iâll see you around, then,â Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like thereâs more that he should be saying. âDonât work too hard.â
Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.
â
Yves is probably overthinking it. There isnât anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.
Vincentâs lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm heâd forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effectâof recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects heâs on, of last-minute demands from clients.
The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the buildingâtheyâre ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.
Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, âHHihHâiKKTSh-hUH!â
A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if heâs too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.
He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket forâsomething. When he doesnât find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again.
âBless you,â Yves says.
âYves,â Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.
Itâs only a few seconds later that heâs turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth forâ
âHh-! hHiHâHIHhâDZSSschh-uhh! snf-!â
âBless you again.â
Vincent sighs. âDonât bother.â He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, heâd already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.
Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and thereâs a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looksâwell, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if itâs been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.
Yves frowns, taking this all in. âYou look kind ofâŚâ
âTerrible?â Vincent finishes for him.
Yves winces. â...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.â
âIâm⌠feeling a little off,â Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if itâs not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. âYou should keep your distance.â
The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside.
âFirst floor?â Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.
âYes,â Vincent says. Then, quietly: âThanks.â
âYou know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,â Yves tells him. âEven if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, Iâm sure something could be arranged.â
Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. âI must look pretty bad if youâre saying this to me.â
âYes, I was lying,â Yves says. âClearly, you look terrible.â
It isnât true at allâeven here, even like this, Vincent doesnât look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at thisâa tired smile.
The elevator doors slide open.
âText me if you need anything,â Yves says, impulsively. âSeriously. Tissues, soup, medicineâwhatever. Itâs not far of a drive.â
âThatâs very considerate of you,â Vincent says. âI will see you tomorrow.â And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.
â
The next day is rainyâa constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldnât be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.
Back in uni, when he rowed crew, theyâd practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he canât complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.
Vincent doesnât show up.
âI think heâs out sick,â Cara says, when Yves asks. âYou know, itâs funny. I donât think Iâve actually seen him take a sick day before.â
âFor how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,â Garrett says.
âHe seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,â Cara says, with a shrug. âProbably came on quickly.â Yves nods.
But that isnât quite right, is it? Vincent hadnât seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things heâd noticedâVincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear heâd been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?
He finds some time just before lunch to text.
Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterdayâs offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!
He doesnât get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case heâs missed a notification.
âAre you expecting a text from someone?â Cara says, looking a little curious.
âJust a friend,â Yves says, which is and isnât true.
To make a pointâto Cara, and possibly to himselfâhe shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.
Itâs not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.
V: Sorry to get back to you so late.
Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.
V: If itâs not too much trouble, thereâs a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.
Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.
Y: youâre asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 𤨠Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??
V: I meant to pack them yesterday.
Y: thatâs like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me
V: As a genie, youâre quite judgmental
Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller iâll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else?
V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door
A beat. Then Vincent sends:
V: Sorry to trouble you
Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.
â
Itâs a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.
Outside, the rain hasnât even begun to let upâit falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.
Yves has only ever been to Vincentâs apartment onceâto pick him up for the New Yearsâ party Margot hostedâand even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.
For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincentâs door and taking his leave.
But itâs windy, and heâs afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.
Itâs silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum.
Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.
There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.
He looks tired. Itâs the first thing Yves registersâthe unusual fatigue to his expression, which he canât quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, thereâs a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.
Itâs only a moment later that heâs taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harshâ
âhHihhâGKkTTâ! Hh-!! iHH-âDZZSCHh-uuUh!â
The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once.
âBless you,â Yves says.
Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. âI thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.â
âYou did,â Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. âBut itâs windy, and itâs raining. I figured youâd prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?â
Vincent blinks at him. Heâs leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise.
âAlright,â he answers. âThanks for making the trip here. I⌠it mustâve taken longer, in the rain.â He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. âIf you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.â
âYou donât owe me anything,â Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincentâs forehead.
The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. âHave you taken your temperature?â
Vincent shakes his head. âI donât think I have a thermometer.â
âHave you eaten, then?â
Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. âI⌠was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,â he says. Planning to.
Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, heâd talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Iâm feeling a little off, heâd said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as âlittle.â I will see you tomorrowâas if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work.
âSo I take it that thereâs nothing in the fridge, either,â Yves says.
âIf itâs any consolation, youâll be pleased to know that I slept,â Vincent says, in lieu of answering.
Then he shiversâthe sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the coldâand Yves is immediately reminded that the door theyâre speaking through is open.
âCan I come in?â he asks.
âYou probably shouldnât,â Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and heâs ducking away with aâ âhhâ! hHih-IIâTSSCHHh-UH! snf-!â, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. âThis came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.â
âItâs fine,â Yves says. âI got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, Iâll be careful.â
Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, âIâd feel terrible if you caught this.â
Thatâs the least of Yvesâs worriesâhe doubts heâs going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincentâs faceâVincent looks upset, as if heâll really canât think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.
Yves shakes his head. âDonât worry about it, seriously.â He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. âHere, Iâll set these down on your desk. Where is it?â
âDown the hallway, to the left,â Vincent says.
Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside.
Vincentâs bedroom is small and organizedâitâs the kind of bedroom thatâs tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. Thereâs a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincentâs laptop, its lid halfway to shut. Thereâs a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.
There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.
Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincentâs desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.
âYouâre not going to work on these until youâre feeling better, right?â he asks.
âOnly if I canât sleep,â Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough.
The cough is harsh and gratingâhis entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.
If itâs upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, itâs even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. Soâif only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that thereâs something he can doâYves ducks out into the kitchen.
The pantry is meticulously organizedâglasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom.
By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.
âHere,â Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take.
âThanks,â Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then anotherâhis hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. âYou - snf-! - should really go.â
âIâm not entirely convinced youâll be fine on your own,â Yves says.
âOf course I will be,â Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. âI have been fine on my own for years.â
Itâs meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesnât feel reassured in the least.
âThank you again for bringing me the files,â Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.
âYou couldâve asked me to get you groceries,â Yves says. âThereâs a supermarket not far from here, right? And youâre out of cough drops.â He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. âTheseââ He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. ââare expired.â
âJust because youâve extended this kindness to me,â Vincent tells him, âdoesnât mean I should take advantage of it.â
Yves blinks, a little taken aback. âItâs only groceries. I wouldnât have minded, really.â
âSee,â Vincent says, with a note ofâsomething in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. âThatâs just the kind of person you are.â
Yves doesnât know what to say, to that.
Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincentâs breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.
[ Part 2 ]
#snz fic#sneeze fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snz#i wanted to end somewhere more conclusive but i was falling asleep at my keyboard trying to end this so#please take this for now đ#my fic#it is very late rn so i am scheduling this for the middle of my work day tomorrow... now i need to run to sleep T.T#i will finish off the latter half of the house visit in the not too distant future!#yvverse#ps caughtintherain if you are reading this ily and i am so grateful to you for letting me consult you abt these two đđ and i hope it's#okay for me to post this as a gift jafkhjfslk ANYWAYS pls read this at your leisure and happy birthday again!!!
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hypothetically, if i were to write a canon-divergent (AU) oneshot, which setup would you prefer to read?
#yvverse#breaking my silence on them for the first time in awhile#this might be an au but the indecisiveness on my part is canon-typical đ
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a personal milestone 𼳠+ author's note
i finally made it đ (there is probably another 10k sitting in my drafts, but i have always tracked word count for this project as a sum of already-published installments)
also a (somewhat long) journal entry below:
â
This has been the main project in my life for almost two years, now (I started writing on 1.26.2023). It's my first proper attempt at a novel, and it's one of my first times ever posting original work anywhere đ
It's hard to say how I feel now, perhaps because I feel too much.
Where to go from here? I considered dropping the series entirely before I hit the milestone because I was very tired. In a way, I felt like I had said everything I wanted to say. But I think I also love this series a lot more than I can properly verbalize.
To be completely honest, writing this series was so lonely. To work for so long on something that I could not show to nearly anyone irl (not family, not close friends, not peers, not strangers I met who I talked to about art); to spend hundreds of hours on something that I could only ever post to a small subset of people... all of that was very lonely. I'm sure other creatives have felt this way too.
And at the same time, hearing what people on snzblr thought became probably the most potent source of happiness in my life (is that pathetic? Maybe so.) I don't think this project was self-sustaining at all; I think to some extent, I wrote it because I wanted to hear people tell me that they liked it. I realize this is a terrible and unsustainable reason to create art, but that's the truth.
On some level, though, I kept writing because I loved Y+V. They've been at the forefront at my life for almost two years now đ I spent a long time teaching myself how to write them, and a lot of the themes & choices in the series are quite personal. Embarrassingly, I still want to talk about Y+V all the time.
When I posted to ask if I could send my unfinished/unpolished WIPs, some people reached out to offer to read them... and then I never sent anything over to anyone. I think a part of me could not get it through my head that people would be willing to read something completely unpolished, because... well, frankly, a lot of my drafts are just pretty unreadable; I typically only post things that I have already cleaned up. More importantly, I felt like sending my drafts to peopleâeven people who had given me explicit permission to send them!âwas selfish and troublesome.
On some level, I also felt the same about asking others to brainstorm with me: I felt like I was asking them a favor which I did not know how to pay back. Perhaps this is just another way in which I have been cruel/uncharitable to myself, but I never imagined people enjoying receiving my drafts. I could never convince myself that for those people, giving feedback/discussing ideas might not actually be a chore. I was always scared to make writing less of a lonely process because I could only think about how easy it would be for me to ask too much.
This is probably the most honest I've been about this particular subject đ I am not good at gauging what constitutes 'too much.' I feel like I can get carried away when someone expresses interest, so I try to preemptively position myself as someone who does not impinge on others... I think that even outside of this series, I have defaulted to this pattern of trying to give and trying not to ask. In that particular sense, I am perhaps to blame for my own loneliness.
Anyways! Recently, I've gone back to (tentatively) writing after months of not writing. I'm not sure if I will post another installment here (maybe if the drafts are 'good enough', I will?), but it's nice to write without worrying so much that what I am writing needs to be publishable/presentable.
If you have ever left tags/comments on my work, and you are reading this, I am grateful beyond words to you for keeping me company + for making me feel like what I was spending so much time on was a little more meaningful :') I always go back to reread them when I'm in need of encouragement. Thank you sincerely for the happiness. â¤ď¸
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The Worst Timing | [5/5]
we made it!!! part 5/5 + a mini epilogue (5.6k words) at long last 𼚠(aka the installment in which i remember that h/c has a c in it in addition to the h, haha.) [part 1] is here!
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anythingâmuch less the fluâruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
â
The world comes back to him in piecesâfirst the wooden panels of the ceiling, the sloped wooden beams. The coldness of the room, the slight, monotonous whir of the air circulating through one of the vents overhead.
Heâs leaned up against the wall, seated on the floor in the hallway, and Vincent is kneeling beside him, his eyebrows furrowed.
It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He had been about to head back to the courtyard, hadnât he? He doesnât have much memory of anything that happened after, but judging by Vincentâs reaction, he thinks he can probably guess.
âHi,â Yves says, for lack of a better thing to say.
He watches a complicated set of expressions flicker through Vincentâs faceârelief, first, before it turns to something distinctly less neutral.
âYouâre awake,â Vincent says. He turns away, for a moment. Yves notes the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his gripâhis fingers white around Yvesâs sleeve.
âWas I out for long?â
âA couple minutes.â
Yves wants to say something. He should say something. Anything to lighten the tension, anything to get the point across that this is all just an unlucky miscalculation, on his part. It really isnât something Vincent should have to be worried about.
âIâm sorry for making you wait,â he starts. Really, what he means is, Iâm sorry for making you worry about me. âI promise Iâmb fine.â
The look on Vincentâs face, then, is something that Yves hasnât seen before.
âWhy do you have toââ he starts, frustration rising in his voice. He sighs, his jaw set. âI donât understand why youââ He drops his hand from Yvesâs sleeve, and itâs then when Yves notices the stiffness to his shoulders, the tension in his posture. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out another short, exasperated breath. âYouâre not fine.â
Itâs strange, Yves thinks, to see him like thisâVincent, who usually never wears his emotions on his face, looks clearly displeased, now.
âHey,â Yves says, softly. He reaches out to take Vincentâs hand. Vincent goes very still with the contact, but he doesnât say anything. âIââ
Fuck. His body seems to always pick the worst time for unwanted interjections. He wrenches his hand away just in time to smother a sneeze into his sleeve, though itâs forceful enough to leave him slightly lightheaded.
âStay here,â Vincent says, getting to his feet. âLay down if you get dizzy again.â
Yves blinks. âWhere are you going?â
âTo tell the others that weâre leaving.â
Yves wants to protest. Dinner is already halfway over. Itâs not as if the festivities are particularly strenuous. Theyâll probably move inside after dinner, where itâs warmer.
But he thinks better of it. Judging by how exhausted he still feels, how much his head aches, it probably wouldnât be wise to push it.
âDonât tell them about this,â he says.
Vincentâs eyebrows furrow. âWhat?â
âAimee is going to worry if she finds out,â Yves says, dropping his head to his knees. He doesnât want to look at Vincent, doesnât want to know what expression is on his face. âJustâlet them have this night. Itâsâsupposed to be perfect.â I really wanted it to be perfect, he almost adds. Thereâs a strange tightness to his throat as he says it, a strange heaviness to his chest.
He knows what it means. If, after heâs tried so hard to do his part, their evening still ends up ruined on his own accord, heâs not sure if he could live with himself after.
For a moment, Vincent doesnât say anything at all.
âOkay,â he says, at last. âJust stay here.â
And then he heads down the hallway. The door at the end of the reception hall swings shut behind him. Yves thinks he should be relieved, but he finds that he doesnât feel much other than exhausted.
â
The ride home on the shuttle is silent. Vincent sits next to him, even though all of the other seats are empty. Yves thinks the proximity is probably inadvisable. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then shuts it.
Vincent sits and stares straight ahead, his posture stiff, and doesnât say anything for the entirety of the ride. Itâs strange. Yves is no stranger to silenceâVincent is, after all, a coworker, and Yves has endured more than a few quiet elevator rides and quiet team lunches at the office, but itâs strange because itâs Vincent.
Vincent, who usually takes care to make conversation with him, whenever itâs just the two of them. Vincent, who stayed up through the lull of antihistamines a couple months ago to talk to Yves, until Yves had given him explicit permission to go to sleep.
Yves tries not to think about it. Through the haze of his fever, everything feels unusually brightâthe interior of the shuttle, with its leather seats and metal handrails.
The shuttle stops just outside the main entrance to their hotel. Just before he gets to the doors, he stumbles. Vincentâs hand shoots out, instinctively, to steady him.
âSorry,â Yves says, a little sheepishly. Itâs not that heâs dizzy. The roads are just uneven, and itâs dark. âI can walk.â
But Vincent doesnât let goânot for the entirety of the walk through the cool, air-conditioned lobby, through the hallways to the hotel elevators. Not when the elevator stops at their floor, not when they pass by the grid of wooden doors leading up to their room.
Before Yves can manage to reach for his keycard, Vincent has already swiped them in, scarily efficient. He slides the card back into his pocket, pushes the door open.
âThadks for walking me back,â Yves says. âSorry you couldnât stay longer. You mbustâve been halfway through dinner.â
âI already finished eating,â Vincent says.
âEven dessert?â Yves says. âI think Aimee got everyone creme brulee from one of the local bakeries. I was excited to try it. Maybe Leon can save us some.â he muffles a yawn into his hand. Itâs too early to be sleeping, but his pull out bed looks very inviting right now.
âTake the bed,â Vincent says.
Yves blinks at him. âWhat?â
âThe bedâs warmer.â
Thereâs absolutely no way heâs going to let Vincent take the pull-out bed in his place, Yves thinks blearily. Heâs spent the past couple nights muffling sneezes into the coversâif thereâs anything heâs certain of, itâs that he really, really doesnât want Vincent to catch this.
âI dodât think we should switch,â he says, sniffling. âIâve been sleeping here ever sidce I started coming down with this. Iâmbâ hHeh-!â He veers away, raising an elbow to his face. âhhâHHEhâIIDZschHâ-iEEW! Ugh, Iâmb pretty sure I contaminated it.â
âWe can both take the bed, if youâd prefer,â Vincent says. As if itâs that simple.
Yves opens his mouth to protestâis Vincent really okay with sharing a bed with him?âbut then he thinks about Vincent finding him in the hallwayâthe stricken expression on his face, then, his eyes wide, his jaw clenchedâand thinks better of himself.
Instead, he lets Vincent lead him to the bedroom. The bed is neatly madeâthe covers drawn, the pillows propped up against the headboard.
âLay down,â Vincent says, pushing lightly down on his shoulders. Yves sits. He peels off his suit jacket, folds it, and sets it aside on the nightstand.
âHey, I kdow that was sudden,â he says, in reference to earlier. âIâmb sorry you had to witness it. I⌠probably shouldnât have pushed it.â
Vincent says nothing, to that.
Yves lays down, shuts his eyes. âYou didnât have to accompady me home, you know.â
Silence. He exhales, burrowing deeper into the covers. âItâs not as bad as it looks, seriously.â
He opens his mouth to say more. He has to say something, he thinks, to convince Vincent that itâs really not that big of a deal. Anything, to assuage that look on Vincentâs face.
But heâs so tired. He can feel the exhaustion now that heâs finally let himself lay down. The bed is traitorously comfortable, with its soft feather pillows and its fluffy layers of blankets, and Vincent was rightâit really is warmer.
He feels the press of a hand on his forehead, feels the cold, unyielding pressure. Feels gentle, calloused fingers brush the hair out of his face.
âSleep,â Vincent says, firmly.
And Yvesâ
Yves, already half gone, is powerless, when Vincent says it like that.
â
When he wakes, itâs just barely bright outside. He takes it inâthe first few rays of sunlight, streaking through the curtains. The bed, a little more well-cushioned than the pullout bed heâd spent the past few nights onâhigher up and decisively sturdier. He blinks.
Beside him, seated on a chair he recognizes as belonging to the desk at the opposite end of the room, is Vincent.
Vincent, awake. Yves isnât sure if heâs slept at all. He certainly doesnât look tired, at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a little more. Itâs evident in the way he holds his shoulders, stiff, and perhaps a little tired, as if thereâs been tension sitting in them all night.
Heâs reading a book. Whether he bought it at the convenience store downstairs, or on one of the other days when Yves was busy running errands for the wedding and Vincent was elsewhere, or whether itâd been sitting in his suitcase since the start of the vacation, Yves doesnât know.
âHowâs the book?â Yves says.
His throat is dry, he realizes, for the way it makes him cough, afterwards. Vincentâs eyes meet his, unerringly. He shuts the book, sets it down on the bedside table.
âItâs a little boring,â Vincent says. âHowâs the fever?â
Before Yves can answer, Vincent leans forward and presses the back of his hand to Yvesâs forehead. His touch is unerringly gentle, and Yves allows himself to look.
Vincentâs eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, and Yves wonders, suddenly, if heâs been this worried for awhile, now. If heâs been this worried ever since heâd walked them both back into the hotel room last night.
âIâm fine,â Yves says.
It has the opposite effect he intends it to.
Vincentâs expression shutters. âThe last time you said that, you passed out in front of me,â he says, withdrawing his hand with a frown. âSo forgive me if I donât entirely believe you.â
Yves sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Itâs a fair point. âIâm usually more reliable whed it comes to these things.â
âWhat things?â
âKdowing my limits.â
Vincent says, âI think you knew your limits. I think you just didnât want to honor them, because you decided the wedding took precedence.â
Heâs⌠frustrated, Yves realizes. Still. Heâs sure he can guess why. Their fake relationship does not extend to Vincent having to look after him, to Vincent having to drop everything in the middle of a wedding, of all things, to take him home. To Vincent having to worry about all thisâthe fever Yves knows he has, now, and the bed heâs currently taking upâon top of everything else. As if being in a foreign country, surrounded by people he knows almost exclusively through Yves, who, for the most part, converse in a language he barely speaks, wasnât already enough work on its own.
And Yves gets it. He hadnât wanted this to happen, either. Heâd told himself that if thisâthis pretend relationship, this pretenseâis contingent upon both of them playing their part, the least he can do is be self-sufficient outside of it.
But nowâbecause Vincent is here with him, and because they share a hotel roomâall of this is now Vincentâs problem, too, by extension.
âDid you sleep at all last night?â he asks.
Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly, as if the answer is evident.
âYou gave up your bed just for me to steal it,â Yves says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. âItâs really comfortable, and all, but Iâmb pretty sure they make these kinds of beds for two.â
âIs that a proposition?â Vincent says.
âMaybe.â Yves thinks it through. âRealistically, probably ndot, until I have a chance to shower.â Heâs still dressed in his dress shirt and slacks from yesterday, a little embarrassinglyâhe should probably get changed. âSpeaking of which, I should do that soon, so you donât feel the need to stay up all night readingââ Yves leans forward, squints at the book cover on the nightstand. ââHemingway? Somehow, I didnât expect you to be the type.â
âIâm not,â Vincent says. âVictoire lent it to me.â
âOh,â Yves says, trying to think of when Vincent wouldâve had time to ask her for a recommendation. âYeah. Sheâsââ He twists aside, ducking into his elbow. âhHEHâIIDzschh-EEW! snf-! Sheâs quite the literary reader. Is it really that boring?â
âI can see why people think the transparency of his prose is appealing,â Vincent says. âBut Iâm fifty pages in, and nothing has happened.â
âIsdât that the sort of thing Hemingway can get away with, since heâs straightforward about it?â
âIn a short story, maybe,â Vincent says. Then: âYou are trying to make me feel better.â
Ah.
Yves laughs. âWhere in the world did you get that idea?â
Vincent just sighs. âI would be exceptionally unobservant not to notice when Iâve seen you do the same thing all this week.â
âWhat?â
âTelling people that youâre fine,â Vincent says. âAnd distracting them when they donât believe you.â
Yves doesnât think thatâs entirely accurate. Itâs not like he was trying to be dishonest. Itâs just that it was never the most important thing to address.
âDistracting is a bit disingenuous.â
âI donât get it,â Vincent says, with a frown. âYouâre so insistent on putting yourself last, even when you were obviouslyââ He sighs. There it isâthat expression again, the one that makes itself evident through the furrowed eyebrows, the tense set of his jawâfrustration, and maybe something else. âYouâre surrounded by people who care about you, so why not justââ
âThere are plenty of things more important than how Iâmb feeling,â Yves says.
âI donât think thatâs true.â
But of course it is, Yves thinks. A wedding is a once in a lifetime occurrence. An illness is nothing, in the face of that.
âI promised Iâd be there,â he says, because when it really comes down to it, itâs true. He had no intention of going back on his word. âI didnât want to be the one to let them down. Is that so hard to believe?â He reaches up with a hand to massage his temples. His head aches, even though heâs slept for long enough that he feels like it ought to feel a little better, by now. âItâs already bad enough that I had to drag you into this.â
âYou didnât drag me into this,â Vincent says. âI came on my own volition.â
Yves tries a laugh, but itâs humorless. âI made you leave halfway through the wedding dinner.â
âIâd already finished eating.â
âNdot to mention, you practically had to carry me upstairs.â
âBecause youâre ill.â
âThatâs no excuse.â Yves wants to say more, but he finds himself beholden to a tickle in the back of his throatâirritatingly present, until he concedes to it by ducking into his elbow to cough, and cough.
When he looks up, blinking tears out of his vision, Vincent isnât looking at him.
âYou should get some rest,â he says, simply.
Yves can tellâjust by the way he says itâthat there is no argument to him, anymore. Just like that, Vincent is back to being closed offâpoised and perfectly, infuriatingly unreadable, just like he is at work, his face so carefully a mask of indifference, even in the most stressful presentations, the most frustrating disagreements. Yves wants none of it.
âHey,â he says. A part of him itches to crack a joke, to change the subjectâanything to take away this air of seriousness. A part of him wants to reach out, againâto take Vincentâs hand, entwine their fingers; to reassure him, again, that heâs really fine.
âIâm sorry,â he says, instead. Maybe itâs the fever that loosens his tongue. Maybe itâs just a combination of everything.
He can feel Vincentâs eyes on him, still. Vincent has always held a sort of intensity to him, a quiet sort of perceptiveness. âIâm not sure I follow,â Vincent says.
âThis visit was supposed to be fun for you,â he says. âAnd now youâre here, stuck in the hotel room because of me, even though today was supposed to be for sightseeing.â
It doesnât feel like enough. What can he say to make it enough? Thereâs a strange ache in his chest, a strange, crushing pressure. Yves is horrified to find his eyes stinging. Heâs held it together for so long, he thinks. Why now? Why, when Vincent is right here?
But a part of him knows, too. Of course traveling to a different country would be more involved than going to a party, or spending an evening at a strangerâs house. But there was a time when he thought this could really just be a fun excursion for the both of themâhalf a week in his familyâs home country, with someone who he thoroughly enjoys spending time with.
And now, because of this untimely illnessâor because of his own short-sightedness in managing itâit isnât. He didnât get to stay through dinner, didnât get to wish Aimee and Genevieve a good rest of their night, like heâd planned to. He has no idea if things went smoothly in his absence. To make matters worse, Vincent is here, having endured a sleepless night, instead of anywhere else.
And really, when he thinks about it, who does have to blame for all of this, except himself?
âI didnât mean for it to turn out like this,â he says. âSo Iâm sorry.â He resists the urge to swipe a hand over his eyesâsurely, he thinks, that would give him away.
He turns away. Itâs convenient, he thinks, that the embarrassing sniffle that follows could be attributed to something else.
âYouâve been nothing but accommodating to me, this whole visit,â Vincent says. âIf anything, I shouldâve insisted that you take the bed earlier. You havenât been sleeping well, have you?â
He says it with such certainty. Yves opens his mouth to protest thisâor to apologize, for all the times he mustâve kept Vincent up, including but not limited to last nightâbut Vincent presses on.
âYou spent all of yesterday morning helping everyone get ready, and when I got back, you apologized for not being aroundâas if the reason why you werenât around wasnât that you were so busy making sure everything was fine for everyone else.â Vincent pauses, takes in a slow, measured breath. Yves is surprised to hear that he sounds⌠distinctly angry, in a way that Yves is not used to hearing.
âAnd then you showed up to the rehearsal and the wedding, even though you werenât feeling well. And you still think you have something to apologize for? Are you even hearing yourself?â Yves hears the creak of the chair as he stands, the sound of quiet footsteps. Feels the dip of the bed as Vincent takes a seat at the edge of it.
âYou know, after you left the dinner table, Genevieve was talking about how much she liked your speech? Do you know that yesterday morning, Solaine told me how grateful she was that you helped her with fixing her dress? Do you know that when I got lunch with Leon and Victoire, they told me how much time you spent preparing for everythingâthe speech, and the wedding, both?â
Oh. Yves hadnât known any of those things, and he knows Vincent isnât the kind of person who would lie about this sort of thing.
âI donât get it,â Vincent says, sounding distinctly pained to say it. âHow could you possibly think that you havenât done enough?â
Yves finds himself taken abackâby the frustration in his voice, by the fact that Vincent has noticed these things in the first place, by the fact that heâs deemed them important enough to take stock of. He makes it sound so simple.
âI donât know,â Yves says, at last. He shuts his eyes. âIf it was enough.â
âIâm telling you that it was,â Vincent says.
But Yves knows that he could have done more, if the circumstances were different. If he hadnât been so out of it during the wedding. If heâd taken the necessary precautions to avoid coming down with this in the first place. If heâd been able to stay through dinner, at least; if he hadnât needed Vincent to accompany him home.
âYou donât believe me,â Vincent says, with a sigh.
Yves doesnât say anything, to that.
âI canât speak for anyone else,â Vincent says. Thereâs the slight rustling of the covers as he shifts, rearranging one of the pillows at the headboard. âBut I had fun.â
Yvesâs heart twists.
Itâs sweet, unexpectedly. âYou donât have to say that just to make me feel better,â Yves says.
âWhen have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?â Vincent says, with a short laugh. When Yves chances a look at him, heâs smiling down at himself. âI mean it. Meeting your family has been a lot of fun. Itâs not often that I get the chance to be a part of something like this.â
Whether heâs referring to France, or the wedding and the festivities, or being surrounded by Yvesâs large extended family, Yves isnât sure. But if Vincent is trying to cheer him up, itâs working.
âI can see why you like France so much,â he says, turning his gaze out the window, though the view outside is filtered through the semi-translucent curtains. âItâs beautiful.â
âToday was supposed to be the last day for sightseeing,â Yves says, a little regretful. âBut youâre stuck here.â
âIn a sunny, luxurious hotel room, with a view of the pool and the garden?â Vincent says, with a scoff. âI could think of worse places to be.â
Staying up all night, just to check up on Yves, more accurately. Vincent must be tired, tooâyesterday was already tiring enough. And now itâs morning already, and he hasnât gotten any sleep.
âReading Hemingway,â Yves adds.
Vincent looks a little surprised. Then he laughs. âYes. I guess youâre right. Perhaps itâs an agonizing experience after all.â
The yawn he stifles into his hand, after that isnât half as subtle as he tries to make it.
Yves feels his eyebrows creep up. âAre you sure you donât want to get some sleep? Thereâs plenty of room.â He scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed, just to make a point.
Vincent peers down at the space beside him, a little hesitant. âAt 10am?â
âItâd be, what, 4am, back in Eastern time?â Yves says. âBy Ndew York standards, youâre supposed to already be asleep.â
âThatâs not how it works,â Vincent says, but he dutifully moves a little closer to Yves anyways. Heâs changed out of yesterdayâs wedding attire, more sensibly, but now heâs wearing a knitted cardigan which Yves thinks looks unfairly, terribly good on him. Yves finds himself marveling at the unfairness of it all. How can someone look so good wearing something so casual?
Vincent smells good, up close. When he lays down next to Yves, pulling the covers gingerly over himselfâleaving a careful amount of room between them, but still dangerously, intoxicatingly closeâYves feels his breath catch in his throat.
Vincent is right there, less than an armâs length away from him, closer than heâs ever been, and YvesâYves isâ
âSee,â Yves says, as evenly as he can manage to, in his current state, as if his heart isnât practically beating out of his chest. He swallows. His throat feels dry. âThis bed definitely fits two.â
âI suppose it does,â Vincent says. âNow you can tell me if Iâm a terrible person to share a bed with.â
âAfter everything Iâve put you through,â Yves says, âI think Iâd honestly feel reassured if you were.â
Vincent smiles, again, as if he finds this humorous. âAre you sure youâre going to be fine?â
âPositive,â Yves says. âYou should sleep. Iâll wake you if I ndeed anything.â
âOkay. If youâre sure.â Vincent shuts his eyes.
Itâs not long before his breathing evens out, not long before he goes perfectly still. He must really be tired, Yves thinks, with a pang.
Yves, for some reason, finds that he canât get to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes on end, shuts his eyes, all to no avail. Maybe itâs because heâs already slept far more than his usual share. Maybe itâs the jetlag. Maybe itâs merely Vincentâs unusual presenceâthe strangeness of having him so close, in an environment so intimate.
But when he allows himself to look, he seesâ
Vincent, his eyes shut, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks. From the window, the filtered light gleams unevenly across the crown of dark hair on his head. Thereâs almost no movement to him at all, aside from the even rise and fall of his shoulders.
And Yves knows what the feeling in his chest is. Heâs regrettably, intimately familiar with it.
He just isnât sure he likes what it means.
â
Vincentâdespite falling asleep so quicklyâis up before him. When Yves wakes, next, itâs to a hand to his forehead.
âHey,â Vincent is saying, softly. âYves. You have a visitor.â
Yves opens his eyes.
Heâs feelingâa little better, remarkably. Still feverish, still a little unsteady, but leagues better as compared to yesterday. When he looks over, he seesâ
He doesnât jolt upright, but itâs a close thing. âAimee!â
He barely has a chance to ask before sheâs crashing into him, encircling him in a tight hug. âYves!â she exclaims, pulling back from him. âHow are you feeling? Oh my gosh, when I heard you left early because you were unwell, I was so worriedâŚâ
Yves grimaces, turning away. âSorry, I had every idtention of staying until the endââ
âYou came all the way out with the flu!â she says. âI honestly canât believe you. The fact that you still took the trouble to attend with a feverââ
âItââ Yves starts, but he finds himself twisting away, lifting an arm to his face. âhhEH-! HEEhDâTTSCHH-iiiEEw! Snf-! Itâs fide, snf-! Iâmb practically recovered already.â
âI shouldâve told you not to push yourself when you told me you were coming down with something,â Aimee says, shaking her head. âAnd you stayed and gave such a lovely speech, even though you werenât feeling well? When I was talking to Victoire after, she mentioned that youâve been sick for days and Genevieveâyou shouldâve said something.â
âIâll say somethidg next time,â Yves says, a little sheepishly. âDid the wedding go okay?â
Aimee visibly brightens, at this. âIt was more than okay,â she says, her eyes gleaming. âIt blew every expectation that I had out of the water.â
Aimee fills him in on everything that happened after he left, last nightâdessert, the first dance, the cake-cutting; her favorites out of the photos theyâd taken after the ceremony (a shot of Genevieve braiding her hair during the cocktail hour; a shot of them leaning in close, for the dance, tired but smiling; a shot of the cake with its multiple tiers, the frosting strung like banners across it; another where both of them are holding onto the cutting knife together and Genevieve looks like she is trying not to laugh; a shot of the bouquet toss, the flowers suspended in mid-air). She tells him about the conversations she and Genevieve had with others about marriage and their futures and their plans for their honeymoon.
Then she lectures him on how he should worry about his health first, next time. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that sheâs fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind the next time he tries to pull something like this. She insists that his health is more important than anything. Vincent stands off to the side the entire time, his arms crossed, passively listening in, but when Yves looks over helplessly, mid-lecture, he definitely looks a little smug.
All in all, she doesnât seem disappointed in him at all. And, more importantly, she seems happy. Yves finds himself relieved, at this.
Genevieve stops by, too, a little later, to thank him for the advice heâd given her the day before the wedding. She hugs him too, and she leaves him a bag of tea that she promises âis practically a cure to anythingâI hope it makes your flight home tomorrow a little more tolerable.â Victoire stops by, with Leon, and Yves resigns himself to more lecturing from the both of them. Itâs humbling, a little, to be lectured by his younger sister and his younger brother, though he concedes that perhaps this time, it might be at least partially warranted.
Then Leon opens their hotel fridge to show him the two creme brulees he and Vincent had missed out on, packaged nicely in small paper containers. (âVincent told me you were interested in these,â he says, and Yves finds himself slightly mortifiedâbut perhaps also a little endearedâthat whatever it was that heâd said last night, offhandedly, Vincent had deemed it important enough to text Leon about.)
Later, after Yves showers and gets changedâwhen he and Vincent eat the creme brulees at the table in the living room, and Vincent tells him that heâs finished the book, perhaps a little masochistically (âit doesnât get any better,â he says, sounding a little spiteful)âYves finds himself smiling.
Heâs happy, he realizes, despite everything thatâs happened. Even with the slight headache, and the lingering congestion, the fever that hasnât quite gone away entirely. The revelation comes as a surprise to him, at first. But when he thinks about the people heâs surrounded with, he thinks perhaps it isnât all that surprising.
â
EPILOGUE
âAre you sure youâre feeling alright?â Vincent asks.
âYes,â Yves says. Itâs not a lie.
This time, heâs seated right next to the window, and Vincent is in the middle seat. Yves had offered to take the middle seat instead, but Vincent had insisted(âIf you wanted to sleep, you could lean against the window,â heâd said, and Yves had accepted only because it would be better to fall asleep against the window than do something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Vincentâs shoulder).
âItâs just the annoyidg residual symptoms, now,â he says. âIââ
God. He always has the worst timing. He veers away, muffling a tightly contained sneeze into his shoulder.
âhHEH-âIIDDZschH-yyEW! Snf-! Iâmb â hHhEHhâDjjsSHH-iEW! Ugh, Iâm fine. I feel better thad I sound.â
âBless you,â Vincent says, leaning over to press his hand against Yvesâs forehead. âNo fever,â he says. âThatâs good. But you should take another day off when we get back.â
Yves doesnât think taking another day off is necessary. âI spedt the entirety of yesterday sleeping,â he says. âI think Iâve rested enough.â
Vincent just raises an eyebrow at him. âNeed I remind you that someone very wise told you to take it easy?â
âSince when has Aimee been your spokesperson?â
âShe made a lot of good points,â Vincent says, deceptively unassuming. âI think you should consider taking notes.â
Yves looks at him for a moment. âYouâre laughing at me.â
This time, Vincent smiles. âMaybe.â
Yves leans back in his seat, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. The changing cabin pressure is not exactly comfortableâhis head still hurts a little, but heâs flown enough times to know that it wonât be as much of a problem once they finish their ascent.
âThadks again for coming,â he says, unwrapping one of the small, packaged pillows the airline has left on their seats.
âYou invited me,â Vincent says, blinking. âAll I did was show up.â
But that isnât true at all, Yves thinks. Vincent is the one who spent time learning basic French, who met Yvesâs family and who spoke with everyone with genuine interest, who bought Yves medicine and water, all while being careful to not be overbearing. Vincent is the one who left the wedding early to walk Yves back to the hotel, who stayed with him the entire day afterwards.
âThatâs such a huge understatement I donât even kdow where to get started,â Yves says. âThanks for meetidg my familyâthey love you, by the way. Theyâre going to be askidg about you every summer from now on, I just know it.â
He can already picture itâJune, this year, after busy season is over, if their fake relationship lasts that long. Another flight where theyâre next to each other. Another dozen conversations about how theyâd met, about what itâs like dating a coworker, about what their plans for the future are.
Perhaps itâs wishful thinking. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement in the first place. But something about thisâabout being here with Vincentâjust feels so unthinkingly easy.
âItâs no problem,â Vincent says. âThe feeling is mutual. Iâm glad I got to meet them.â
âThanks for looking after me, too,â Yves says, with another apologetic smile. âIâmb sure being stuck in a hotel room all day wasnât how you were planning on spending your last day of vacation.â
âI donât mind,â Vincent says, sounding strangely like he means it. âI like spending time with you.â
Yves nearly drops the pillow heâs holding.
When he looks back at Vincent, Vincent looks faintly amused. âIs that so surprising? I think Iâd be a terrible fake boyfriend if I didnât.â
âYou make a really good one, as it stands,â Yves tells him, sincerely, and Vincent smiles.
Yves looks out the windowâwhere the city beneath them begins to resolve itself into miniature, where the sky stretches where he can see Vincent reflected faintly back at him, from the glassâand finds that he feels impossibly light.
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snzfic#when i set off to write a slow burn h/c fic i don't think i expected it to be 28k words#this was a journey for me... thank you sincerely to everyone who's joined me for the ride đ#i am not sure if this specific chapter feels rushed? or if it's too short? (if it does i'm very sorry đââď¸)#some thoughts... (spoilers ahead; pls read the chapter before proceeding)#1) this installment in particular is something of a turning point in their relationship development (and i hope that's not too subtle)#2) vincent not being like a traditionally 'soft' caretaker and having his frustration show a little more openly is something i've had in my#head for awhile :') it was fun to let that crystallize this chapter#yvverse#my fic
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The Worst Timing | [3/?]
part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again đââď¸). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anythingâmuch less the fluâruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
â
Itâs fine, until it isnât.
â
Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe.
His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes.
Tomorrow, heâll be away for most of the afternoonâwith the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his familyâand Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieveâs friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They wonât see each other for the entire dayâat least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening.
Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, whoâd told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.
All he has to do, now, is just see it through.
â
Yves wakes up coughing.
He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like theyâre weighing him down, like itâd be a considerable inconvenience to move themâhe isnât sure if heâd be able to sit up properly.
He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether heâs running a fever. Itâs no useâhis hand is warm and clammy. He canât tell.
Fuck. This is not good.
One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters heâd bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one heâd drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.
âHhehhâYISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHHâiIDTSSHh-iiEW!â
The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. Itâs not warm enough in the living room. He doesnât know if itâs the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket heâs under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasnât been moving enough to get warm. Heâs not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.
The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wearâhe hadnât packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isnât especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as itâs one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.
But when he sits upâor, rather, when he attempts to sit upâhe feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest.
He definitely has a fever, even if thereâs no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.
One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.
For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.
Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that heâs keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now.
Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if heâs going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallwayâat the very least, heâll be a little quieter out there.
Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.
âDrink,â Vincent says. âItâs uncapped.â
Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterdayâthe water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.
Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to doâsomething. Yves doesnât know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.
âSorry,â Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. âI didnât mbean to wake you.â
Vincentâs eyebrows furrow. He looks⌠upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.
He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.
Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. Itâs strange, how good it feels to be touchedâhe knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincentâs fingers to his skinâwhen heâs spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyoneâis strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.
Vincent pulls away, too soon. âYouâreââ
âWarm?â Yves finishes for him.
âFeverish,â Vincent clarifies, with a frown. âDid you already know that?â
âI had a hunch,â Yves answers, honestly.
Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. âItâs fide. Iâll take something for it,â Yves says. âYou should go back to sleep.â
âWe slept early,â Vincent says. âIâm not tired.â
âWhat time is it?â
Vincent glances at his watch. â5:34.â
âThatâs still early enough that you should be asleep.â Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and thereâs a prickle in his nose again. âSorry. I can be quieter.â
His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stiflesâor, rather, attempts to stifleâthe sneeze into the fabric.
âhhâ! hhEHHâNGKTSHCH-iiew!â
Itâs still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. Itâs a good thing theyâre not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasnât exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.
âBless you,â Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. âWas it like this last night?â
âWhat?â
âWere you unable to sleep last night?â
Itâs not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worriesâthat Vincent knows precisely how little sleep heâs gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last nightâor worse, that Yves was the one who kept him upâwhich is why heâs asking this question now.
But if he knew, wouldnât he have said something about it yesterday?
âI slept fine,â Yves says.
Thereâs a cold breeze coming in from somewhereâfrom the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he canât say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincentâs expressionâthe way Vincentâs eyes linger on him a little too longâthat he doesnât do it well enough.
âYou should really have taken the bed,â Vincent says, with a sigh. âItâs warmer.â
âItâs warm here too,â Yves says. There probably wouldnât even be a problem if he werenât feverishâitâs just the relative temperature difference thatâs making him shiver. âAre you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?â
âIf you stop giving me reasons to be worried,â Vincent says plainly, âThen I will.â
Yves sighs. Heâs cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesnât want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu heâs managed to pick up this time. âThis is not the first time Iâve been under the weather,â he says. âIââ he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. âhHeh-!-hHEHhânGKTTSHH-iiIEw!â
âBless you.â
ââI kdow what Iâm doing, snf. I don't even feel thatâhh⌠hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!â The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. ââthat udwell,â he finishes, sniffling, though thatâs not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.
âSo youâve said,â Vincent says.
âYes,â Yves says. âYou can trust me on this.â
Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.
âWhat do you need?â he says, instead.
Yves blinks at him. Itâs not the question he expects Vincent to ask.
âNothidg,â he says, honestly. âSeriously. Itâs just a cold. Iâll take somethidg for it when I wake up.â
âCold medicine?â To Yvesâs nod, Vincent says, âI can get it for you, if you want.â
âNo need. Iâll probably just â hhEhh-! HhEHhâIITShh-iiEW! Ugh⌠Iâll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.â
Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that heâs probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.
âYou should sleep, seriously,â Yves says, insistent. âMaybe youâll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. Iâll be okay.â
Vincent blinks at him. âAre you sure?â
âIâm sure.â
âOkay,â Vincent says, softly.
Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like theyâre slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.
The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes itâs quiet enough to not be disruptive. Itâs hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but heâs determined to try.
The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like itâs been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.
Two more days. He just has to make it through. Heâll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairsâthe kind thatâs supposed to smother all the symptomsâand then heâll be good as new, heâs sure.
Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. Heâll be less disruptive if heâs asleep. Itâs just getting there thatâs the problem. Heâs exhaustedâthat fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awakeâbut every time he finds himself drifting off, heâs jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.
In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and theyâd say that Yves has his life reasonably put togetherâbeing the eldest of three does that to you. Heâd spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean onâthe kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations heâd gotten regularly thrown intoâand for the most part, itâd worked.
Heâd learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come upâsomething that feels frustrating and insurmountableâit doesnât really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.
Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about herâthat he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that itâd take its toll on her. That sheâd take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.
Itâs hard not to miss her, now, when heâs alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasnât her. Maybe it was just having someone he didnât have to hide from.
Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent wouldâve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent arenât actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that theyâve been getting along well, as of lateâhe might even consider them friends.
But then again, hasnât Vincent agreed to do all of thisâlying to Yvesâs friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the nextâbecause itâs easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?
Itâs a lie that theyâre telling, but itâs a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event theyâre attending, thereâs nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that werenât the case?
Itâs going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. Sheâs not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.
The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.
â
When Yves falls asleep, itâs the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenesâhim at Aimee and Genevieveâs wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings heâd been to in the past all superimposed into one.
When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, itâs to a pounding headache and what heâs certain must be a fever. He canât seem to stop shivering. Itâs already bright outâthe curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.
He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesnât remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, sheâd send him straight homeâheâs in no state to attend a wedding, and heâs not sure if heâs in any state to pretend thatâs not the case.
He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though thereâs no one here to witnessâ
âhhEhh-âiZZSSHHâIew!â The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. âHh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-âIDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHHâiDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! HâIIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! UghâŚâ The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.
Thereâs a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. Itâs strangely thoughtfulâa part of him is a little worried that Vincentâs only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligationâbut heâs grateful for it, nonetheless.
Itâs exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.
He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and heâs always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. Itâs supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and thenâif heâs not feeling better by tomorrowâtake another before the wedding starts.
It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.
Then he shoots off a quick textâ
Y: thanks for the cold meds :)
Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)
Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh
Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:
V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon
V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch
Yves blinks. Thatâs a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincentâs plans with Genevieveâs friends arenât until dinner time, so it makes sense that heâs out doing something else.
His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.
Y: jealous! have fun!
His phone buzzes not long later with Vincentâs response.
V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep
V: Do you want me to bring anything back?
Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever đŚ, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance
Victoire has sent him, vincent told me youâre sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message âď¸
Then he sends back to Vincent:
Y: iâm good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch
Vincent doesnât say anything, to that, which means that heâs probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much laterâwhen all of this is over.
He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.
â
The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silenceâheâs never been good at stiflingâand does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.
It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. Heâs happy to be backâhere, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. Heâs really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone whoâs influenced him so fundamentally get married.
Theyâre all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. Itâs not quite as formal as what heâs planning to wear tomorrowâthe shoes are the only item heâs planning to rewearâbut he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.
Itâs not unusually cold outâthis would probably be considered temperate weather here, in Marchâbut the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.
The cold medicine helps, tooâit keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. Heâs congestedâhis sinuses hurt a little, like everythingâs a little waterloggedâbut at least he isnât sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; heâs tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.
âDude, you sound awful,â Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.
âThadks,â Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. âYou always kdow just how to flatter me.â
Leon looks him over with a frown. âAre you sure youâre good for tomorrow?â
Yves doesnât know. âLetâs hope so,â he says. âI donât have any contingedcy plans for if Iâm not.â
âIâm sure Aimee would understand if you told her.â
âIâm sure she would.â Yves looks over to where Aimeeâs standingâsheâs in the middle of a conversation with Yvesâs parents and some of the adults on Genevieveâs side of the family. Heâs too far to make out what sheâs talking about, but she looks happyâsheâs gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.
Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. âHow was ludch with Vincent?â
âI like him,â Leon says, brightening at the question. âHeâs surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.â
âJust because heâs funny?â
âThat certainly doesnât hurt,â Leon says, grinning. âBut you work with him, right? If heâs a nice person while heâs looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, heâs probably a great person when heâs doing anything else.â
âYves! Leon!â someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees itâs Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dadâs side of the family. âPictures!â
âComing,â Leon shouts back.
Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.
â
When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. Heâs always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincentâall things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gatheringâwarm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.
He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.
âHey,â he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. âDo you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?â
She smiles up at him. âYou can sit here,â she says.
He takes a seat on the stepsâa few feet away from her, because he doesnât want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesnât know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimeeâthrough the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimeeâs entire disposition seems to change around herâbut heâs exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations heâs had with her in person on one hand.
âSo,â he says. âHow are you feelidg before the big day?â
âDo you want the good answer, or the honest answer?â
âThe honest one,â Yves says. âhit me with it.â
For a moment, Genevieve doesnât say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.
âIâm terrified,â she says.
âYou think somethidg might go wrong?â Yves asks, surprised. âYou guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.â
âItâs not that,â she says. âItâs more likeâthis is probably going to be one of the most important things Iâve ever done,â she says. âYou know, when something is really important to you, so itâs just that much more crucial that you donât mess it up?â
âYouâre the bride,â Yves says, clearing his throat. âI donât think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh⌠HEHâIIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when youâre supposed to be saying your vows. I wodât forgive you if you do that, by the way.â
She laughs. âGod, no. Iâd never do that. Itâs justâthereâs all this perceived⌠I donât know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like youâre just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.â
âIâm guessing youâre ndot a fan of, like, pottery,â Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. âOr sculpting.â
âI havenât tried either of those things,â she says. âThough I would probably be bad at them.â
Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.
âI think you donât have to be so concerned about what itâs supposed to be,â he says. âYou can give yourself permission to justâlive it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,â he says. âYouâll have a ring on your left hand. Thatâs good enough to offset anyâwell, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.â
âI guess,â Genevieve says.
âItâd be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,â Yves says, turning to face her. âWhatâs the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,â he says. âBecause however the moment crystallizes, itâll be you.â
âDid you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?â Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than beforeâsheâs sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.
Yves grins at her. âI have a younger brother and a younger sister,â he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesnât really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. âItâs exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.â
Genevieve laughs. âIt must be lively,â she says. âYour whole family is very accommodating.â
âTheyâre certaidly a handful,â Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. âI love them to death. And Iâll be happy to have you as part of them.â
She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. âThanks for this.â
âYeah,â he says. âNo problem.â
They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.
âHow did you kdow it was her?â he asksâa sudden, impulsive question.
As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.
âThere was never any doubt,â she says.
When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.
âLike, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myselfâin Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely differentâshe would always be there.â Yves understands thatâback when heâd been dating Erika, heâd felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person heâd ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didnât involve her.
âThose kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,â Genevieve says. âIâd look over her halfway through morning coffee, or Iâd watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or Iâd watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.â
âThat you wanted to be with her?â
âThat I was happy.â Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. âIâm really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago Iâm not sure if I couldâve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that wayâlike theyâd guard your happiness under any circumstanceâis really something special.â
âYou were the one who proposed to her,â he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after itâd happened, remembers how heâd excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. Sheâd sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.
âI was,â Genevieve says. She smiles. âI knew that if I gave up this chance Iâd be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.â
â
When he gets back from dinner at last, itâs late.
The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body achesâspending the evening outside in the cold probably didnât help with thatâand even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he canât stop himself from shivering.
He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzyâhe finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.
His head really hurts. Itâs the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.
Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He mustâve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.
âHow was the wedding rehearsal?â he asks.
âGreat,â Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. âHow was dinner with Genevieveâs friends?â
âThey were very nice,â Vincent says.
âNdicer than my friends in New York?â
âI felt less like I was being evaluated,â Vincent says, with a smile. âBut if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.â
Yves laughs. âIâmb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldnât hear any disapproval from them.â He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he canât quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. âWhat did you guys talk about?â
âLots of things. Life in France,â he says. âLife in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.â
âDo you believe in mbarriage?â
Vincent looks at him. âI think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,â he says. Then, after a moment: âIt worked out for my parents.â
âThe busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?â
Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. âThey werenât in love when they got married,â he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. âStrictly speaking, Iâm not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.â
âWhat about you?â Yves asks. âDo you think youâll fall in love someday?â
âIs that really something Iâd choose?â Vincent says. âIt either happens or it doesnât.â
âSure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.â
âIf I found something worth pursuing, Iâd go after it,â Vincent says.
Yves laughs. âThatâs very like you.â he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, heâll even be in Vincentâs life for long enough to know.
His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.
âhHEh⌠HeHhâIIDZSCH-yyiEW!â The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. âHh⌠hehh-HEh-HhehHhâIIzSSCH-iEEw! HhâŚ. HEHhâDJSCCHh-IEew!â
The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tenderâhe raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.
âYou sound worse than you did last night,â Vincent says, with a frown.
Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincentâs eyes on him. Itâs embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when heâs like this by someone whoâs usually so well put together. âIâb a little prone to losidg my voice when Iâm sick,â he admits. âItâs pretty incodvedient.â
âIâm probably not making it any better by talking to you,â Vincent says. That might be trueâYves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, itâs because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usualâbut Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they havenât talked all day.
He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: âHow are you feeling?â
âGood as new,â Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: âGood enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesnât start until three, but Iâll probably be up earlier to see if thereâs anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.â
Vincentâs eyebrows furrow. âIf anything comes up, I can help.â
âItâs fine,â Yves says. âI couldnât ask you to do that.â
âYou donât have to ask. Iâm offering.â
âI can handle it on my own. Even if it doesnât seem like it, Iâ hHHEhâIDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! Iâmb really fine. I swear.â
âYvesââ
âIâve done this before,â he insists, which is true, tooâheâs certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. âIt doesnât have to be your problem.â
For a moment, thereâs something there, to Vincentâs expressionâa flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then itâs gone. When he blinks, Vincentâs expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if heâd imagined it.
âOkay,â he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. âYou should sleep soon, if youâre able to.â A pause. The rustling of sheets. âGoodnight.â Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that heâs messed things up, somehow, though heâs not entirely sure how.
But what can he say? He justâhe just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesnât it?
âGoodnight,â Yves says, instead.
[ Part 4 ]
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snzfic#this chapter turned out to be kind of personal to me in some ways?#i am so sorry if it feels uneventful đ#i have done so much googling on so many things that did not make it in (and a few that made it in only peripherally)#work is killing me and i am stressed out of my mind so i am posting this before i get swept away and am unable to edit for a week#next chapter will be the wedding for real!#and i will be mean for real when i get to writing it đââď¸#yvverse#my fic#thank you to anyone who has left nice tags/comments on previous parts :') it's hard to express the full extent of my gratitude but#thank you for making my life a little happier
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The Worst Timing | [4/?]
happy friday, everyone! here is part 4 (5.3k words) as a little pre-valentines-day installment :) [part 1] is here! this chapter was a pain to edit; i think i deleted + rewrote about a fifth of it in the revision process
anyways, i promised this chapter would be the wedding, so... please enjoy the wedding
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anythingâmuch less the fluâruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
â
Itâs a hectic morning.
Yves wakes up with the sinking realization that the medicine he took yesterday has worn off entirely. That is to say, he wakes up with the kind of unshakeable exhaustion he only feels when heâs coming down with something bad. His head is throbbingâsharp, cutting pain lances through his skull as soon as he finds it in himself to get out of bed.
All of that is inconsequential. He takes two pills from the cold/flu medicine blister pack with a generous few sips of water, brushes his teeth, washes his face in the sink with water cold enough to jolt him awake, and heads out.
He finds Aimee early, to ask her if she needs any help with anything. Then he makes himself available to the relatives that need him. Thereâs a last minute printing issue with the seating cards, so he goes through all of them again, finds the ones that are misprinted, talks extensively with the hotelâs front desk to explain what selection he needs to get reprinted and why, gets redirected towards the hotelâs business center, and finally gets them reprinted properly in one of the storerooms in the back. He lines the cards up and cuts them manually with a paper cutter he finds in one of the conference rooms on the first floor.
Then he takes a shuttle to the wedding venue to help set out all the seating cards according to a seating plan Genevieve texts him, but itâs windy enough outside that he has to find a way to weigh them all down. The venue has card holder stands, thankfully, but he doesnât figure that out until he spends a good fifteen minutes asking around for them.
Then he waits twenty minutes in the cold for the shuttle backâthe shuttles are thankfully in operation, but theyâre running infrequently enough at this hour to be a slight inconvenience. By the time he gets on the shuttle, heâs shivering hard, even in his jacket, and his hands are almost numb from the cold.
The temperature certainly doesnât help with the pressure in his sinuses, or with the sore throat that heâs had for a few days now. Perhaps itâs a blessing that the shuttle is near-empty save for him, because no one is there to question it when he ducks into his elbow with every loud, wrenching sneeze, or the coughing fit that almost inevitably follows.
When he gets back, he finds a sewing kit for Royâs sister, Solaineâthey donât sell them at the convenience store downstairs, but he finds some in one of the tourist shops on the opposite end of the first floor of the hotelâfor some last minute fixes to the way itâs hemmed. He delivers some safety pins from Victoire to one of his aunts, picks up breakfast pastries from the cafĂŠ across the street for his parents.
He takes a quick, hot shower, hot enough that the entire bathroom steams up because of it, and hopes that no one can hear the way every sneeze sounds so terribly, unnecessarily loud, even in the presence of his rapidly depleting voice. He rehearses his speech from memory and then rehearses it again, thinking through his notes on the pauses and the reflections. He irons his suit out, for good measure.
If he stops and lingers too long, it becomes quickly evident just how exhausted he is, just how unwell he feels when thereâs nothing strictly keeping him on his feet. So instead, he makes himself useful where he can, busies himself with whatever he finds, if only because itâs the best distraction he can think ofâif only because itâs the one distraction he has the luxury to take.
â
Lunch is a quick affairâheâs not especially hungry, and there will be more than enough food at the reception, so he grabs two pastries from downstairs, a coffee with two shots of espresso, and heads back up. Sitting down and eating them in the hotel room is somehow worse than running errandsâlike this, he canât chalk his exhaustion up to his hectic morning, canât attribute the heavy, shivery feeling thatâs been following him all day the cold weather outside.
Three more hours until the wedding. Anticipation always feels the worst, like this, when itâs nearly inseparable from worryâjust a tangle of emotions in his chest.
He exhales.
Vincent is offâsomewhere. Getting lunch, maybe, or getting ready for the wedding somewhere else. Yves has exchanged maybe all of twenty words with him this morningâdo you know if our room has a sewing kit? Or, Iâm going to stop by the cafĂŠ downstairs. Do you want me to get you anything?
Truthfully, Yves isnât feeling much better today. His nose is running a little less now, thanks to the cold medicine, but the headache that heâs had all morning hasnât gotten any less persistent. Even with his suit jacket on, he still canât quite manage to get warm. Heâs sneezing a little less, but each sneeze catches him off guard, harsh and sudden and embarrassingly loud.
But Vincentâwho is, on average, unusually perceptiveâhasnât said anything about any of it. Yves tries not to think too hard about it. The less Vincent is worried about him, the better. Maybe heâs just preoccupied with other things.
He finishes his pastries at the small coffee table in the living room, downs half of his coffee, and then leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes.
His head hurts. He feels dizzy, even though heâs sitting perfectly stillâas if the ground beneath him isnât quite as steady as it should beâa strange feeling of vertigo. Surely if he sits here for just awhile longer, that feeling will go away.
He doesnât fall asleep, exactly, but itâs a close thing. The discomfort doesnât let up, eitherâno amount of massaging his temples seems to make the headache any better, and no amount of shuteye seems to do anything to lessen the exhaustion he feels. Maybe if he takes a nap heâll wake up feeling passably fine. But he thinks itâs just as likely that heâll get woken up earlyâby a phone call, or a text, or a knock on the doorâto be told that heâs needed somewhere, and that alone is enough of a deterrent to keep him from properly falling asleep.
From somewhere at the edge of consciousness, he hears footsteps out in the hallway.
Someoneâs here, then. He should let them in. But before he can bring himself to stand up and head over to the door, he hears the sound of the room card being inserted into its slot, hears the click of the door as it unlocks.
SomeoneâVincentâshuts the door quietly behind him. When he spots Yves, he looks a little surprised.
âI didnât think Iâd find you here,â he says.
Yves blinks. His face feels unusually hot. âI got lunch,â he says, clearing his throat. âWell, I fidished it, but if Iâd known youâd be getting back, I wouldâve gotten somethidg for you.â
âIâm surprised you made it back,â Vincent says, leaving his shoes in a neat line at the door. âAre you done putting out all the fires now?â Yves laughs, though it turns into a cough. âFor the foreseeable future, yes. Sorry iâ hhH!â He twists over his shoulder, away from Vincent, to cover the sneeze in a manner that does not come at the expense of his suit jacket. âhHh-! iiDDzschh-IEW! snf-! Sorry Iâve barely been around this mornidg.â
Vincent is his own personâYves has no doubt that heâs entirely self-sufficient when it comes to travelâbut still, Yves is the only person Vincent really knows here. Heâs not sure he can claim heâd be good company in his current state, but he feels like maybe he ought to be around more oftenâto translate, or to serve as the conversational buffer, or something else.
âItâs no problem,â Vincent says, frowning. âYou were busy.â
âStill. If we were actually datidg, I think this would make me a slightly terrible boyfriend.â
âIf we were actually dating, I would understand that you have important things in your life to attend to,â Vincent says.
Yves laughs. âLike cutting sixty sheets of paper into even rectangles?â
âIs that what you were out doing all morning?â
âAmong other things.â
âThen yes,â Vincent says. He stops just short of the coffee table where Yves is sitting. âAre you finally off of paper-cutting duty?â
âGod, I hope so. Weddings are always so hectic, even if youâre only peripherally idvolved. Itâs like everyoneâs worried about things going wrong beforehand, but then when you finally get to them, they always go fine.â
âHave you been to a lot of weddings in your life?â
Yves considers this. âCobpared to the average person? Probably.â
âThen you should listen to your own advice,â Vincent tells him.
âWhat?â
âItâs going to be fine.â
Yves blinks. If Vincent can tell that he is nervous after a three minute conversation with him, then Yves must really not be doing a good job at hiding it.
âThatâs what Iâm hoping for,â he says. He really is tired. Maybe another cup of coffee, or two, will helpâhe can hardly think of anything more mortifying than nodding off halfway through the vows. âI donât think Iâll forgive mbyself if it doesnât.â
â
Itâs a near-perfect wedding.
The weather is as temperate as it gets at this time of year. Itâs sunny out, and brisk enough that no one feels stuffy in their suit jackets and their summer dresses.
The wedding venue is like something out of a storybookâthe white stone paths, arcing around a circular fountain, the water a clear, searing blue; the rows and rows of flowers that crowd around it. Flowersâroses, peonies, tulips, gardeniasâline the walkways, strung up over arches in crisscrossing rows of sprawling green leaves.
When Aimee and Genevieve walk down the aisle, Leon grins; Victoire turns away to wipe at her eyes. When they say their vows, Yves feels a tightness in his chest, a fierce sort of pride. He knew, of course, that this moment would make him emotional.
But nothing compares to seeing them here, right here, smiling. Aimeeâs hair is half up, half down, held in place with a half moon clip that winks white under the sunshine. Genevieve is wearing a long white dressâher hair is braided into a crown, threaded with flowers, a translucent lace veil settling over her shoulders. The afternoon sunlight trickles over them, gleaming. And Yvesâ
Yves has always believed in love.
Perhaps itâs overly idealisticâheâs certainly been told as much beforeâbut he believes in it still. He believed in it even before he started dating Erika, and he believed in it after they broke up, too. Itâs not so much the idea that people can be soulmates, more the idea that people can spend thirty or fifty or seventy years together and not tire of each other, the idea that the little mundanities of life might be made special in the presence of someone whose existence sublimates them endlessly into interest. The idea that two people who may not ever fully understand each other might try, ceaselessly, to get close.
He remembers: hearing about Genevieve, over text and over call; at first peripherally, but then frequently. He regrets, sometimes, that he wasnât there more for the both of them, that he could only help from an ocean away with celebrations and holidays and special events, that he still doesnât know Genevieve as well as heâd like to.
But a part of him thinks, now, that maybe it was a privilege, too, watching from afar. Hearing about the dates secondhand, from Aimee, all of it filtered through her own excitementâhearing Aimee talk about everything that left an impression on her. It would have been different, of course, if he had really been there. But in a way, it is a little fitting that his first impression of Genevieveâhis first mental portrait of herâwas by someone who was already already half in love with her.
And he remembers: Aimee, unusually quiet one night over Facetime, sitting cross legged in the living room of their new apartment. The world, dark outside through the living room windows, even though for him it was only mid afternoon. The way sheâd smiled, wistful, staring off into the distance at some point he couldnât see. I think I might marry her, she had said.
She had said it like she was certain. He finds himself going back to that moment, to her certainty. Heâs always wonderedâhow had she known? How had she been so sure of it, even then?
But the way Genevieve takes Aimeeâs hands, during the vowâthe way her hands tremble slightly with it, the particular carefulness with which she handles the ringâall of it makes him think that heâs been right to believe in this, in them, in love. After all, what more convincing proof is there than this?
â
All in all, it is nearly perfect.
Nearly, save for how unwell he feels, how self conscious he is about not making it expressly known. Yves shivers through the entire ceremony, occasionally lifting the collar of his suit jacket to muffle a harsh, wrenching sneeze into the fabric. Heâll get it dry cleaned later. Beside him, Vincent looks to him, his head tilted in questionâand, after Yves smiles apologetically at himâsays nothing.
He makes it through, as a combination of everythingâthe adrenaline, the cold medicine, the four espressos heâd had this morning and the energy drink heâd downed right before the ceremony to keep himself awake.
He doesnât have a thermometer, doesnât know what kind of temperature heâs running, but he has a hunch that itâs higher than it should be. Itâs freezing outsideâcold enough that he canât keep himself from shivering, even when he triesâbut no one else seems to be as cold as he is. He can only hope, now, that no one else notices him ducking into his jacket, periodically, to catch another sneeze, or wiping his nose on the back of his hand to keep it from openly running.
The world looks fever-bright, fuzzy around some edges but unusually sharp around others. Heâs awake, but in the sort of uncomfortable, all-consuming way where it feels like heâs too nervous to get any sleep at all.
He feels only half-present during the cocktail hour, while Aimee and Genevieve take their pictures. He thinks he should make himself useful somehowâhelp with positioning props for photos or with setting up the proper lighting or whatever elseâor, at the very least, converse with the relatives that he hasnât had much of a chance to catch up with yet.
Instead, he sits, half hunched over at one of the side tables, and tries not to shiver too visibly. His head hurts with the sort of sharp, incessant pain that makes it near-impossible to focus on anything else.
âAre you okay?â Vincent asks him.
Yves looks over to him. Vincent looks concernedâhis eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth set into a frownâand Yvesâ
Yves considers it, for a moment: telling Vincent the truth. That itâs taking everything in him to appear even remotely presentable. That a part of him is nervous that heâll crash before he gives his speech. That he might have overestimated his own ability to get through four more hours of this, outside in the cold.
âOf course,â he says instead, with the best smile he can muster, because what else is there to say?
He doesnât end up having any drinks, even though heâs usually a fan of cocktails. Leon offers him one, and when Yves shakes his head, shrugs and heads off to find someone else, which Yves thinks is probably the best. Heâs a little too out of it to keep tabs on where all the others areâthere are enough people that itâd be hard to spot everyone in the first place, but like this, it feels impossible.
And Vincent is⌠surprisingly, absent, for much of it. Yves considers texting him a couple times, just to see where he might be, but then decides against it. If Vincent has found something fun to do, then Yves definitely isnât going to keep him from doing it.
Except, a small part of him says, heâd explicitly told Vincent not to worry about him. It doesnât have to be your problem, heâd said, and Vincent had stared back at him, blankly, except was his expression really blank, then? Hadnât he seemed a little hurt? After all of this is over, Yves really ought to apologize to him for all of the troubleâfor making this whole wedding a lot more stressful than it shouldâve been.
Vincent had known, after all, that he was nervous just this morning, even though Yves hadnât wanted for it to show. And perhaps Vincent has always been perceptive, but Yves likes to think he isnât always so obvious. Vincent is here to enjoy his vacation in France, first and foremost. Yves doesnât want anythingânot the fever he feels brewing, not the nervousness he feels regarding the weddingâto get in the way of that.
But right now, Vincent is nowhere to be found, so he tables the apology for later. For now, he just has to get through the entirety of the wedding. He spends a good part of the hour in the same seat, blowing his nose into cocktail napkins, wishing he had packed something warmer that would fit the dress code.
He makes polite conversation with whoever stops by, and triesâand failsâto ignore the fact that it feels like his head is going to split. Maybe he shouldâve picked up some aspirin at the convenience store, too, though itâs not like he has the time to go back and get it now. And, anyways, as painful as it is, itâs really just a headache. How bad could it be?
â
At six, he finds his seat for dinner. A couple minutes later, Vincent takes a seat next to him. Yves turns to speak to him, only, he has to turn away to muffle a throat-scraping fit of coughs into his elbow.
The coughing fit lasts longer than he anticipates. When he looks up at last, Vincent is already in conversation with the person next to him, who Yves recognizes to be one of Genevieveâs friendsâperhaps one of the ones he ate dinner with the night before, though Yves canât be sure. Yves hunts down another cocktail napkin to blow his nose intoâitâs starting to run worse now that the sun is starting to set.
When it comes time to give his toast, heâs afraid, for a moment, that he might forget what to say. That he might trip up mid-speech, despite all of the practice. That his current affliction might make itself clearly, embarrassingly apparent right when everyoneâs attention is focused on him.
But the speech goes well. He gives his speech in French. His voice is noticeably off, but he hasnât lost it entirely, and if he has to resort to clearing his throat as quietly as he can in between sentences, itâs a small sacrifice. Aimee giggles at the anecdote he tells about her in grad school, texting him about meeting Genevieve for the first time at a networking event. He throws in a couple inside jokesâreferences to things heâs heard his extended family laugh about during their yearly summer reunions, things that he can tie back into the wedding that he hopes might land well with this audienceâand then he tells everyone about a surprise party he worked with Genevieve to plan, last summer, for Aimeeâs birthday: how sheâd stayed up late to make sure everything was carefully accounted for. How heâd known, then, from how seriously she was taking it, by how well she seemed to know Aimee already, that she would be the one.
The jokes seem to land, for the way everyoneâbuoyed from the adrenaline of the wedding and in part thanks to the cocktails, heâs sureâlaughs, and by the end, Genevieve is beaming, and Aimee breaks tradition to run up to him and give him a tight hug. After that, he asks everyone to raise their glasses in a toastââTo Aimee and Genevieve,â he says, âwhat a joy it is to see the team youâve been rooting for win,â and the room erupts into clamorâinto applause and cheer and the resounding clinking of glasses.
Then someone he recognizes as one of Genevieveâs closest friends stands to give her toast, and for the first time today, Yves lets himself relax in his seat. Only, it isnât really relaxingâafter all of the caffeine, he feels simultaneously exhausted and strangely, artificially alert, in a way that feels a little wrong.
The rest of the wedding should be smooth sailing, he thinks. The ceremony is over. His speech was fine. He just needs to stay through dinner and the cake cutting, and then he can ride the shuttle back with everyone else, and thenâ
âAnd then heâll be back at his hotel room, where he can apologize to Vincent for perhaps being the very reason why this vacation hasnât been as stress-free as it shouldâve been, considering that itâs likely one of the few reprieves he and Vincent are supposed to get until busy season winds down.
He blinks, rubs a hand over his face, sniffling. He really does feel dizzy.
Itâs usually like this. Yves thinks he should probably be wiser by now. If thereâs anything heâs learned from past experiencesâattending that end-of-semester crew meeting with the flu, or getting through the second half of finals week his senior year of university with a high feverâitâs that half a week of ignoring all of his symptoms is going to catch up to him eventually.
Usually heâs better at defining what constitutes eventually.
He feels a familiar prickle in his noseâthe kind that he knows once he gives in to will plague him for the rest of the hour. The cold medicine must be wearing off. Better to do this elsewhereâanywhere instead of here, on the courtyard, where everyone is eating dinner.
âIâll be right back,â he says to Vincent. Then, without waiting for a response, he rises from his seat and heads off in the direction of the nearest restroom. Thereâs one in the main building, past the catering stations, the ballroom, the indoor bar.
âHey, Yves,â someoneâhis sisterâsays, when heâs halfway to the building.
He stops walking. âWhatâs up?â
âYou nailed that speech,â she says.
âIn no small part thadks to you,â Yves says, forcing himself to turn and face her with a smile. âIâm glad we cut it down. And by we I mean, mostly you.â
âYou were a hit,â Victoire says. âAnd it was funny. I liked the anecdotes you picked. I donât think people wouldâve minded if it were longer.â
âThree mbidutes was the perfect length. Ady longer and people wouldâve started losidg idterestâ hHh-!â Yves thinks, a little frustratedly, that he always has the most inconvenient timing. âExcuse mbe, Iâ HHehh!â He lifts his arm to his face, twisting away. âhHhEHâiiDZSSchhâiiEW!â
When he turns back around to face her, Victoire is staring at him with the sort of calculating look that Yves is sure is not a good thing.
âYouâre still sick?â she asks.
He blinks at her. âA little,â he says. âIâll get some sleep todight.â
She nods. âDoes Vincent know?â
The question startles him into laughing, which he immediately regrets, for the way it makes him cough. âThat Iâmb sick?â he asks. âYeah, Iâd assume so. We share a room.â
âAssume? So you havenât talked to him about it?â
âWhether or ndot I have a cold is not the mbost enthralling conversation topic,â Yves says.
âBut youâre dating,â she says, as if that explains everything.
It explains nothing. âYes, glad you ndoticed.â
âI just mean that â I mean, he got breakfast with us the other day, which you werenât there for, and then we had the rehearsal dinner, which he wasnât invited to. And during the cocktail hour, you were sitting alone.â
âIâmb not sure where youâre goidg with this,â Yves says, if only because he doesnât want to be having this conversation right now. âBut if youâre wondering whetherââ He veers away again, pressing his arm to his face. âhh⌠Hehh-! hhHHâGKTT-SHHiiew!Ugh, sorry⌠Hh⌠HEHhâIIDZZSCHh-yyEEew! snf-! If youâre wondering whether we got into a fight, or sobething, then the answer is no.â
âItâs not that.â Victoire hesitates, for a moment, as if sheâs still thinking about what to say. She probably is. Sheâs always been deliberate with her words. âIt kind of seems likeâwell, like youâre doing that thing you always do.â
âWhat thidg I always do?â
âYou know.â She looks at him, her expression carefully, deceptively neutral. âAvoiding the people who care about you when somethingâs wrong.â
âI have ndo idea what youâre talking about.â Yves glances wistfully over to the bathroom. âI do really ndeed to pee, you know.â
He half expects her to press, but she just sighs. âOkay,â she says. âDonât let me keep you.â
Itâs a convenient out, and he takes it. The walk over is thankfully not too longâthe bathroom turns out to be located just a couple hallways down from the entrance, but itâs hidden enough that itâs a little hard to find. For now, thatâs a good thing.
He imagines the wedding party might move inside shortly after dinner, but as it stands, the building is mercifully empty. The restroom on the first floor is nicer than expectedâwarm lighting, floor to ceiling mirrors, polished white sinks on a black granite countertop. He braces himself against the countertop, suppressing another shiver.
His nose is running slightly. He reaches over and grabs a couple paper towels from the dispenser, just to be safe.
Itâs not a moment too early. Itâs only moments after that heâs pitching forwards into the paper towels with a harshâ
âHhHâiiDZSSCHh-IIEW!â
The sound echoes off the tiled walls. Yves finds himself coughing, afterwards. The medicine must really be wearing off, then, for the way his nose is starting to run incessantlyâfor the way the discomfort prickles at his skin, suggesting a fever. Itâs a good thing thereâs no one here to see him like this.
âhHEHhâiIZssCHH-iiEW! snf-! hHEh⌠HDDtâTSSCHH-iEEW!â The sneezes are harsher than usual, too, and forceful enough to snap him forward at the waist. He stays hunched over for a moment, steadying himself with the side of the countertop, and tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to catch his breath.
The bathroom feels frigidly cold. He shivers, reaches up with trembling hands to try to button up his suit. His nose is starting to tickle again. It feels like he might be here forever, like one wrong breath might be enough toâ
âhhHâŚ. hHEHâŚ. hhHEHâDJJJSHHâiiEEW!â The paper towels in his hand must be drenched now, but before he can get a chance to replace them, his breath catches again. âhhEHâGKTT-SHhhEw!â Itâs immediately clear, from the subsequent twinge in his nose, that heâs not done. For a moment, he wonders if the sneezes will ever let upâif heâll be stuck in the bathroom all evening, trying to keep his illness under wraps.
Before he can entertain the thought properly, he finds himself jerking forward again, his eyes snapping shutâ
âHehh⌠hEHhâIIZSCHH-YYEEW! hHihhHâ-iiTsSHHH-YYEW!â
He blows his nose, as gently as he can, but the paper towel is rougher against his skin. When he looks up afterwards, blinking tears out of his vision, his nose looks noticeably red.
It takes all the resolve in him to not just slump against the wall.
His next breath comes in wrong, and he finds himself coughingâharsh, grating coughs which seem to go on and on, leaving him feeling distinctly lightheaded.
He canât stay here. He needs to make it back to dinner, where the others are waiting for him. He has to get back before Vincent starts wondering where heâs gone.
Yves squeezes his eyes shut. If heâs being honest with himself, he feels awful. Nothing he does seems to do anything to assuage the chill thatâs settled persistently over him, the uncomfortable, shivery feeling that makes him want to curl up somewhere warm, sleep the next day and a half away.
Would it be so bad for him to stay here for just a little longer? To send a text to Vincent to let him know heâll be back in twenty? Itâs not the most comfortable of places, but it would be the easiest to explain if someone ends up finding him here. Anywhere else might suggest that he has a big enough problem to deliberately hide away instead of properly enjoying the festivities, like he should be doing, which is not the impression he wants to give off at all.
He tries to think of a convincing enough excuse, but nothing he can think of takes precedence over a wedding dinner, of all things. It should be fine if he goes back now, but any longer might be pushing things.
And, anyways, he feels guilty for even considering it. The others are waiting for him. He has to show up, and at the very least, be courteous where he has to, make pleasant conversation when he can. He has to make sure Aimee and Genevieve are having fun, and that Leon and Victoire are doing fine, and that nothing needs to get done logistically, and that Vincent is not there alone, surrounded by strangers speaking a language heâs just started to learn.
His head is pounding. He tosses the paper towels into the bin, leans his weight against the countertop, squeezes his eyes shut. The exhaustion from the past few days of on-and-off sleep must be catching up with him. His head is pounding.
He can do this. More aptly put, itâs not a question of whether he can. He has to do this.
He splashes his face with cold water, washes his hands in the sink, dries his face with another generous handful of paper towels, and heads towards the door. He feels almost too tired to stand, but thatâs only a temporary concern. It wonât be a problem once he gets back to his seat.
Everyone is waiting for him, he tells himself. Soon, they might be asking where heâs gone. He needs to show them that heâs thereâpresent and attentive and engaged, just like he promised everyone heâd be. No one expects any less of him, after all.
Itâs with that in mind that he presses forward. He makes it down a couple hallways before he finds himself having to lean against the wall to catch his balance, shutting his eyes against the sudden wave of disorientation. He inhales, slowly. Exhales.
Fuck. Perhaps heâs dizzier than heâd expected.
âYves?â He freezes. Vincent is not supposed to be here. Vincent canât see him right now, not in this state. He forces himself to smile. âWhatâs up?â
âYou disappeared,â Vincent says. âI wanted to make sureâŚâ
His voice shutters, sounding distant and close by all at once. â...that everything was okay.â
âIt is,â Yves says. âI was just about to head back.â âWe can head back together,â Vincent says. Itâs not that long of a walkâjust a couple minutes, at most, to the exit Vincent presumably came in from, and then back down the stone path that leads to the courtyard.
âYou didnât have to come find me. Iâm really fine.â Yves shifts his weight off from the wall. Takes a couple steps halting towards the exit, which is a mistake.
It all registers simultaneously: the darkness encroaching upon the edges of his vision, the surge of panic in his chest. The world, suddenly angled wrongly, tilts towards him. He thinks he is definitely going to owe Vincent an apology.
[ Part 5 ]
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snzfic#spoilers for this chapter ahead:#(do not read these tags if you have not read the chapter yet)#(one more line so that this doesn't show up unless you click read more)#i... am sorry. i know the ending to this chapter is probably going to be controversial (glances at the poll i made awhile back)#but i really wanted to write it đ#(you are free to yell at me for this decision)#i almost lost my nerve and let this sit in my drafts forever because the wedding was incredibly difficult to write but#i finished editing it today after drinking something very caffeinated#yvverse#my fic
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The Worst Timing | [1/?]
hello!! I've been wanting to write a longer h/c fic for awhile. This is the exposition/first installment to that (4.8k words).
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written for these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anythingâmuch less the fluâruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
â
âA wedding,â Vincent repeats.
âYes,â Yves says. âA wedding.â
Itâs his cousin Aimeeâs weddingâsheâs four years older than he is. Back when heâd gone with his family back to France over the summers, sheâd been one of the people heâd grown quickly to look up toâsomeone who knew the ins and outs, it seemed, to every stage of life he was in the process of stumbling through.
Yves has always been used to being looked up toâone of the natural consequences, perhaps, of being the eldest in his immediate familyâand he likes to think that heâs good at giving off the impression that he has things figured out. But heâd grown close to Aimee at their family reunions precisely because she was everything he tried to be: strong-willed and resilient, self-sufficient even in the face of hardship.
Aimeeâs getting married to Genevieveâsomeone who Yves has only met a couple times, but who manages to be one of the sweetest people heâs ever met. All in all, itâs a wedding he wouldnât miss under any circumstances.
Leon, his brother, and Victoire, his sister, will be there, along with Aimeeâs friends and the rest of his extended family. The problem is that Leon keeps in touch with Mikhail. Mikhail let slip that Yves has been seeing Vincent. Leon told Victoire, who told Aimee. And now Aimee is offering to pay for Vincentâs plane ticket to their wedding in France in the springâa bit of a last minute arrangement, but sheâd sounded so excited at the prospect that Yves was finally seeing someone new (âIâd love to meet him,â sheâd said over the phone, âwould it be too much to ask him to take a couple days off work? Oh my gosh, please give me his contact details, Iâll send him an invitation,â and sheâd sounded so excited about it that he hadnât had it in him to turn her down).
âItâs very last minute,â he says, âbut my cousinâs getting married, and she really wants to meet you. Itâll be some time in early March, in Provence. She says sheâll pay for your flight, if you want to go, but youâd probably have to take a couple days off.â
âOh,â Vincent says, blinking at him. âAnd you want me to be there?â
âOf course I do,â Yves says. âI think itâs more a question of whether you want to be there.â
Vincent looks back at him, his expression carefully blank. âAre you sure you want to introduce me to your family? That doesnât seem like the kind of thing that youâd take lightly.â
âThey want to meet you,â Yves says. âAnd I wouldnât mind introducing you. I think they would really like you.â
âIt would be a waste of your time,â Vincent says, quietly, âto introduce me as someone youâre serious about if weâre just planning to break things off.â
Yves is well aware of the fact. This arrangement with Vincentâthe trust he places in Vincent; the practiced familiarity, the feigned intimacyâhas an expiration date. The fact that he doesnât know when the expiration date is doesnât change the fact that it will, inevitably, endâwhen Erika gets the point, or fades from Yvesâs life entirely; when Vincent finds someone he considers worthy of pursuing in actuality; when either of them become interested in dating again. Whatever it is that ends up ending things, Yves knows: what he has with Vincent right now is strictly temporary.
Perhaps it would be disingenuous to lie to his family about who exactly Vincent is to him. But then again, Yves thinks it isnât much worse than any other relationship, with all of its ups and downs, all its hopes and uncertainties. Itâs not like he can ever guarantee that a relationship is certain to work out, no matter how serious he feels about it in the moment. So is there really any harm to introducing Vincent as his current partnerâas someone he feels certain about now, but maybe not alwaysâand to leave it at that?
âItâs not really going to be my day, in the first place,â Yves says. âMy relationship status is more of a conversation starter than anything. And even if you go by the timeline we told Erika, we havenât even been together for a year. I donât think my family will think much of it other than, like, a small and noncommittal window into what Iâve been up to. So itâs really up to you.â
âI think it would be fun,â Vincent says, âthough only if youâre sure about having me there.â
âGreat. Iâm sure,â Yves says. âEveryone will love you.â He does think itâs true. Something about Vincent tends to have that effect, he thinks.
â
The fact that he and Vincent are traveling together is not exactly a secret.
Vincent agrees itâs best shared on a need-to-know basisâthey wonât be the ones to bring it up, but if someone asks about it, theyâll answer honestly. It would be more work, Yves thinks, to have to coordinate lies about this.
But he runs into trouble not even two weeks later.
âSo you and Vincent are taking the week off,â Cara says to him carefully, over lunch.
âYes,â Yves says.
âAny plans?â
âIâm actually flying to France,â Yves tells her, uncertain about whether or not he should mention Vincentâs involvementâif Vincent has talked to Cara about this already, thereâs no point in hiding anything, but he should be careful with the information he discloses otherwise. âOne of my cousins is getting married there.â
âOh,â Cara says, all too knowingly. âWhat a coincidence. Vincent told me heâs also planning on going to France.â
âI⌠heard,â Yves says, slowly. âHeâs told me as much.â
âI didnât realize France was such a popular tourist destination for march,â Cara says, smiling at him. âI thought most people went over the summer.â
âYou know what they say,â Yves says. âFranceâs beauty knows no seasons.â
âYou should ask Vincent which part of France heâs visiting,â Cara says, with a smirk. âMaybe you guys can book a hotel together.â
Yves is positive heâs being laughed at. âItâs the third largest country in Europe,â he says. âIâm sure the chance of us ending up in the same region is statistically very low.â
âI think Cara knows weâre fake dating,â he laments to Vincent later, in the break room. âI mean, the dating part, not the fake part.â
Vincent blinks at him. âDid you tell her?â
âNo,â Yves says. He doesnât think theyâve been that obvious about it. âI just told her I was going to France. She made some undue assumptions.â
âOh,â Vincent says. âI told her I was attending a wedding there.â
An impromptu trip to France, over the same week at the tail end of busy season, to attend a wedding. Separately. Yves is starting to understand where Cara's suspicions mightâve come from.
âThat would do it,â he says.
Perhaps they really need to coordinate what a need-to-know basis means. Cara is, thankfully, not the type of person to gossip, from what Yves has gathered, but if their coworkers know, that could complicate things. âI donât think sheâll say anything,â he says. âBut Iâm sorry. I didnât think sheâd assume.â
Vincent seems to consider this. âItâs fine,â he says. âThough it might prove troublesome when we decide to end things.â
âWe can figure that out when it happens,â Yves says.
At some point in the foreseeable future, everything will go back to how itâs always been. Yves had been fine on his own for a long time before heâd met Erika. Heâs sure heâll be prepared for it when it happens.
â
The entire drive to the airport feels surreal.
Mikhail drives them. They leave at the crack of dawnâ4am, on the dot. Victoireâs in the passenger seat, dozing off, and Leon, Vincent, and Yves are crammed into the backseat.
Yves sits in the middleâthereâs not much leg room to go around in the first place, but he tries to take up as little space as possible, mostly for Vincentâs sake. He and Leon have been crammed into far smaller cars on far longer road trips.
Leon says, âThis is the earliest in the morning Iâve ever third wheeled.â
Victoire, who has her eyes shut, says, âItâs very nice to meet you, Vincent.â
âLikewise,â Vincent says.
âYves has told us all about you,â Leon says.
âOh,â Vincent says, blinking. âWhat has he said about me?â
âMostly that youâre super hot,â Leon says. Yves, who is in a perfect position to elbow him, elbows him for that.
âYou make me sound so shallow,â Yves says.
âBut also that youâre really good at your job,â Leon continues, patting Yves on the leg. âDid you know Yves likes people who heâs slightly intimidated by?â
âI never said that,â Yves says.
âItâs pretty obvious,â Mikhail says.
âYou guys are conspiring against me,â Yves says, and Vincent laughs.
Leon launches into a series of questionsâabout how they met, about who asked who out first, about what itâs like at work, about what kinds of things Vincent does for fun.
âNo wonder Yves is totally whipped,â Leon says, after Vincent finishes telling a story about how heâd given a presentation at a conference in place of his then-boss, who hadâdue to unforeseen flight delaysâfound out last minute that she wouldnât have been able to make it on time. Yves hasnât heard this story before, but it doesnât surprise him that Vincent would be able to pull that sort of thing off, even with such paralyzingly short notice. âYouâre exactly his type.â
Just great. If anyone could dig a nice, fitting grave for him over the span of one conversation, Yves thinks, it would be younger brother.
âI canât believe he hasnât invited you over for dinner yet,â Victoire says, her eyes still closed. How much of this conversation sheâs actually been awake for, Yves canât say.
She makes Yves promise that, after their trip to France, Vincent will be over for dinner. (âSure,â Vincent says. âJust tell me the date in advance. Iâll clear my schedule.â Yves will have to apologize to him after thisâfor some reason, Vincent has an uncanny talent for ending up invited to half the things Yves is personally involved in.)
Yves is awake enough to hold a conversation, but he finds himself yawning mid-sentence on more than a few occasions. Vincent doesnât so much as yawn at all over the entirety of the car ride. Yves has no idea if heâs always up this early, or if heâs just naturally immune to tirednessâanother signature of his good genetics, next to the fact that he looks like heâs just stepped out of a photoshoot, or the fact that he manages to look good in everything he wears. Some people just win the genetic lottery, Yves supposes.
For some reason, he finds he feels a little more tired than usual. Waking up early is never easy, but usually heâd be distinctly more alert by now. Thereâs a strange, uncharacteristic heaviness to his limbsâitâs the kind of grogginess he only experiences when he hasnât been getting enough sleep for awhile.
Itâs fine. They have an eight hour flight ahead of themâtheyâll be flying into Marseille, and then being driven up to Provence, where the wedding will be taking place. He can catch up on sleep over the flight.
As theyâre unloading the suitcases from the back trunk, Vincent says, âYour familyâs nice.â
Yves laughs. âIâm relieved they havenât scared you off yet. Sorry for the⌠well, interrogation, by the way.â
âI can tell youâre close to them,â Vincent says, a little more quietly.
When Yves looks over, something about Vincentâs smile looks almost wistful. Yves wonders, briefly, how well Vincent has kept up with his own family. If heâd ever been packed into the backseat of a small car, back when heâd lived in Korea; if over some long road trip, heâd ever had to come up with increasingly inventive ways to pass the time. If his relatives ever teased him, then, about the crushes heâd had when he was younger, or anything else. If the ocean that was suddenly between them came with another, less tangible kind of distance, the kind that even phone calls and international flights can never quite bridge.
Yves doesnât know. He doesnât even know how heâd go about asking if he wanted to know. How is it that sometimes, he feels like he knows so much about Vincent, but other times, he feels like he knows almost nothing at all?
â
Aimee has booked him a seat next to Vincent.
Theyâre a few rows away from the othersâI wanted to seat everyone together, Aimee had texted him a few weeks back, but when I was booking Vincentâs ticket, the seats up front were all sold out, so I just moved you so youâd be sitting next to him.
Now, he watches as Vincent pushes his briefcase gingerly into the overhead compartment.
âYou must not be new to flying,â he says.
Vincent nods. âIâm not.â
âEight more hours,â Yves says, taking the middle seat so that Vincent doesnât have to. âItâll be over in no time, especially if you take a nap.â
âI have some work to get done,â Vincent says. âOnly after the plane takes off, though.â
Rightâno electronics larger than a cell phone until theyâre 30,000 feet in the air. âI thought this was supposed to be your week off.â
âIt is,â Vincent says. âI just want to make sure everythingâs still in one piece by the time I get back.â
Yves has never quite been comfortable on planes. Itâs not that heâs afraid of flying, or that the turbulence bothers himâitâs more just the cramped space, the noise, the anticipation, the discomfortâall of it compounds. Itâs usually difficult to get to sleep, but heâs so tired right now that maybe this flight will be an exception.
Thereâs just one problem: whoever is in charge of the air conditioning in the airplane cabin really hates him. Compared to Provence, New Yorkâs climate is generally more extremeâcolder in the winters, hotter in the summersâso all he has on him right now is a thin jacket. Itâd be perfectly reasonable attire in most situations, except for the fact that this airplane in particular is unusually frigid. Itâs definitely cold enough to be distinctly uncomfortable, especially considering that heâs just sitting in place. Yves crosses his arms, suppressing a shiver.
âDo you think Aimee will be convinced?â Vincent asks.
âConvinced?â
âThat weâre together.â
âIâm sure she has better things to do than play detective over the state of my relationships,â Yves says, with a laugh. âYou donât have to worry about that.â
âItâs why you invited me,â Vincent says, âis it not?â
âPardon?â
âTo show the rest of your family that youâre not still hung up over Erika.â
âI invited you for a lot of reasons,â Yves says. âFor one, youâre good company.â
âSo are all your friends.â
âI thought we could both use a week off,â Yves adds. âItâs France, in the springtime. What could be better?â
Vincent says, âI need you to tell me what to do.â
âWhat?â
âYour cousin paid for my flight,â he lists, counting off his fingers. âYour family is paying for the hotel. Your best friend drove me to the airport.â He says these things as if heâs listing off all the ways in which heâs indebted to them. âItâd be easiest for both of us if you told me how to make a good impression. Thatâs what Iâm here for, right?â
Yves blinks. âI donât think youâd need my help to make a good impression.â
âYou couldâve taken anyone with you, but youâre taking me,â Vincent presses. âThere has to be something you need me for.â
If there was nothing, you wouldnât have invited me. The sentiment hangs between them, unspoken. But Yves can see it in Vincentâs expression.
âMy favorite cousin is getting married,â Yves says, fervently. âTo her fianceeâwho is also super cool, by the way. My whole family is going to be there. Do you think Iâd choose to endure an eight hour plane ride sitting next to someone I didnât like?â
âMaybe,â Vincent says.
Yves shakes his head. âItâs true that my family wants to meet you. But if I didnât want you to come to France with me, I couldâve come up with an excuse.â
He twists around in his seat so that heâs facing Vincent directly. Narrowly resists the urge to reach out and grab Vincentâs hand. âI like spending time with you. I wouldnât have invited you if I didnât. You donât have to do anything out of the ordinaryâif you have fun on this trip, thatâs more than enough.â
Vincent stares back at him, his eyes wide.
Yves has a feeling heâs said too much. It isnât Vincentâs fault for assuming this is all just for show, considering everything thatâs come before. Part of it is, but another part of him just really wants Vincent to have funâto take in the sights at the gorgeous venue Aimeeâs sent him pictures of, to have a week off in one of the most picturesque countrysides in the world (Yves may be slightly biased, but still) and not have to think too hard about impressing everyone.
âIs that⌠okay with you?â Yves asks.
âYes,â Vincent says. âItâs just unexpected.â
âWhich part?â
âAll of it.â
âOh. Well. Iâm sorry if I misled you, or anything.â
âYou didnât.â This time, Vincent really does smileâa sly, quicksilver thing. âFor the record, I am very excited to go to your cousinâs wedding.â
âThank god,â Yves says. âThatâs good. I was beginning to think I was holding you hostage.â
He leans back into his seat, suppressing another shiver. Something about the changing pressure in the airplane cabin is making his head start to ache. Itâs probably the elevation. Perhaps he should try to sleep just so that he doesnât have to sit for eight hours with a headache brewing.
He shuts his eyes and tries. Itâs no use. Heâs tired, and the cabin is quiet enough, but itâs too cold to get to sleepâit feels impossible to get comfortable like this.
So he picks up a novel heâd been meaning to get toâsomething suspenseful, to offset the monotony of the flight.
When the seatbelt sign flickers off, Vincent unclips his seatbelt so that he can retrieve his briefcase from one of the overhead compartments, and spends the next half hour paging through multiple documents and leaving notes in the margins at a dizzying pace. Yves slinks down lower into his seat, trying hard not to shiver.
âIs it just me, or is it kind of cold in here?â
Vincent frowns at him in a concerned way that seems to suggest that it really is just him. Then again, Vincent is unfazed by New Yorkâs cold winters, so Yves isnât sure heâs the best point of reference.
âDo you need my jacket?â he asks.
âNo,â Yves says quickly. âItâs not that bad.â
âOkay,â Vincent says. âIf youâre certain.â
He turns his attention back to the screen, and Yves resigns himself to readingâor, more accurately, trying and failing to read. Itâs mercilessly cold, and his head hurts enough to make focusing on any one thing an uncomfortable task. He gets through another couple chapters, finds himself rereading the same passage over and over again, andâfinally, defeatedâdog-ears the page and slides the book into the pocket attached to the seat in front of him.
The next time the flight attendants come around, Vincent says something to one of them Yves canât quite make out. Yves asks for orange juiceâitâs not supposed to be symbolic, or anything, but on the off-chance that this headache ends up being a precursor to something more unpleasant, he thinks it might be wise.
The flight attendant pours him the orange juice heâs asked forâno ice (right now, something ice cold is the last thing he needs)âand sets it down on the tray table in front of him. Yves stares down at it, blinking. He hasnât eaten all day, but strangely, he doesnât have much of an appetite.
He doesnât register the flight attendant from beforeâthe one Vincent talked toâis back until he hears Vincentâs quiet âthanksâ to his left.
Something brushes against his arm.
He looks up. Itâs one of those travel blankets they sometimes carry, neatly folded, though this flight hadnât given them out to everyone at the start. They must be reservedâgiven only upon request, maybe.
âYou said you were cold,â Vincentâwhoâs holding out the blanket for himâsays, by way of explanation.
Yves blinks at him. Heâs about to reassure Vincent, instinctively, that itâs not that coldâthat he wouldâve been fine without the blanket, that Vincent didnât have to go out of his way to ask for one.
But his head hurts. He hasnât been warm all flight. To say that the blanket is a relief would be a massive understatement.
âThanks,â he says, taking it. âThis is perfect. I wonât be cold with this.â
He ends up wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tightly around himâlike a cloak, or like the jacket that he might have brought with him if heâd had the foresight to anticipate feeling this cold on a commercial flight.
Itâs nice. Heâs still a little cold, with the blanket, but itâs enough to keep him from openly shivering.
He should really try to get some sleep, he thinks. Itâs going to be evening in France when they land. A seat away from him, the window shutters are pulled up, but he can see, from the crevices around the window, that itâs light out.
âIâm going to try to nap,â he tells Vincent. âBut wake me up if I need anythingâelbow me if you have to. Iâm not usually a heavy sleeper.â
âOkay,â Vincent says. âIâll try not to wake you.â
âYou can wake me whenever,â Yves says, muffling a yawn into his hand. âDonât work too hard.â
Vincent smiles at him, the kind of smile that implies he thinks heâs working exactly as hard as he should be. âNo promises.â
Itâs not easy to get to sleep, despite his exhaustion. He lays there for a while, his eyes shutâitâs certainly warmer with the blanket, but for some reason, he feels strangely restless. Maybe itâs the adrenaline of being here, with his family, with Vincentâon the way to see one of the most important people in his life get married. Maybe itâs the cup of black coffee heâd downed this morning to be awake enough to help Mikhail navigate and, subsequently, awake enough to actually be useful at the airport.
In the end, he falls asleep to the static hum of the aircraft, to the sound of Vincent hammering away at his keyboard next to him, incessant and comforting.
â
Yves wakes to someone tapping him on the shoulder.
âSorry,â he says. âIâm up.â
âA âlight sleeper,â you said,â Vincent says. âWe just landed.â
Yves says, âIâm wide awake.â The yawn that he hides behind one hand is apparently not subtle enough, because when Vincent looks away from him in favor of staring straight ahead, it looks like heâs trying not to laugh.
Vincentâs stowed away his laptop alreadyâYves hopes thatâs a sign that heâs done with work for the duration of this trip, but more likely he just had to put it away for landing.
âHow was the flight for you?â Yves says.
Vincent looks at him. âUneventful,â he says, at last.
âNot enthralled by all the financial records you had to go through?â
âThey were very enthralling. How was your nap?â
âGood,â Yves says, even though he doesnât feel particularly rested. Heâs just groggy, probably, and the headache is just as bad as it was, if not worse. Heâs sure once he gets off the plane and gets some fresh air, heâll feel much better. âI probably needed it.â His breath hitches, unexpectedly, he turns to the side, raising his arm to his face to shield the oncomingâ
âhH-âIZscHHâiew!â
The sneeze is loud, embarrassingly, and it scrapes unpleasantly against his throat, which feels⌠off.
âBless you,â Vincent says, frowning. He looks more concerned than he has any right to be.
Yves flashes Vincent a distracted smile. âThanks.â
Everythingâfrom the moment they step off the planeâis exhaustingly hectic.
The hotel in Provence is more than an hour away from the airport theyâve landed at. They have a bus to catch, which means that after they regroup with the others, itâs international customs, baggage claim, and then theyâre headed, maneuvering multiple suitcases each, onto the bus. He sits next to Vincent, though on the aisle side, so that he can lean over and interject whenever Leon and Victoire say something thatâs worth commenting on.
Other than that, he talks with Vincent, mostlyâabout Aimee, about how sheâs been in his life for longer than heâs known how to write his name, back when his parents would take him back to France once or twice a year. (âShe was practically an older sister to me,â he says, âexcept we never fought,â to which Vincent says, âYou make it sound like not getting along is a requirement to be siblings,â to which Yves says, âIt definitely is.â)
His parents flew into France yesterday, so they should be settled in alreadyâtheyâll catch up with them at the hotel tonight, if itâs not too late. He probably wonât see Aimee and Genevieve until tomorrow morning, at breakfastâand even then, that depends on how busy they are with the various wedding preparations Aimeeâs been telling him about.
The roads nearing the hotel are uneven and winding. Halfway through the drive, Yves registers, faintly, that he isnât really feeling any better from before. His head is still hurting from the flight, and when he swallows, he finds his throat feels perhaps the slightest bit sore.
Heâs cold, too, in the sort of uncomfortable, persistent way thatâs difficult to alleviate, even with extra layers or with a warm drink. Heâs starting to suspect that maybe the airplane cabin hadnât been the problem after all.
None of that is particularly visible to any of the othersâthat is, until he finds himself tensing up halfway through a sentence, burying his head into the crook of his elbow as his eyes squeeze shutâ
âGod, sorry, Iâ hh-! hHehhâiiZZSCHhâiiEW!â
âBless you,â Vincent, Victoire, and Leon say to him, all at once.
âYouâd better not be getting sick,â Leon says, turning to him, with the sort of tone that implies that heâs joking. âThat would really be the worst timing.â
âIâm not,â Yves says, swallowing against the soreness in his throat. âI promise.â Or, perhaps more accuratelyâhe canât be.
It will be the perfect wedding, he thinks. Aimee has planned it out meticulously, and sheâs one of the most thorough people he knows. The weather forecast says this week will be sunny and temperate. Heâs here, in France. Tomorrow, heâll be surrounded by his extended family, and in the afternoon he and Vincent will head off to the welcome party, and heâll get to give Aimee the gifts heâs gotten for her and introduce Vincent to everyone formally. Everything will go as plannedâthe welcome party, the wedding rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner, and on Saturday, the wedding and the vows.
It will be perfect, because it has to be. Yves will be present, and attentive, and heâll give the speech he has prepared at Aimeeâs wedding, and theyâll all remember this week fondly. Even considering the small, almost negligible chance that heâs coming down with something, there are more important things he has to worry about right now, which is to say: Yves is going to do this right.
Heâs going to make sure of it.
[ Part 2 ]
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snz#i'm sorry if this exposition is like#comparatively uneventful đđđ#this entire fic was written with the intent of giving people-pleaser yves the worst time possible#so i promise that is to come... in the future (if i have the time and bandwidth to write more and if people want to read more)#yvverse#my fic#fun fact - i used to refuse to write characters with anything worse than a cold (the flu included) just as principle#clearly that changed over the years haha
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The Worst Timing | [2/?]
happy (late) new year :') after a month (and a lot of editing and dissatisfaction), i am back with part 2 of the 'yves has had too easy of a time' series (6.4k words). you can read [part 1] here!
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anythingâmuch less the fluâruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
â
When they get to the hotel Aimeeâs booked for them, itâs already late enough to be dark out. Yves helps unload their suitcases from the back, while Leon loads them up onto a luggage cart.
Itâs an exceptionally nice hotelâpicturesque brick walls, glossy windows all in a row, slanted red rooftops rising up into the sky. Heâd looked at it briefly when Aimee consulted him about the bookings, but it looks even more like a castle in person, like something straight out of a storybook. Yves will have to remember to thank Aimee and Genevieve again for picking such a nice place for them to stay at.
They check in at the lobby. Yves makes sure the suitcases make their way up to Leon and Victoireâs room, which is on his and Vincentâs floor, but at the other end of the hallway. (âDonât be late to breakfast tomorrow,â he tells them, sternly, and Leonâwho has slept through his alarms for as long as Yves has lived with himâlaughs. âIâm especially talking to you,â Yves adds, looking straight at him).
Then he wheels the luggage cart down the hallway. âIâm so ready to crash,â he says, to Vincent. âItâs been a long day. Are you tired?â
âIâll be tired once I lay down,â Vincent says. He carefully extricates one of the key cards and holds it out to the door card reader.
The interior of the hotel room is a little colder than the hallway is. Vincent flicks on the light, slips the key card back into its designated slot, and leaves his shoes in a neat line at the door. Yves follows him in.
Their room is a standard suiteâthereâs a small sitting area just next to the entrance, a bathroom off to the side, and a door frameâthough not a proper doorâwhich leads to the bedroom. On the far end, translucent white curtains give way to a sliding door which opens up to the balcony. Itâs a nice room, Yves thinks, with a nice view of the rest of the hotel, its pool and gardens, the circular sun umbrellas stretching out floors below them. Itâs only when Vincent hesitates, standing in the bedroom, that Yves realizes whatâs wrong.
The bedroom has a singular queen-sized bed, and nothing else.
Of course. It makes sense for this to be the living arrangement, if theyâre really dating.
âI can take the couch,â Yves says, clearing his throat, which doesnât feel any better than it did earlier.
Vincent turns to look at him.
âI mean, this whole pretend-relationship thing doesnât have to extend to us sharing a bed.â
Mentally, he kicks himself for not having the foresight to predict this. Just because Vincent is fine with putting on a show in front of his friendsâand in this case, familyâdoesnât mean that Vincent will be fine sharing a bed with him when theyâre in private.
âYou can have the bed,â Vincent says. âThe bed will probably be warmer.â
Whether thatâs a comment about how Yves has been too cold all day, or whether itâs just an offhanded appraisal which has nothing to do with him, Yves doesnât know.
âItâs fine,â Yves says. âI donât mind the sofa. Besides, hotels usually have extra blankets. Iâm sure theyâre just hidden in some drawer somewhere.â
He rummages through a few of the cabinets and looks through the closet until he finds what heâs looking forâa feather comforter, folded neatly on the top shelf. He takes it down, keeping it folded under his arm.
âSee,â he says, flashing Vincent a smile. âIâll be perfectly warm, like this.â Vincent still looks a little unconvinced. âYou should wake me if youâre not,â he says. âI donât mind switching.â
âDuly noted,â Yves says, even though he has no intention of waking Vincent for any reason.
âThe couch probably extends into a pull-out bed,â Vincent says, already heading back into the living room. âIt should be more comfortable. I can help you set it up.â
âI can do it,â Yves says. All this talking is not helping with his throat. Worse, somewhere over the course of the past couple hours, thereâs a faint tickle thatâs managed to settle into his sinuses.
âItâs the least I can do, if Iâm taking the bed,â Vincent says.
Yves is about to say more, but he finds that he really needs to sneeze. He lifts his arm to his face, his eyes watering, his breath hitchingâ
âHh-! hHehhâIIZSCHh-IIEW!â
âBless you,â Vincent calls, from the next room over.
âThanks,â Yves says, turning into his shoulder with a small cough. His breath hitches again, irritatingly. âhHeh-! HEHHâIiITSHHiEW! snf-!â
When he heads into the living room, Vincent is already almost done setting up the pull-out bed. Yves helps him lock down the legs of the frame.
âThanks,â Yves says, fluffing out the blanket heâs holding so that he can lay it out over the mattress. âAll set up.â
He looks the bed over. It looks inviting enoughâa little smaller than the bed in the bedroom, the mattress thinner, but fluffy and clean regardless. Vincent steps past him to duck into the bedroom and emerges a moment later, carrying two pillows.
âAre these your pillows?â Yves says.
âTheyâre yours now.â
âI can sleep without pillows.â
âThey gave me two sets, anyways,â Vincent says. âI wouldnât have made use of these ones.â
âOkay.â Tentatively, Yves takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. From the doorway, he gets a limited view of the bedroomâhe can see the curtains at the far end, the desk pushed up against the wall, and the very foot of the bed. âDo you think this is what couples do when theyâre traveling and they get in a fight?â
âIs that what weâre doing?â Vincent asks.
âIt might as well be,â Yves says.
âIf your family walks in and sees that Iâve banished you to the sofa, I donât think Iâll ever be forgiven,â Vincent says, so seriously that it almost doesnât register as a joke. Yves laughs.
âYou can just say I snore,â he says. âOr, worse. Maybe I kick you in my sleep.â
âDo you?â
Yves doesnâtâat least, heâs been told he doesnâtâbut itâs of no consequence. Theyâre not going to be sharing a bed. âLuckily for you, you wonât have to find out.â
He gets settledâsets his suitcase out on one of the side tables, sets out all his toiletries in the bathroom, puts the clothes heâs planning to wear for tomorrow in a neat stack, and hangs up the suit heâs going to wear for the wedding in the closet. Heâd been careful folding it, but heâll probably have to give it another good iron before the wedding date. By the time he has everything accounted for, the bathroom door is closed, and the showerâs running.
The hotel has left them a couple bottles of water on the nightstand but he heads downstairs to buy a couple more from the on-site convenience store on the first floor. Victoire had them exchange dollars for euros at the airport, which Yves thinks he might have forgotten to do in their haste. Even though sheâs the youngest of the three of them, sometimes he thinks she is the one with the most common sense.
He strikes up a brief conversation with the cashier, in French that he thinks is fairly fluent but probably accentedâitâs been awhile since heâs gotten any practice with it. His speaking is good, but there are some colloquialisms and some idioms that heâs not familiar with and ends up having to ask about.
By the time he gets back up to the bedroom, bottled waters in hand, Vincent is done showering, his hair still a little damp.
âI got us extra waters,â Yves says. âThereâs a convenience store down on the first floor.â
âOh,â Vincent says. âThanks. You didnât have to.â He looks nice, even with his hair damp, even though heâs wearing just a t-shirt and shorts to sleep, Yves thinks, and then immediately tables that thought.
âIt was nice to stretch my legs,â Yves says. âAnd nice to have a chance to practice my French. My relatives are going to be disappointed in me if I sound worse than I did last year.â
âAre you fluent?â
âFluent enough to hold a proper conversation. Not fluent enough to not sound like a foreigner. I grew up speaking French and English, but obviously in the states, there arenât as many opportunities to practice French.â
âI donât think you would have lost much of it,â Vincent says, as if from experience.
Yves laughs. âFor my own sake, letâs hope not.â
When he steps into the bathroom, the mirror is still fogged up from the steam. He swipes a hand over the glass to clear enough of it so that he can see.
He looks fine, still, at least outwardlyâa little tired, maybe, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by. Thereâs a faint flush to his complexion, too, which is strange, because he doesnât feel like he has a fever. Heâs just a little colder than usual, is all.
All in all, he still looks passable. At first glance, it doesnât seem very evident that anything is wrong at all.
He takes a shower, cranks the water up until itâs almost scalding, and stands under the hot water, shutting his eyes. The warmth is a welcome change. Itâs the first time today that heâs been really, properly warmâif only because heâs turned the water up a couple degrees higher than he usually has it at.
The water splashes over his shoulders. He leans his head back, taking in a deep breath of the steam.
Itâs fine. It will be fine. Heâll drink tons of water, take all the vitamin C he can find, and sleep this off tonight. Heâll be good as new tomorrow.
â
When Yves blinks awake, itâs still dark out.
The first thing that registers to him is that heâs cold.
What started off as a slight headache has turned into something much worseâhis head is throbbing, and even with the blanket, heâs freezing. The air conditioning in the room is onâhe can hear the low hum of it through the ventsâand everything feels unbearably frigid. Even the bedsheets, which are at the very least warm from his body heat, seem to always be losing heat, unpleasantly, when he shifts.
When he checks his phone, the time onscreen is 3:45 am. Too late to call the front desk and ask them to send up more blankets, probablyâeven if they are technically in operation, he doesnât want to be that one asshole to ask for a favor at this time of day.
Heâll ask tomorrow, he thinks, at a more reasonable hour. Itâs almost morning, anyways. Maybe if he manages to get back to sleep, he wonât feel the cold as much.
Thereâs a dull pressure to his sinuses, a slight tickle that seems only to sharpen as he rubs his nose. His breath catches, too quickly for him to do anything to attend to the subsequentâ
âHhehâ! hHEHHâiISHHhi-iEw!â
Fuck. The sneeze is loud enough to echo a little within the confines of the living room. Vincent is in the next room over. Vincent is asleep, presumably, like Yves should be.
And Yvesâs nose is starting to tickle again.
He raises the blankets to his face, presses his nose to them to muffle the nextâ
âhhEHâ hehhâIZschhH-IIEW! snf-!â
The sound is marginally quieter this time, muffled into the cotton, but itâs far from silent. He hopes, desperately, that itâs quiet enough, or that Vincent is a heavy enough sleeper for it not to matter. There isnât even a proper door between them.
He reaches up to swipe a hand over his eyes. How did this get so bad so quickly? His head feels heavy, and every sneeze that tears through him is harsh enough to scrape at his already-raw throatâwhatever hope heâd had for sleeping it off seems to be diminishing with every passing minute.
He listens, for a moment, for anything: any shifting from the room over, any motion, any footsteps. But to his relief, thereâs nothing.
His head is swimming. Worse, he still has to sneeze. The tissue box is on the nightstand in the bedroom Vincent is in, but Yves thinks that it would be too unwise to make a trip right now and risk waking Vincent up a good three hours before sunrise.
âhHh-! hhH-!...â
Fuck. He stays frozen like that, for a moment, one hand hovering over his nose and mouth. His nose tickles, badly, kept just narrowly on edge. It feels like one wrong breath would be enough to set off a sneeze, but sometimes it seems to evade him at the last secondâhe canât seem to get his body to settle on something decisive. âhhHEh-!â
The sneeze is unexpected, when it comes, at lastâloud and forceful and vicious.
âhehHâNGKTâshhHâEEW!â
A short burst of pain shoots through his temples. Yves canât claim heâs ever been good at stifling, and this attempt is no exception. Itâs not much quieter than the others, even muffled into his pillow, and the attempt to stifle has only made the pressure in his head feel worse.
âHheh⌠hh-!â He sniffles. His eyes are watering so much he thinks they might spill over. âhHeh⌠hh-hHih-HEHhâDJJSHhâiEEW!â
This one he muffles into his hands, ducking forward into his chest. The relief he feels from letting out the sneeze is unfortunately short-lived. Heâs nowhere close to done. He can feel it, in the tickle in his nose which refuses to let up, in the pressure to his sinuses which only seems to worsen with each sneeze.
For a moment, Yves contemplates spending the rest of the night just outside their room, out in the hallway. It will almost certainly be colder, he would be quieter there, at the very leastâthere would be a proper door and a wall between him and Vincent, and thatâs something, isnât it?
Before he can seriously consider it, heâs snapping forward at the waist, muffling another loud sneeze into the covers.
âhhHeh-iIDDSHHhhâYyiiEW!â
He finds himself coughing, after, muffling the coughs tightly into the feather blanket in an attempt to cough more quietly. He shivers, huddling deeper into the covers. His head is pounding. Every time he swallows, sharp, hot pain lances his throat.
He hears nothing from the room over, even when he listens carefully. This much is a reliefâtruthfully, he would feel awful if he were keeping Vincent up because of this. Yves has survived on less sleepâback in university, 6am crew practice meant waking up early even when heâd been up late to finish projects or coursework, or otherwise out late with friendsâbut the thought of keeping Vincent up makes something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. Vincent hadnât slept at all during the flight. He must be tired, now. The last thing he needsâafter the stress of being surrounded by strangers in a foreign country, after traveling for almost 10 hours straight, after being assigned to room with his coworker, of all peopleâis to be woken up at an ungodly hour just because Yves canât keep this damn cold under wraps.
Yves thinks he should try to sleep too, if only because it means he wonât be awake to succumb to the next sneeze that threatens to tear through him.
But if heâs entirely honest with himself, heâs not sure if sleep is going to come to him anytime soon.
â
Yves doesnât remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to his 7:30am alarm so tired that he feels like he hasnât slept at all
âMorning,â Vincent says, emerging in the doorway. Heâs fully dressed already, his shirt crisply ironed, the collar upright, his hair neatly styled.
âYouâre fast,â Yves says. His voice sounds a little hoarseâall the sneezing last night probably hasnât done it any favors. But if Vincent can tell that it sounds off, he doesnât say. âHave you been waiting long?â
âNot really,â Vincent says. âWe have time.â
âGive me a few minutes to get ready,â Yves says, hauling himself out of bed. âIâll be out in five.â
He changes in record speed, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and stuffs everything he can see himself needing into a backpack to take down to breakfast.
When he emerges, Vincent is waiting for him in the hallway.
âHow did you sleep?â Yves asks.
âFine,â Vincent says. âYou?â
âI slept well enough,â Yves says, before muffling a yawn into his hand. At Vincentâs pointed glance at him, he adds, âIâm just a little tired. Itâs probably jetlag. Itâs what, like, 2am over in New York?â
â1:42,â Vincent says, checking his watch. âIs your whole family going to be at breakfast?â
âIâm not sure if everyoneâs up,â Yves says. âBut Leon and Victoire will be. I told them to be downstairs by 8, so obviously theyâll kill me if Iâm not there first.â
The breakfast lounge is on the first floor, a few hallways down from the reception desk. Yves saves a table for them.
He isnât very hungry, for some reason. Still, he fills his plate with breakfast pastries and scrambled eggs and grabs a cup of hot tea while heâs at it. He really doesnât want to lose his voice entirely before the ceremony. Even with his jacket onâwhich is probably even excessive, considering the temperature of the lobbyâhe isnât as warm as heâd like to be.
Victoire joins them next. She waves to Vincent as she passes. âHope you guys got some sleep,â she says innocently.
Yves says, âWe got perfectly good sleep, thank you.â
âMorning,â Leon says, appearing in the doorway at 7:59.
âYouâre really cutting it close,â Yves says, sniffling.
âItâs 7:59,â Leon says. âWhether Iâm on time is a binary, not a sliding scale. Iâm entirely on time.â
The table Yves picked can fit more than four, so they spread themselves out through the seats. âMom and dad said theyâre having breakfast at one of the cafes nearby,â Victoire says, shrugging her sweater off and leaving it perched on the back of her seat. âThey said theyâd report back if itâs anything life changing.â
âThereâs a welcome party tonight,â Yves says to Vincent, âFor everyone whoâs flown in. Youâll get to meet them then.â
âIs there anything your parents hate in a partner?â Vincent asks.
âDonât worry too much. I donât thinkâ hEHhâŚâ Yves scoots back from the table turning away as he reaches blindly for one of the cocktail napkins heâd taken. âHEHhâDDJJSHh-iiEW! Ugh, sorry.â His nose has been running all morningâheâd made sure to take a generous stack, and stuff some of them into his pockets for later, but itâs been all of fifteen minutes and heâs already nervous that he might run out. âI donât you could get them to hate you even if you tried.â
âMom and dad met in college, at a bar,â Leon says. Yves, who has heard this story many times before, busies himself with eating, and tries hard not to visibly shiver. In a way, heâs grateful to the two of them for filling in the space for himâthe less he strains his voice today, the better. âMom was super drunk, and for some reason when she started talking to dad the conversation topic turned to, like, something super specific and not at all romantic.â
âIt was whether or not itâs ethical to clone extinct species,â Victoire says, idly folding her napkin into a pinwheel. âThough this was before it had ever been done.â
âApparently she was drunk enough to ask his hand in marriage mid argument, and he was drunk enough to say yes, because he thought it was a joke,â Leon says. âAnd it was a joke. But he proposed to her seriously a year later, and all she said was âat least you kept your promise.ââ
âBut now theyâre happily married,â Vincent says.
Leon nods. âTheyâve been happily married for almost thirty years now. Anyways, my point is that whatever relationship you have with Yves, you donât have to try and impress them. Thereâs no need to overthink it.â
âI understand,â Vincent says. âMy parents got married because my dad did well in a business competition at the time, and my mom thought he was going to make a lot of money.â
âAnd how did that turn out?â Victoire says, interested, propping her head up on one hand.
Yves watches Vincent cut a pastry into four even pieces. âBetter than you might expect,â Vincent says.
â-
The welcome dinner is held at a local restaurantâAimee and Genevieve have rented out the outdoor space for seating. The tableâa long table that seats thirty, or soâis set with tall, elegant white candles, all in a row; wine glasses with delicate stems; vases spilling over with flowersâlilacs, pink and white roses, orchids.
Above them, string lights are strung up in neat lines. When Yves sees Aimee, he doesnât drop all of his things to run over and hug her, but itâs a close thing.
âYves! You made it,â she says.
âI wouldnât miss it for the world,â he tells her, in French. âGod. Did you plan out all of this? It looks gorgeous.â âGenevieve did a lot of it,â she says. âShe has a good eye for decorations.â
Genevieve is off to the side, talking to someone who Yves recognizes as her sisterâYves follows Aimeeâs gaze over to where sheâs standing. When he looks back, Aimee is smiling in a way Yves has never seen her smile beforeâthe sort of fond, private smile that he feels like he isnât sure heâs supposed to be seeing.
Yves is stricken, for a moment. Itâs so clear that sheâs in love. It shows all over her face, plainly, the kind of love thatâs uncontestable; the kind of love that makes love, of all things, look simple. Has he ever looked like that, to someone else?
âHow have you been?â he asks. âI imagine preparations have been hectic.â
âNever better,â she says, turning back to face him at last. âYouâre rightâitâs been exhausting. But I feel like the adrenaline is carrying me through, you know? Like Iâm so happy this is happening.â
âYou two deserve a perfect wedding,â Yves says, and means it. He clears his throat, sniffling. Itâs a little cold out, even though the sun hasnât gone down yet; he really hopes his nose doesnât start to run visibly. âIf you ever need any helpâwith last minute preparations, or if anything comes up, or if you need someone on transportation or moving thingsâlet me know. Even if itâs like, 3am or something. My hands are completely free.â
She laughs. âThank you, thatâs so kind of you to offer! It has been hectic, but I havenât been up at 3am this week, thank God.â
âI hope to keep it that way.â Yves turns away from her, raising an arm to muffle a fit of coughs into his sleeve.
Aimee takes a step forward, her eyebrows furrowing. âAre you okay? You sound a little off. And youâre coughing.â
And Yves thinks: she canât know. He has his toasts to give at her wedding. He has the wedding rehearsal tomorrow and the wedding ceremony on Saturday to attend. If Aimee finds out heâs coming down with something, sheâll probably tell him to sit things outâto get some proper rest, to disregard virtually everything she has planned, and to not leave the hotel room until heâs feeling a hundred percent betterâeven if itâs at her own expense.
Worse, sheâll be worried for the entirety of his illness, heâs sure. As if she doesnât have enough on her plate already, between the setup and all the accommodations and the last minute changes.
Aimee deserves a perfect wedding.
Thatâs the bottom line in all of this. This is a once in a lifetime thing for someone he cares and cares deeply about. Yves is not going to ruin it. Heâll get through the next few days, even if it means pushing himself a little past his limits. He can crash afterwards, on the plane ride home, after all the festivities are over and everyone bids farewell.
âIâm fine,â Yves says, clearing his throat. âIâmââ This is really the worst possible timing. He takes a few steps back, craning his neck over his shoulder. âhH-! hHhhâkKTSSH-IEEW! snf-! Ugh. Iâmb just getting over a slight cold.â Getting over might be a bit of a stretch, and a slight cold might be even more of one, but other than that, itâs not entirely dishonest.
Aimee frowns at him. âBless you. Does your throat hurt? There are cocktails on the side table, if you want anything to drink. Wine, too. I can get something for you if youâd like.â
âNice try, but thereâs no way Iâm letting the bride go and get things for me,â Yves says, grinning. âDo you want any cocktails?â
âI need to be sober until Iâve officially said hi to everyone,â she says. âCanât make a fool of myself just yet. Speaking of which, whereâs your boyfriend?â
Yves waves Vincent over. âCome say hi!â he says, in English.
âItâs very nice to meet you,â Vincent says, in slightly accented French, which is a surprise. He seems to hesitate, thinking hard. âCongratulations on your wedding.â
âOh my gosh!â Aimee says in English, pulling him close for a hug. Vincent hugs her back. âItâs good to meet you too, Vincent. Thanks for always looking after Yves. Iâm glad to have someone keeping him out of trouble overseas.â
âThank you for having me here,â Vincent says, hugging her back. âI know it was really last minute with the flight and everything. I hope it wasnât too stressful for you.â
âIt was no trouble at all!â Aimee says. âYves is like a younger brother to me. Last summer was pretty rough for him, I think.â she doesnât mention Erika, but Yves is sure Vincent knows what sheâs referring to, regardless. Aimee smiles, a little wistfully. âIâm just so grateful that he met you. Iâm glad to see him happy again.â
âI donât think I can take credit for that,â Vincent says, blinking.
Aimee smiles warmly at him. âHeâs the happiest heâs been in months,â she says. âI think you are selling yourself short.â
After Aimee asks Vincent how his stay has been (good, Vincent says, itâs actually my first time in France, to which Aimee excitedly lists off places he absolutely has to see while heâs here) and Vincent asks Aimee how the wedding preparations are going (nothingâs gone terribly wrong yet, Aimee laughs, which I suppose is all I can ask for), they find their way to their seats at the table. Someone has set out little name cards with all of their names written in calligraphy. Yves realizes, faintly, that the handwriting isnât Aimeeâs. Maybe itâs Genevieveâs, then.
âI didnât know you knew any French,â Yves tells Vincent, in English.
Vincent looks away, a little sheepish. âI took a crash course into it when you mentioned the wedding would be in France,â he says, which Yves finds somehow disproportionately endearing. âI know maybe five sentences total, plus a few common terms.â
âFive sentences is impressive given that you had, what, just a few weeks to learn them?â
âIâm not sure if they are very coherent,â Vincent says. âThe vowels are different from English. Iâm still trying to get the hang of saying them.â
Yves is about to respond, but heâs cut off with a sharp, unexpected gasp. He pitches forward, raising his elbow up to his face just in time to muffle aâ
âHh⌠HhEHH-!âIihHâDZSCHh-IIEW!â
Heâs glad, for once, that heâs not wearing the suit heâs planning on wearing for the wedding. His nose is running again, which is embarrassing, especially because he can still feel Vincentâs eyes on him.
âĂ tes souhaits,â Vincent says.
Yves laughs, rummaging through his jacket pockets for one of the napkins heâd taken at breakfast to blow his nose into. âMerci. Is that one of the common terms you learned?â
âNo,â Vincent says. âI looked it up last night.â
âLast night?â Yves asks.
For a moment, heâs afraid that Vincent might reveal to him that Yves had kept him up last night, after all, despite all of his efforts to keep quiet.
âOn the car,â Vincent clarifies. âDuring the trip to the hotel. I was just curious.â
âOh,â Yves says, relieved. He blows his nose into the napkin heâs holding, which heâs sure he has reused at least a couple times alreadyâbut with his nose running so much, he doesnât exactly have the luxury to be picky. âWell, youâll be an expert at saying that phrase by the end of this trip, at the very least.â
Itâs easy to lose himself in the throes of conversation, after that. Aimee and Genevieve have arranged it so that he and Vincent are sitting directly across from his parents. Leon is rightâhis parents have never really been the type to subject the partners heâs brought home, over the years, to any sort of interrogation. Itâs a fun night, especially after everyoneâs a couple drinks in.
âI think itâs a good thing that you guys are in the same line of work,â Yvesâs dad says, conversationally. âYves wonât have to explain why heâs always working overtime.â
Yvesâs mom says, âIsnât that a bad thing? We shouldnât be encouraging their workaholic tendencies.â
Yves neglects to mention that heâs pretty sure Vincent (who worked the entire flight here)âs workaholic tendencies will persist, even without any encouragement.
Vincent tells them how theyâd metâitâs the same story as heâd told the first time theyâd done this, during Margotâs new year party a few months back, but Yvesâs parents seem to find it extremely entertaining.
Yvesâs mom says, âI told you Yves was the one who asked him out.â
Yvesâs dad says, âI didnât know if he had it in him.â
Yvesâs mom says, âI remember hearing him say something about having an attractive coworker. It wasnât that much of a logical stretch to assume heâd make a move at some point.â
(Yves thinks he sees them exchange a twenty dollar bill under the table, but he canât be sure.)
Vincent practices his French with Yvesâs parentsâYves fills in for him when he stumbles on a word, or when he hesitates, wracking his memory for a term he canât quite translate.
âA fantastic attempt,â his dad says, when Vincent is done talking. âI canât believe you learned so much in just a few weeks. I can only hope youâll keep learning..â
âI will,â Vincent says. âMaybe next time we can have this conversation entirely in French.â Thereâs no uncertainty to the way he says it. Yves doesnât mention that thereâs a real chance Vincent wonât see them again, after this. Itâs not a thought he particularly wants to confront.
At some point, Leon rises to his feet and shouts, in French, âLetâs toast to Aimee and Genevieve, everyoneâs favorite couple!â
They all stand and raise their glasses. Yves finds he feels a little unsteady on his feetâmaybe heâs had too much to drink. He feels warm, through the flush of alcohol in his cheeks, despite the evening chill.
Heâs marginally worse at covering when heâs tipsyâand worse, too, at anticipating that heâs going to sneeze in the first place. At some point during the night, someoneâmaybe Vincent, or maybe one of Aimeeâs friends from work that are seated nearbyâsets down a stack of cocktail napkins in front of him.
Yves just hopes whoeverâs put it there knows how grateful he is. The night is getting colder, even though he canât quite feel it, and his nose is running so much that he finds himself grabbing a new napkin every couple minutes to blow his nose. Itâs strange, he thinks, how such a small thing can be so comforting.
At some point, too, Vincent takes the glass of wine out of his hands and switches it out with a different glass. Yves thinks it might be a cocktail, at first, but when he takes a sip, he finds itâs just orange juice.
âI think youâve had enough to drink,â Vincent says.
âI havedât had that much,â Yves says. But come to think of it, his head feels hazy in a way that suggests heâs just a little drunk. âJust a coupleâ glassesâ hh-! hHhEHâIIZSCHhâiIEw! snf-!â He barely manages to cover that sneeze in time.
âBless you,â Vincent says.
âUgh.â Yves reaches for another napkin from the stack. He feels a little dizzy, now that heâs paying attention. âI swear, my toleradce - snf-! - used to be a lot better before I graduated.â
Vincent hides a laugh behind one hand. Yves is too tipsy to pretend he doesnât find that a little endearing.
âWhat?â he asks, faux-affronted.
âNothing,â Vincent says. âI shouldâve known that you went to parties and drank irresponsibly.â
Yves laughs. âAlong with every other college student in the world.â He turns aside to muffle a cough into his sleeve. Perhaps he hasnât been especially conscientious about saving his voice this eveningâwith all the talking heâs been doing, it will probably sound even worse tomorrow. âWhat, donât tell me youâve ndever gotten irresponsibly drunk!â
âOnce or twice,â Vincent says, which is a bit of a surpriseâhe canât imagine Vincent being drunk enough to lose the air of⌠well, composure isnât the right word, perhaps. Professionalism? Self-assuredness? But maybe even drunk Vincent is professional and self-assured, all the same. Yves wonders, faintly, if heâll ever have the chance to find out.
â
Dinner winds down slowly. Yves helps Genevieve collect all the name cards, gathers everyoneâs plates to set them in a couple neat stacks at the end of the table, says hello to the relatives heâs closer to, and strikes up a conversation with some of Genevieveâs friends, who look to be just a few years older than he is. They talk first about the planning sheâd kept them in the loop about, and then about the planning that sheâd pulled off behind the scenes. Yves tells them about the many aesthetic and managerial decisions Aimee had consulted him for early on over text. The common consensus seems to be that Aimee and Genevieve are vastly overqualified when it comes to making sure that everything is logistically sound.
âDo you want to head out soon?â Vincent says, after some time, when Yves returns to his seat and some of the other guests have begun to filter out.
âThat might be a good idea,â Yves says.
He says his goodbyesâto his parents, to Leon and Victoire, to Aimee and Genevieve, whom heâll see tomorrow. Then he follows Vincent out. The hotel is a fifteen minute walk from where they areâsome of their relatives have cars, but theyâd walked here, and Yves thinks itâd be more work to try to coordinate a ride with someone.
Everything feels bright, Yves thinks, blinking.
âYouâre cold,â Vincent says. It isnât a question.
Yves realizes, faintly, that heâs shivering. He crosses his arms over his chest. âI donât feel it that much.â
âThatâs because youâre drunk.â
âIâm ndot drunk.â
âTipsy, then.â
Yves canât argue with that. âJust a bit. Iâll probablyâ hhEh-!â He turns aside to direct the sneeze over his shoulder, away from Vincent. HH-! hHEHhâiIITSHh-IIEw! Snf-! âsober up soon.â The end of the sentence catches wrong on his throat and suddenly heâs coughing, a little harshly, into his wrist. The coughing fit is harsh enough to leave him faintly lightheaded, which is a surprise to him.
He thinks it shouldnât be visible, but Vincent reaches out and grabs his shoulder to steady him. For a moment, Yves contemplates how nice it would be to lean into his touch.
Then he catches himself. Heâs tired, but not so tired that he canât sustain a short walk from the dinner venue to the hotel. Itâs dark, but they donât have any early obligations tomorrow, and itâs not late enough that he wonât have time to shower, get changed, and get a good nightâs sleep, with time to spare.
Yves shifts out of Vincentâs touch. âSorry about that,â he says, with the most convincing smile he can muster. Heâs sure Vincent would be understanding if he brought it up, but truthfully, it feels like a waste of time to say anything at all.
Vincent doesnât reach for him again, but his eyebrows furrow. âAre you okay?â
âWhat?â
âYou almost fell,â Vincent says.
âI just tripped. The roads arenât very even, and itâs dark.â Theyâre standing in the middle of a small, winding cobblestone street. None of the roads around here are very flat for very long.
âAre you saying that because you believe it?â Vincent says. âOr are you saying that so that I stop worrying about this?â
Yves stares at him for a moment too long. Heâs sobering up a little.
For a moment, he contemplates telling Vincent everythingâabout how tired heâs been, all day. About how much itâs taken out of him to keep up this front, the whole day; about how he feels worse than he did waking up this morningâtired and cold and congested, a little unsteady on his feet. If heâs not mistaken, he thinks he might be running a slight fever; itâs hard to tell through the jacket, through the brisk evening air.
Maybe Vincent would understand. Maybe Vincent would insist that he get some rest, tomorrow, before the wedding. Maybe Vincent would tell him that this is all going to be fineâthat this wedding that Yvesâs been looking forward to for months, that he desperately doesnât want to mess up, is going to be perfect, just as Aimee and Genevieve has planned it, even if he isnât feeling his best.
But this is not Vincentâs problem to solve. Yvesâs bad timing and his unfortunate circumstances are not Vincentâs responsibility, and Yves extended the invitation because he wanted Vincent to have fun on this trip, and no part of that entails having to look after Yves. Vincent has always been reliable, but Yves canât start to expect things out of himâto take his kindness as a given, to take more than Vincent is willing to give.
He already asks more than enough of Vincent, as it stands.
âIâm fine,â Yves says, a lie, as easily as any other lie heâs ever told. The smile that follows comes easily, too, though heâs not sure if Vincent can see it in the dark, canât tell if itâs more to fool Vincent or more to fool himself. âIâd tell you if I wasnât.â
[ Part 3 ]
#sneeze fic#snz fic#snz kink#snz#i edited this for a week straight#and now i have given up officially#i hope this doesn't feel too much like a filler/otherwise uneventful đ#next chapter i promise yves is in for a bad time#yvverse#my fic
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âď¸ (non-snz character study)
#not snz#and also not snzfic#delete later#the first time i've let myself sit down and write prose in 2 months đ#this is a little embarrassing... i don't think i've ever posted something this literary to this blog and i probably will not again#sentence fragments are my forbidden treats#yvverse
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Foreign Home | [1/1]
hello!! I am back after 8 months of not-really-writing with an 8k word fic (which I cut down from 9k words). this is another OC fic w/ Vincent and Yves, who were introduced here!
anyways, this is very character-centric and establishes some things I wanted to establish about them / their world... I hope the little detour into character-development territory is okay.
Summary: Yves has told all of his friends that he's dating Vincent, so it's going to look increasingly suspicious if Vincent never shows up. Good thing Vincent is compellingly good at lying. Anyways, what could go wrong at a housewarming party? (ft. banter, fake dating, cat allergies)
â
Yves spends three weeks turning down invitations.
Itâs lucky, he thinks, that heâs been able to stay in contact with so many friends from universityâthat so many of them have settled here, in New York. Itâs less lucky considering his current circumstances:
Out of the people who made it to Margotâs New Yearâs party, almost all of them remember Vincent. Andâeven more inconvenientlyâmany of them seem set on inviting Yves and Vincent places.
Yves thinks up a dozen excuses. No, Vincent canât join on our coffee outingâheâs got an important, un-reschedulable meeting with a client that Saturday. Sunday? His Sundayâs booked through until 5pm. I know, busy season is the worst to plan around. Or, I think Vincentâs going to be out for a business conference that weekend. The 22nd? I can check with him, but heâs taking a redeye flight the night beforeâI think heâll be jet lagged.
The number of excuses he is capable of coming up with is unfortunately finite. Perhaps sorry, I think Vincent has an optometristâs appointment that afternoon isnât Yvesâs best work, but he has to say something.
Really, itâs just more work to invite Vincent elsewhereâto explain that theyâve played their role as a couple a little too convincingly. That his friends all want to meet Vincent, now.
Back during his days of rowing crew, Yves has given out his fair share of relationship advice to the underclassmen, which has unfortunatelyâaccording to Margotââcultivated an air of mystery about his personal love life.â It was always him and Erika, until it wasnât. (Ex-matchmaker Yves and his mysterious, highly coveted new boyfriend, Leon says, when Yves complains, which is how Yves decides he will no longer be consulting Leon on the matter.)
âMy friends really like you,â Yves says to Vincent, offhandedly, when he runs into him on the way back from lunch.
Vincent blinks at him.
âYouâre saying that like itâs a bad thing.â
âThey really like you,â Yves says. âThey want to meet you. They think weâre an interesting couple, and they keep pestering me for double dates and inviting you out to a whole bunch of events. Iâm running out of excuses as to why you canât come.â
âOh,â Vincent says, deadpan, but thereâs a slight twitch to his lips, as if heâs trying not to laugh.
âIâm dead serious,â Yves says. âI told Nora that you couldnât make it to dinner because of an eye appointment. Now if I want to keep this up Iâll need to photoshop you with new glasses.â
âI am a little overdue for new glasses,â Vincent says.
âNot the point. Regardless, I need to keep this up until we stage a breakup.â
âA breakup?â
âA fake breakup. To our fake relationship.â
âIs there someone else youâre interested in?â
âNo,â Yves says. âBut Iâm preemptively saving you the stress.â
âThe stress of playing your boyfriend?â Vincent says. âLast time, that just entailed going to a well-organized New Yearâs party. I wouldnât consider that exceptionally stressful.â
âThatâs just the beginning. Donât tell me you want to be dragged along to every dinner party and every downtown outing and every birthday I go to in the foreseeable future,â Yves says. âOn top of working 60 hours a week, youâll have to say goodbye to your weekends.â
âSo thatâs why youâre plotting our breakup.â
âYes,â Yves says. âIâd need to explain to everyone how I dropped the ball.â
âIâm sure those new glasses mustâve been the dealbreaker.â
Yves laughs. Truthfully, Vincent could wear the most terrible, unflattering glasses in the world and still manage to look like someone whom Yves wouldnât bat an eye at upon spotting at a photoshoot. The fact that his current glasses actually complement him very well, and the fact that he knows how to dress himself is just salt to the wound. âYes, thatâs the entire reason why I dated you in the first place. The glasses.â
âIf you wanted to keep our false relationship up for a couple months,â Vincent says, âI wouldnât mind.â
Yvesâwho, until now, has been walking in the opposite direction of the floor on which he worksâstops walking. âPardon?â
âI like your friends,â Vincent says. âAnd more importantly, I donât think it proves a point to Erika if youâve just gotten into a relationship you couldnât keep. So if you wanted to keep this arrangement for a little longer, I would be fine with it.â
Yves considers this.
Heâs asked more than enough of Vincent already. But Vincent is right. Heâs sure Erika must have her fair share of doubts about all of thisâabout Vincent, about their fake relationship, about its longevity. She seemed skeptical, when heâd last seen her, that Yves couldâve moved on so quickly. The worst thing about it is that he canât blame her for that doubt. The worst thing about it is that heâd spent so much time accounting for his future with Erika that he hadnât seen her start to slip away, hadnât noticed the first sign of inadequacy, the first time her gaze lingered on someone else, the first time he ceased to be all that she wanted. He hadnât steeled himself for a future without her, and now, half the time, it feels like heâs still playing catch-up.
If he wants to commit to this fake relationship, heâll need more than one outing to show for it.
And, despite all odds, Vincent is offering just that.
âOkay,â Yves says, before he can think about how bad of an idea this is. It is really, really inadvisable. Heâs sure if he weighs his options for more than a few seconds, he will come to the conclusion that he should be shutting his mouth. âIf youâre sureâand only if youâre actually sureâwhat are your plans after work next Tuesday evening?â
âNothing as of now,â Vincent says.
âGreat. If you can make it, thereâs a potluck. Joelâs hosting. He recently finished moving into a new apartment, so I think itâs something of a housewarming party. He lives a little North, past the stadium, so I think Iâll head there right after workâI can drive you.â
âThat works,â Vincent says. âWhat kind of food does he like?â
âIâm not actually too sure,â Yves says. âI think heâs a fan of spicy food. But honestly, I think heâll be grateful if you bring anything at allâwhich you donât have to, by the way. Youâre the esteemed guest, here.â
âIâm sure Joelâs new apartment is technically the esteemed guest,â Vincent says. âBut Iâll be there.â
âOkay,â Yves says. âItâs a date. Iâll make it up to you in any way you want, by the wayâif thereâs ever an instance where you need me to lie for you, Iâll do it.â
âDuly noted,â Vincent says. For what Vincent would ever have to lie about, Yves canât guess.
More importantly, he has a date for next Tuesday. Something about it is more exciting, even in its dishonesty, than it has any right to be.
â
Itâs only a few moments after Yves presses the doorbell that Vincent emerges, holding a couple plates covered meticulously with aluminum foil.
âI havenât cooked for anyone in awhile,â he says, a little sheepishly. âI hope this doesnât make a bad impression on your friends.â âAre you kidding? It smells really good,â Yves says, and it doesâfrom the doorway, he can make out the scent of sesame oil, roasted garlic, ginger. âTheyâll definitely like it.â
Vincent looks off to the side. âWeâll see.â It takes a moment for Yves to properly parse his expression for what it is.
It never occurred to Yves that Vincent might actually be nervous. At work, itâs rare to see Vincent even remotely out of his elementâhe always volunteers to take on their more difficult clients, and even on the rare occasion that something falls out of his expertise, he picks things up quickly. Yves has seen him give presentations at conferences without a sweat, articulate as ever.
If Vincent had been nervous, those timesâover prestigious conferences, over negotiations with major clients, over other difficult points of contentionâit hadnât shown. Either he wasnât nervous at all, or he was just good at hiding it. But heâs nervous now, Yves realizes, which meansâ
Vincent wants to make a good impression on his friends. It wonât be his first time meeting Joel, but itâll be his first time talking to Cherie, Joelâs fiancĂŠ, or Giselle, one of Cherieâs friends from work. Mikhail and Nora will be there too. All in all, itâs a decently sized group, but Vincent has talked to larger groups of people before without so much as a shaky voice.
Something about itâabout the seriousness with which Vincent regards this whole arrangementâis strangely endearing.
âYou have nothing to worry about,â Yves says, and means it in more ways than one.
â
Joelâs new apartment, as it turns out, is already decently furnished, even though Joel had sent out the invitation with the disclaimer that everything is a mess, please bear with us.
âWhen you said everything would be a mess,â Yves says, leaving his shoes in a line at the door, âI thought your apartment would actually be something other than spotlessly clean and well arranged.â
âItâs easy to make things look neat if you move all of the clutter into the closets,â Joel says.
âItâs just a few boxes,â Cherie says. âBut it was tricky to figure out how to place things. Itâs a lot more spacious than the apartment we had in college.â
âNo kidding,â Yves says. âItâs a seriously nice place.â Back in their last two years of university, Joel and Cherie had gotten an apartment just a few buildings down from the apartment which Yves picked out with Mikhailâthey had similar floor plans. Yves distinctly remembers the space: creaky floorboards, space heaters lined up against the walls to last them the winter; decent natural lighting, and never enough kitchen space.
Back then, he and Mikhail had had separate rooms, so their apartment became a spot in which Erika became a frequent visitor, and then, at one point, stopped visiting at all.
But thatâs not the point. The point is, the apartment Joel and Cherie have picked out is much nicer than the one theyâd had in collegeâfor one, itâs more spacious, and the entire building has nice facilities and looks newerâand Cherieâs eye for interior design has only helped their cause.
âIâm glad you were able to come!â Cherie says, turning to Vincent. âYves is always telling me about how busy you are with work.â
âHeâs the one putting out all the fires,â Yves says.
Vincent smiles, extending a hand for her to shake. âCherie, right? Itâs nice to meet you. And youâreââ He turns to Joel, with a slight sniffle. âJoel. I think we met last time.â
Cherie squeezes his hand. Joel laughs and says, âIâm surprised you remember my name.â
âHeâs good with names,â Yves says. An acquired skill from all the hours of networking, probably.
âThatâs a useful skill to have, especially if youâre dating Yves,â Joel says. âI swear he knows everyone.â He goes on to tell a story about how, back in university, Yves almost accidentally got elected as vice president for a business club heâd only shown up to once.
At some point into the conversation, Yves ducks into the kitchen to help with setup. He sets out the dish heâs broughtâsalmon sliders with mango salsaâand the beef skewers that Vincent made earlier (heâs not sure why Vincent was worried in the first place, because the skewers look very competently made). After that, he busies himself with finding a way to keep everything temporarily covered until they eat.
Something soft and fuzzy winds around his ankles.
He looks down, and the soft and fuzzy thing looks back at him with pointy triangular ears. This is news to Yves.
âYou guys have a cat?!â He shouts from the kitchen, vaguely in the direction where Joel and Cherie should still be standing. âSince when?â
âSince a month ago,â Joel shouts back.
âHer name is Gingersnap,â Cherie adds. âGin for short.â
âOh,â Yves says, kneeling down to scratch her behind the ears. His hands are a little calloused from all the snow heâs been shoveling lately, but Gingersnap purrs anyways, evidently unbothered. âWhat the hell, guys, now Iâm never going to be able to leave your apartment. Consider me a permanent resident.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time,â Cherie says.
At some point, Gingersnap gets up, mewing, and heads out of the kitchen, and Yves resumes life as an active contributor to the potluckâs success. When he finishes reheating everything up, setting the table, arranging the dishes, and filling up two pitchers with iced water, he wanders back out into the living room. Vincent is there, alone, except heâs not really alone, becauseâŚ
Oh.
God.
Heâs kneeling down, unmoving, speaking to Gingersnap in a soft, low voice, holding out a hand for her.
She approaches him, a little tentatively, and then nuzzles her orange head into the crook of his hand. Vincent smilesâa soft, private smile. âHi, Gin,â he says.
Thereâs the low, lawnmower hum of a purr as Gingersnap rolls onto the ground to let Vincent continue petting her. Itâs a heartwarming sightâVincent, from the office, crouched down to pet a cat thatâs smaller than his hand. Yves thinks he might cry.
Then Vincent withdraws his hand, reaches up with an arm to swipe at his eyes. Something jolts through his shoulders, a tremor so slight that Yves wouldnât have noticed it if he hadnât already been watchingâ
âânGkt-!â
Gingersnap mews at him, perplexed but undeterred. âSorry,â Vincent says to her, quietly, âIâm not tryingâ toââ Itâs all he can get out before heâs veering away again, this time with both hands tightly steepled over his nose forâ
âhhIHââGKKtt-!â
He sniffles softly, though the sniffle is immediately followed by a small, quiet cough. He reaches up with one hand to rub his nose. Yves watches his expression draw uneven, his eyebrows furrowing.
âhhIHâŚâ
Whatever sneeze heâs fighting seems terribly indecisiveâbut terribly irritatingâfor the way he rubs his nose again, his eyes squeezing shut in ticklish anticipation.
âHhIH⌠hh⌠HH-hhH-hHIHhââ
He cups a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, and not a moment too earlyâ
ââhIHhâiiIKKTSHh-!âHis shoulders jolt forwards with the force of it, though it gives him barely a momentâs reprieve before his breath hitches again, sharply, urgently. âIiIâDSZCHuuhh-!â
âBless you,â Yves says.
Vincent turns to blink at him. His eyes are a little red-rimmed and watering. Thereâs a thin flush over the bridge of his nose.
âYou didnât tell me you were allergic to cats,â Yves says, rounding the corner to close the distance between them.
âSlightly allergic,â Vincent admits, turning aside with a liquid sniffle. âItâs ndot - hhIHH-! - a big deal.â
âI didnât know Joel and Cherie had a cat,â Yves says. âIâm sorry. I wouldâve told you if they did.â
âItâs fine,â Vincent says, with a laugh. âI like her.â
âYou might like her, but your body doesnât seem to be a fan.â
âItâs a good thing that I have a consciousness, so I can codtinue petting her.â Vincent sniffles again, lifting one hand to rub his nose with his index finger. Yves does not know how to even begin to tell him what an inadvisable idea that is, but either way, he doesnât have a chance to before Vincentâs eyes graze shut, and he turns to face away from Gingersnap before he jerks forward, catching a muffled - âHhâGKK-t!â - into a clenched fist.
âBless you,â Yves says. âYou know, youâre really not going to make the situation any better if you keep onââ
ânNGKT-!!â
ââbless you!â
âhhâhHhihâiiKKsHHhUH!â The last sneeze is noticeably harsher than the othersâit sounds loud enough to scrape against his throat, which seems to be further evidenced by the small cough that succeeds it.
âIâll ask Joel if he has any antihistamines,â Yves says.
âItâs fide,â Vincent says.
âIf you insist on spending time with Gingersnap, wouldnât it be better to spend it without having to sneeze?â
âI would still have to sdeeze,â Vincent says, as if heâs already experienced in the matterâbriefly, Yves wonders how many cats he inadvisably plays with on a frequent basis. âJust less.â
âThat would be an improvement.â
Vincent looks away. âAntihistamines mbake me tired,â he says, after a little hesitation.
âItâs a good time to be tired,â Yves says. âItâs not like you have any pressing work to get done.â
âI want to make a good ibpression on your friends,â Vincent says, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. âThatâs ndot going to happen if I fall asleep halfway through dinner.â
âIf you did, Iâm sure no one would fault you for it.â
âIâll take something after we finish eating,â Vincent says. âIf things havedât improved by then. â
âOkay,â Yves relents, andâsince it doesnât seem like Vincent is leaving anytime soonâtakes a seat next to him on the rug. Itâs a compromise he can accept.
â
Nora gets there next, followed by Mikhail and then Giselle. Itâs Yvesâs first time formally meeting Giselle, who turns out to be very tall and a little intimidatingâsheâs come straight from work, so sheâs dressed accordingly, and she talks with the sort of quiet authority that Yves knows is usually indicative of years of experience. Right before they sit down for dinner, Vincent ducks out into the bathroomââI need to look at least marginally presentable,â heâd said, seeming like he was in a rushâso Yves saves him a seat at the table.
âYves,â Giselle says, taking another salmon slider. âYou made these entirely from scratch? This is delicious.â
âThanks,â Yves says. âTo be honest, it was a bit of a gamble. I wasnât sure if the sauce was going to pair well with it.â
âYves is really good at cooking,â Mikhail says. âThatâs half the reason why I roomed with him in college.â
âSo whatâs the other half?â Cherie says.
âThe other half is that he lets me eat his food,â Mikhail says.
Yves laughs. âFor a second, I thought youâd have something nice to say about my personality.â
âDonât flatter yourself,â Mikhail says.
âYves is very good at cooking,â Vincent says, emerging from the hallway. Yves blinks at him. Whatever heâd done in the bathroom has done wondersâhe looks remarkably put together. Not a strand of his hair is out of place. His eyes are dry, not red, not teary, not irritated, his collar crisply upright, his voice devoid of congestion. The only telltale sign about his ailment is the slight bit of redness to his nose, but itâs winterâthat could easily be chalked up to the cold.
He slips easily into the seat next to Yves, his posture impeccable. Yves does everything in his power not to stare.
âI think heâs responsible for some of the best hot chocolate Iâve had,â Vincent continues. That remark is surprising, tooârepurposed from a memory as it is, it seems almost like something that could be genuine.
But Yves remembers how easily Vincent had lied, back on New Yearâsâhow easily heâd drawn the fictitious threads between them, almost thoughtlessly, as if they had always existed.
I could make better hot chocolate, Yves thinks, before he can stop himself. I could really make the best hot chocolate youâve ever tasted, if I just had time. Itâs an absurd thought, and one that he doesnât have much grounds for. He had been pressed for time, back thenâhe hadnât known when Vincentâs ride was going to be arrivingâbut even if heâd really, properly tried, even if heâd succeeded in making the best hot chocolate heâs capable of making, thereâs no guarantee that Vincent wouldâve liked it.
Heâs surprised by the pang in his chest, now, the desire to make true something that he knows to be false, to be worthy of the compliments that Vincentâs so easily spoken about.
âThatâs definitely an exaggeration,â Yves says. âTechnically, Mikhail didnât even know that I knew how to cook when we signed the lease. The real reason why we roomed together is much more interesting.â
Itâs a story heâs told before, though Cherie and Giselle havenât heard it before. Itâs easy to fall into it again: Mikhail and Yves met in their first year, over a group project in an intro to finance class. The two other members of their team had been dead weight, and at the time, Yves had thoughtâincorrectlyâthat Mikhail was just as bad as the rest of them.
Itâs practically a comedy of errorsâa series of miscommunications had led them to each finish the project independently. Yves remembers the all-nighters heâd pulled for that, nervous and over-caffeinated, until the day before the presentation, where he found that Mikhail had notâunlike the other members of their groupâspent the last few weeks slacking off.
Beside him, Vincent goes still.
When Yves chances a quick look at him, he sees: a slight, almost imperceptible ripple to his expression, before it smooths out again.
He nearly backtracksâhis first thought is that perhaps something heâs said is the source of Vincentâs irritationâbut then Vincent turns his face away. Thereâs the slightest disturbance to the line of his shoulders, and thenâ
ââgkT-!â
The sneeze is barely audible, stifled as it is into a half-closed palm, though the gesture is subtle, tooâeasily mistaken as Vincent simply looking away, resting his chin on his hand.
âI canât believe you guys are still friends after all of that,â Nora says.
âRight,â Yves says. âI was so ready to never talk to him again. But obviously, we still had to give the presentation.â
He talks about how, in a half-asleep effort to salvage the project work, he and Mikhail had found some way to relate their findings to each other, to loosely bind the disparate subjects into a coherent thesis. Mikhail talks, too, about how theyâd manipulated their presentation to get their combined work to seem sufficiently on topic.
Mikhail is halfway through his story when Yves sees Vincent jolt forward beside him.
He looks up just in time to catch the tail end of a sneezeâexpertly stifled, just like the othersâinto a clenched fist. This oneâs a little more forceful, even in its quietnessâit leaves Vincent hunched over for just a moment, his shoulders slightly slumped, before he straightens again, covertly lowering his hand.
Thereâs a slightly hazy, distant look to his features, as if whateverâs been bothering him hasnât begun to let up yet.
Yves nudges him with his arm. Vincent doesnât exactly jump at the contact, but he does freeze, his shoulders stiffening.
âHey,â Yves says, quietly enough that he doesnât think anyone else should be able to hear. âYou okay?â
Vincent nods.
âYou sure you donât want to take anything?â
Another nod.
âI canât tell you how little either of us proofread that paper,â Mikhail is saying.
âI reread it three months later,â Yves admits. âAnd heâs right. We really didnât proofread it.â
But it was a winning proposal, even though theyâd both been too tired to realize it then. And still, Mikhail had still managed to hold a grudge against him for two long months. And then Mikhail had run into last-minute problems with his upcoming lease arrangement, and Yves had happened to find a decently priced two-bedroom apartment with no roommate, and heâd reached out half as a joke.
âYou know those friends who say they can never room together?â Mikhail is saying. âLike, they hang out all the time, or theyâve been friends for years, or they trust each other with their lives, or whatever. But the second you put their living habits in close proximity, everything goes to shit? I think we were the opposite.â
âAre you sure it wasnât just because you two never had a good enough relationship to ruin in the first place?â Nora says jokingly.
She has a point. Yves is starting to think that all of the formative relationships in his life have all happened by accident.
â
Vincent and Giselle get along very well, Yves notes, listening to the two of them talk. Halfway through dinner, they get into a heated discussion about the more outward-facing expectations at work, as Joel and Cherie exchange knowing glances. Giselle talks about feeling accountable for the team she managesâfor knowing that if they donât perform, sheâll take the fall for them; for being careful not to disperse the stress from higher ups unevenly, for constantly feeling her way through how much work is reasonable to expect of them. Vincent talks about the stress of apportioning work to othersâthe knowledge in his own competence and the knowledge gap when it comes to how others will handle things, the desire to take on more work alone to make sure everything is accounted for.
Nora, whoâd had an internship at a different firm after each year in college, weighs in too on the management styles sheâd been under, to what extent the expectations from leadership affected the dynamic between her coworkers.
Itâs interesting, Yves thinks, that they all have their own subset of worries, even when they come across as people who are so certain of themselves.
As the others speak, Vincent stops periodically to rub his nose with the knuckle of his index fingerâan action that always seems to keep the irritation at bay, but never seems to mitigate it entirely. For a moment, his expression goes hazy, his eyes watering ever so slightly, but it always lasts only a moment.
When Mikhail cracks a joke that has the entire table laughing, Vincent takes the opportunity to cough quietly into an upheld fist. When Cherie talks about her and Joelâs extremely mathematical efforts to fit everything into the car before moving, Vincent turns aside, raising a napkin to his face with a quiet, well-contained sniffle.
Itâs difficult to tell, at first. But his attempts to keep quiet, to succumb to his symptoms as inconspicuously as possible, take their toll on him. Every time he jerks forward with a near-silent stifle, Yves can tell, by Vincentâs expression when he emerges, that itâs just short of relieving. Every sniffle seems to only add on to the mounting congestion, in the long run. Itâs a slow, almost imperceptible unraveling.
And yet, when Yves asks about itâwhen he offers to ask the others for antihistamines, or when he offers to make the drive to a convenience store himself; when he suggests that they go out to get some fresh airâheâs always faced with the same nonanswer, the same dismissive, Iâll be fine. The same persistent, Donât worry about it.
So Yves doesnât worry about it, for nowâat least, not outwardly.
â
At some point after dinner, they disperse. Yves talks to Joel and Cherie about the apartment, about the pains of moving in, about the other places theyâd considered and about why this one had been at the top of the list. Then about the catâ âwe had been talking about getting one,â Cherie says. âAnd then one day Joel was wandering around downtown, and one of the pet shops there was holding an adoption event, and then when I got home there was a cat in the living room.â
âHe didnât call you to come pick out a cat with him?â
âHave you ever heard of âask for forgiveness, not permission?ââ Joel says.
âHe texted me before he brought her home,â Cherie says, and scrolls through her phone until she finds a text that says: Would you kill me if I brought home a cat. Just asking for a friend. And hypothetically if we extended this thought experiment it would be an orange cat thatâs 2 months old.
âThat sounds like a text from someone whoâs absolutely decided already,â Yves says. âAsk for forgiveness, huh? So howâs the forgiveness going?â
âI let her name her,â Joel says.
âHeâs on litter box duty for the next six months,â Cherie says.
On the other side of the room, Mikhail and Vincent are having a conversationâit could be because Vincent is the person in the room that Mikhail has talked to least, to date, but Yves has a feeling that itâs so that Mikhail can gain embarrassing intel on what Yves has been doing for the past few months.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vincent turn away, his eyebrows drawing together, raising both his hands to his face to catch a sneeze into steepled hands. Then, not a moment later, his shoulders shudder forward with another.
âTotally off topic,â Yves says, to Joel and Cherie. âDo you guys have any antihistamines?â
âI think we have some Benadryl,â Cherie says. âIt should be in the bathroom cabinet, behind the mirror.â
He does find it there, eventuallyânext to a box of band-aids and a small cylindrical container of cotton swabs. Perhaps heâll hand it to Vincent, discreetly, when heâs done talking to Mikhail. Vincent had said antihistamines made him tired, but now that dinner is over, it shouldnât be an issueâYves suspects people will start heading out soon, and heâll be the one driving, anyways.
When he steps out into the hallway, Mikhail and Vincent are in the middle of a conversation. Itâs a conversation Yves has every intention of interrupting, and no intention of eavesdropping on, until he overhearsâ
âSo,â Mikhail says, âWhen you first started dating Yves, what was it that you saw in him?â
Yves winces. Thatâs certainly not an easy question to answerâhe and Vincent donât know each other all that well, and any planning they have done on the basis of their fake relationship has been almost entirely centered around logisticsâevents, important dates, flagship moments in the relationship, trivia-worthy personal details. Not⌠this.
But Vincent just laughs, seemingly unfazed. âHonestly, if I told you everything I liked about Yves, youâd want to date him too.â
âThatâs a tall claim,â Mikhail says. Yves is positively certain that no permutation of words in the universe could make Mikhail want to date him. âYou canât just say that and not give any examples.â
âI guess Yves is a very considerate person,â Vincent says, with a sniffle. âIt actually confused me, at first. When I was growing up, after I moved here from Korea, I was brought up in the sort of environment where there was always an expectation for self-sufficiency. It didnât matter how young I was, I guessâthere were certain things I was expected to know, and certain things I was expected to teach myself.â
Something about his expression looks wistful, if not a little sad. But perhaps this is a trick of the light; perhaps his eyes are just watering from earlier. âMy parents trusted me with a lot of things, but it was the kind of trust where they werenât planning on filling in the gaps for me if I fell short.â
âI know what you mean,â Mikhail says. âThat mustâve been difficult.â
âIt wasnât easy,â Vincent says. âBut Iâm not telling you this because it was a burden to me, or anything. Back then, it was all that I had ever known. It was normal to me, then, because it was inevitable.â
âYves is a very different person than I am,â Vincent says. âAt times, when I was growing up, it felt like kindness was always something that had to be calculated.â
He pauses, sniffling again, before he raises his arm to his face with a forcefulâ
âhIhhâGKT-! Hh⌠hh-HHihâNGKktshH!â
âBless you,â Mikhail says reflexively.
âThadk you,â Vincent says, sniffling. He lowers his arm. âI was always taught that if you lend a hand to someone else, you have to make sure their success is not the thing that robs you of your spotâthat sort of thing. But Yves is kind even without thinking about it. Heâs kind even when thereâs nothing in it for him.â
âSo that was what made you develop feelings for him?â Mikhail asks.
âEventually, yes,â Vincent says. âAt first, I thought that we were irreconcilably different.â
âWhat changed?â
âYves is an easy person to like, romantically or otherwise,â Vincent says. âItâs a little disarming to be on the receiving end of his type of kindness. And I think thatâs ultimately what made me start liking him. He���s just the sort of selfless person you canât help but admire, if that makes sense. Itâs likeâwhen someone does so much for you out of sheer selflessness, at some point, you start wanting to be a part of their happiness too.â
Out of the corner of his eye, Yves sees a small orange blurâmostly fluff, on four short white legs, with two pointy earsâbound from the kitchen into the living room.
âI get it,â Mikhail says. âThatâs an interesting answer. It makes me hopeful that Yves mightâve stumbled into a relationship that will be very good for him.â
Thatâs a statement heâll have to revise, Yves thinks wryly, in a few months, whenever it stops being practical for Vincent to keep up this act.
âOh,â Vincent says, blinking. âWhat makes you say that?â
âWhen he and Erika broke up, he wasââ Mikhail pauses, briefly, and Yves is thinking about the many embarrassingâbut completely, verifiably trueâways he could finish off that sentence. ââhe was pretty upset,â Mikhail says, instead, which Yves decides is suitably merciful.
âLook, whatâs between them is between themâIâm not going to claim I know all the ins and outs of their relationship. But given that Yves was living with me for much of the time that he and Erika were dating, Iâve seen them interact more times than I can count.â
âI donât think Erika is a bad person,â he continues. âSheâs very ambitious, which I think was good for Yves back when they first started dating. But I donât think she recognized those things about himâhow much he cares for others, how much he gives people the benefit of the doubt, how much he⌠well, frankly, how much bullshit heâs willing to endure on his end. I think she took his kindness for granted, a little bit, and she certainly didnât go out of her way to reciprocate.â
âWhat Iâm saying is, Iâm glad he met you,â Mikhail says. Beside him, something small and orange hops onto the couch theyâre standing next to. âI can tell that what you said was sincere.â
If even Mikhail thought he was being sincere, perhaps Vincent is a little too good of an actor.
âObviously, itâs early for me to be saying this, so you can take it with a grain of salt,â Mikhail continues. âBut I think you could be kind to him in the way he deserves.â
The sentence feels like a punch to the stomach.
Andâwell.
Iâm glad he met you. I think you could be kind to him in the way he deserves.
Yves has really dug himself into this hole, hasnât he?
Mikhail thinks that Vincent is good for himâMikhail, one of Yvesâs closest friends, someone who is by no means quick to express his approval over whoever Yves is seeingâwhich means that when they inevitably stage their breakup, Yves is never going to hear the end of it.
Is it cruel to be taking Vincent to all of these events, to be introducing him to all of his friends, whenâafter the impending breakupâVincent might never see any of them again? Is it cruel that Mikhail likes Vincent enough to be hopeful that this is going to last?
Yves doesnât have time to contemplate it more when three things happen.
OneâGingersnap, who is still perched at the very top of the couch, nudges her face against Vincentâs arm and mews softly at him.
TwoâVincent stops what heâs doing to reach out slowly, cautiously, to scratch gently at the fur under her chin. Gingersnap purrs, leaning her head into his hand.
ThreeâVincent withdraws his hand, suddenly, as if heâs been burned, twisting away reflexively. He lifts his handâthe same hand heâs been petting Gingersnap with (probably inadvisably) to his face, to cover a resoundingâ
âhhâhiHH-hHihhâiIZSChHH-uhh! snf-!â
The sneeze sounds ticklish and barely relieving, as if heâs been holding it in all afternoon.
Itâs only a few moments later that Vincentâs jerking forward with another ticklish, wrenching, âhh⌠hhiHH⌠NgKT-!âhhâhiiIIIKâTSCHhuhH! snf-! hiIh⌠hIIIH-IITSCHhâyyue!â
âOh,â Mikhail says, finally comprehending. âYouâre allergic to cats?â
âJust slightlyâ hIh⌠hH- HiihâhhHânNGkT-!â Vincent sniffles wetly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. âSorry to - hh-! - cut our codversatiod short - hH⌠I⌠hhiHhâIiKSHhuh! Excuse mbe⌠hH⌠Hhh-! Iâmb going to rund to the bathroom⌠hh⌠hhiIh⌠hh-HIihâiiIKâSHhUHhh!â
Yves ducks out into the kitchen before Vincent has a chance to head his way. He busies himself with removing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water, Somewhere behind him, he hears the bathroom door click shut, hears the slightly muffled sound of a sneeze, then another.
He shuts his eyes.
Vincent had said that it was fine. Should Yves have insisted? Itâs Yvesâs fault, again, that Vincent is in this situation, but then again, he couldnât have knownâboth that Joel and Cherie would have a cat, and that Vincent would like her so much. Either way, Yves canât help but feel partially responsible.
But would it be strange, now, to offer Vincent something to take for it, to openly acknowledge his affliction? Should he have done something earlier? Or should he wait to acknowledge it after they leave?
Against all doubt, he finds himself outside of the bathroom door.
Yves knocks.
Thereâs the sound of water running, inside, and then the sound of the faucet being turned to shut. Then thereâs a brief pause. Yves is contemplating knocking again when the door opens just a crack.
There, Vincent stands, his eyes a little watery still, his nose just slightly redder than usual, his hair slightly out of placeâheâs just washed his face, then.
âYves,â Vincent says.
âUm,â Yves says, holding out the glass of water and, next to it, the bottle of Benadryl. âThought you could use these.â
Vincent takes the cup, a little hesitantly, and sets it on the bathroom counter. Then he takes the bottle of allergy medicine, unscrews the cap, and removes two small pink pills.
âThank you,â he says. Yves thinks heâs about to take a sip when he twists to the side suddenly, his eyes squeezing shut, snapping forward with a loudâ
âhIIHâIIKKSHhâhUh!â
The hand heâs holding the cup with trembles a bit with the action, but the water inside doesnât spill.
âBless you,â Yves says, taking the cup from him, beforeâ
âhIHH⌠hh-HhihâiISCHhhâUhh!â
âBless you!â
The only acknowledgment Vincent gives him is to take the cup back from him, sniffling, and down the pills in one quick, decisive sip.
âTheyâll take some time to take effect,â Yves says, though heâs sure that Vincent knows that already, for the way he knew to take two, even without reading the label on the bottle. âAre you okay?â
âItâs been awhile since my last edcounter with a cat,â Vincent says, sniffling.
âYou forgot how bad it was?â
âIt gets better with exposure,â he says. And worse without.
Yves says, âFor what itâs worth, Iâm sorry. I really didnât know theyâd have a cat.â
âEven if youâd known, I ndever told you I was allergic,â Vincent says. âItâs fine.â
âI shouldâve thought to check. Seriously, a housewarming partyââ
âI told you, snf, I like cats,â Vincent says, clearing his throat. âSo itâs fine.â
Yves looks aroundâat the bathroom, which looks just as pristine as heâd left it earlier, except that the tissue box on the bathroom counter is a little askew. At the slight tiredness to Vincentâs posture, even as he looks off to the side, tilting his glasses up to his forehead to swipe at his eyes with his sleeve.
âDo you want to get out of here?â Yves says.
âI cad stay,â Vincent says, as if he really is willing to, despite the side effects. âDo you want to stay longer?â
I want you to be comfortable, Yves wants to say.
Instead, he says, âI think Iâve just about caught up with everyone. Besides, we have work tomorrow, and I think Cherie and Joel do too, so I donât want to stay too late, you know?â
âOkay,â Vincent says.
âIâm happy you came,â Yves says, stepping past Vincent to put the bottle of Benadryl back into its original spot, where he found it. He snags the glass from the counter on his way out.
âYour friends are a fun crowd,â Vincent says, following him out.
Yves laughs. âI think just between you and me, Mikhail has been dying to interrogate you about this relationship.â
âHe did idterrogate me,â Vincent says. âHow much of it did you overhear?â
âWhat?â
âWhen you were standing out in the hallway.â
Oh. Well, perhaps he hadnât been as discreet about eavesdropping as heâd thought. Yves says, âOkay, you got me. I heard a good amount.â
âI donât think Mikhail noticed you there, if youâre worried,â Vincent says. âIn any case, it doesdât matter if you overheard. It was just the same story.â
They step out into the hallway. Giselle has left, already, to be home in time for a cross-timezone call with a team that works somewhere halfway across the world. Yves bids everyone else a goodbye (Cherie and Joel thank him for coming, and Cherie hugs him and Vincent both on the way out; Nora asks Vincent to send her a recipe to his beef skewers, to which Vincent admits sheepishly that he stole from a cookbook, to which Nora says âmaking it successfully is half the work;â Mikhail says, âIf you and Vincent get a place too, I want to be invited to your housewarming party.â)
On the way out, Yves grabs both of their coats off from where theyâre hanging in a closet next to the front door, and hands Vincentâs coat to him. Thereâs never much street parking by the apartment, so the car is parked a couple blocks down, and itâs cold enough to be worth bundling up.
âYouâre very good at lying,â Yves says, when heâs sure that the door is shut behind them.
Outside, itâs snowing just a little. Snow falls from the sky in thick white flakes. Vincent pulls his hood over his shoulders, sniffling a littleâthough whether thatâs from the cold or from the allergies, Yves canât be sure. âIs that a compliment or an insult?â
âDefinitely a compliment. I just mean, you play the part really well.â
âSo instead of being a good boyfriend, Iâm a good fake boyfriend,â Vincent says, lifting his sleeve to his face to muffle a cough into it. âSomehow, that seems much less impressive.â
âItâs arguably more impressive,â Yves says. âIt definitely requires a different subset of skills.â
Vincent is quiet for a moment. When Yves looks over, he sees Vincent raise both hands to his face, steepling them over his nose, his eyes fluttering shut.
âhHh⌠hHhâiiiIKKSshhâuhh!â
âBless you,â Yves says.
âNdotâ hh⌠hHh⌠done â hH-hhIhânGKKTsHuuh! hHh-hHâIIZSCHHhhuh!â
âBless you! Cats, huh?â
Vincent hums. Itâs snowed all through dinnerâthe snow under their feet coats the sidewalk, powdery and untouched. Their shoes sink into it while they walk.
âI didnât know you used to live in Korea,â Yves says.
âItâs not a secret, snf-!,â Vincent says. âBut I ndever found an occasion to bring it up.â
Yves can think of a hundred things to sayâhow itâs strange only learning this information secondhand; itâs strange to play the part of someone who knows Vincent and knows him intimately, and to know so little about him, at the core of it. Isnât it like that, with coworkers? The only window he has to Vincentâs life is made up of the things Vincent has chosen to share with himâover small talk in the break room, or conversationally over their outings, or during longer drives.
He knows an assortment of trivia, like Vincentâs favorite color (green) or Vincentâs birthday (March 15th) or the number of siblings Vincent has (one), or when he had his first kiss (during his first year in university) or his least favorite chore (vacuuming) or how he spends his weekends (generally at the library downtown, catching up on work or working on his personal projects). But even that was only for the sake of having something to say if his friends asked himâof having a basic understanding of his supposed partner that Vincent could later corroborate.
âWas it very different there?â
âI moved here when I was pretty young,â Vincent says. âBut it was very different.â
When Yves looks over, thereâs something complicated to Vincentâs expression that gives him pause. âBack then, I was young enough that everything was new to me. So the cultural shift wasnât as pronounced for me as it was for the rest of the family. I think thatâs why they moved back, eventually.â
âDid that happen recently?â
âThey moved back just six years after we came here,â he says. âI was in high school at the time, so I stayed with my aunt to continue my education here.â
âWas it difficult living here on your own?â
âIs this useful to you?â
Yves blinks, taken aback. âSorry?â
âIs this information useful to you?â Vincent says, looking over at him. His glasses have fogged up a little in the cold. âDo you think your friends are going to ask about it?â
âItâsânot exactly useful in that sense,â Yves says, backtracking. âI just wanted to know. But you donât have to tell me if you donât want to.â
Thatâs right, he reminds himselfâhe and Vincent are only doing this for appearancesâ sake.
âI got used to it,â Vincent says, finally, which isnât exactly an answer. âItâs hard to say ifâhold on, Iâ hh-!â
Yves sees him duck off to the side, raising his arm to his face.
âBless youâ!â
âhh-HhiihâIIZSCHhâuhH!â
The sneeze is muffled slightly into his sleeve. Vincent sniffles, keeping his arm clamped to his face for a moment, in trepidation, before dropping it to his side.
âApologies, snf-!,â he says, as if he has anything to apologize for. âItâs hard to say if things wouldâve been better if Iâd gone back with them to Korea. I just know things wouldâve been different.â
Yves doesnât know what to say to that. It feels like something that Vincent has thought about for years, something that Yves couldnât even begin to comprehendâgrowing up here, alone. Away from his family, in a country foreign to him, with his family all the way on the other side of the Pacific ocean; staying with a stranger. To say that it had to have been difficult would be a vast understatement.
Had he doubted himself, then? Had it been his idea to stay here, in the States? Had his parents told him it was for the best? Had he argued with them on the subject? Had they listened?
âDo you think youâre happy enough now to justify that decision?â Yves asks.
Vincent is quiet for a bit. Around them, the snow continues to fall, silent and slow, listing upwards on every updrift. âSometimes,â he says.
â
When they get back to the car, Vincent is quiet. The car is frigid, the window panes cold enough to fog up when Yves puts his hand on themâhe puts the heaters on to the highest setting. If anything, being out of the cold seems to make Vincentâs nose run even moreâa fact which he carefully obscures, resting his face on the palm of his hand with a few muffled sniffles.
âThanks again for coming,â Yves says. âI know Iâand everyone elseâalready said that to you like a hundred times. But I mean it.â
âItâs ndo problem, snf,â Vincent says. âIâll be sure to avoid putting you into contact with cats in the future,â Yves says.
âThereâs ndo need for that.â
âWhile weâre at it, is there anything else youâre allergic to?â
âNot much,â Vincent says. âUnless you pland on getting rid of the entire season of spring.â
âThatâs secretly why you chose an office job,â Yves says. âSo you could avoid all the pollen by staying inside all day.â
âBusy season was - snf-! - idvented solely for that purpose,â Vincent says.
Itâs barely a couple minutes into the drive when Vincent stifles a yawn into his fist.
âAre you tired?â Yves asks. âI mean, you did say that thing about antihistamines making you tired.â
âWide awake,â Vincent says, beforeâmoments laterâhiding another yawn behind a cupped hand.
âEvidently,â Yves says, which earns him a quiet laugh.
âTell me if you ndeed me,â Vincent says, leaning his head lightly on the passenger seat window. As if this is work, or something. As if Yves could have any conceivable reason to need him during the drive home.
âNot at all,â Yves says. âAs a matter of fact, itâd probably be a good thing if you close your eyes. You wouldnât have to look at all this traffic.â Itâs a little past rush hour, but traffic is only just starting to clear up, and driving in the city at any hour has never been a particularly pleasant experience.
Vincent opens his eyes. âDo you wadt me to help navigate?â
âI want you to sleep,â Yves says. âIâm an expert at handling traffic.â
Itâs as if all this time, Vincent was merely waiting for permission. Yves isnât certain if heâs asleep, but he certainly looks to beâwhen Yves sneaks a glance at him, his eyes are shut, his shoulders slack, and his breathing has evened out. Itâs an image Yves wants to thoroughly take inâthe slow rise of his chest, his eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks.
Instead, he drives. Instead, he stares hard at the rows and rows of cars before him, at every traffic light, and tries not to think aboutâ
Vincent, at the housewarming party, kneeling down to pet a cat smaller than his hand, despite being well aware of the consequences.
Vincent, calling Yves kind even without thinking about it, talking about himâabout his best qualitiesâwith near-artful dishonesty.
Vincent, walking beside him in the snow, talking candidly about growing up here; the unspoken understanding between them about how much he mustâve given up.
That Vincent, the same Vincent from work, asleep in Yvesâs passenger seat, while Yves drives him home.
Yves canât help but think that if he caught feelings for someone like Vincent, Erika would be the least of his problems.
#sneeze fic#snz fic#sneeze kink#snz kink#snz#probably one of the longest oneshots i've posted here#i'm sorry if this is not like#as... snz-driven as usual? it's a little more mellow and i really hope that doesn't make it a boring read#i promise i am in the middle of writing something spicier đ#my fic#also thank you to everyone who has left comments/come talk to me about fool me twice 𼚠it makes me really happy to know that there are#people out there who like reading these two#yvverse#(<- new tag for them)
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Small Price to Pay | [1/1]
you know all those posts about making out with someone with a cold and the associated consequences? This is that in fic form, ~8.8k words. I'm embarrassing myself typing this, so here it is.
This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves - you can read more of these two here! :)
Summary:
âSo,â Brendon says. âYouâre still dating him.â Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yvesâs chest. Yves frowns at him. âIs that supposed to be surprising?â
Yves has a birthday party to attend and a fake relationship to prove. Vincent is nothing if not adaptable. (ft. fake dating, an argument, contagion)
â
Hereâs the problem:
Francesca throws a party.
Itâs a birthday party, strictly speaking, but functionally itâs more of a college reunionâFrancesca invites everyone from their year who rowed crew, which means that one: Yves will be surrounded by some of his best friends from college, and two: Erika will be there.
He thinks up an entire contingency planâif Vincent canât make it that weekend, for one reason or another, Yves will show up, hand Francesca his gift, spend the rest of the hour avoiding Erika and Brendon, and leave early, citing some excuse or other. Itâs not that he doesnât think he could handle talking to Erikaâitâs just seeing her feels like reopening a wound. A part of him is scared that heâll see her, and feel the loss intensely all over againâor, worse, heâll get ideas about forgiving her, about letting her into his life again, about accepting her explanations.
And Brendon, tooâseeing Erika means seeing Brendon, most likely, and Yves doesnât want to justify himself to him any more than he already has.
The point is: the less of the both of them that he has to deal with, the better.
When he asks Vincent a week before the event, though, Vincentâs response is immediate.
V: You can fill me in on the details later. Iâll be there.
Itâs a little strange, he thinks, that Vincent always agrees so readily. Vincent isnât a fan of partiesâheâd been clear about that. He doesnât seem interested in talking much about himself, eitherâheâs just the kind of person, Yves is realizing, who likes to keep his personal details close unless they offer some sort of utility.
Perhaps thereâs something else that Vincent is getting out of this, then.
But when Yves asks, heâs met with the same cryptic answer:
âI donât mind it,â Vincent says. âAnd you have something you want to prove to your ex. Ultimately, itâs a net positive.â
âWhile thatâs technically true,â Yves says, âthis seems like an unfair arrangement. I mean, youâre only doing this because I dragged you into it.â
âIf I didnât want to be dragged into it,â Vincent says, âI would say so.â as if itâs really that simple.
It canât be that simple, Yves thinksâthere must be more to his reasoning that heâs omittingâbut he doesnât press. Vincent is right. Vincent is the kind of person who knows precisely what he wants. If he really had a problem with this arrangement, he wouldâve said so.
And, besidesâa little selfishly, perhapsâYves has started looking forward to their outings as of late.
â
Nevertheless, he doesnât think about the party again until the Friday before it, when Vincent shows up at his desk.
âDo you have a moment?â he says.
âYes,â Yves says, saving the spreadsheet heâs been working on and shutting his laptop. âWhatâs up?â
When he looks up, Vincent looks a little tired, though thatâs not unusualâitâs been a long week, and busy season always means long hours and little sleep.
âWe can talk later if youâre busy,â Vincent says.
âIâm very free,â Yves says. Heâs decisively notâand heâs sure that Vincent knows this, too, so whatever Vincent is approaching him with now must be important.
âRegarding Francescaâs party tomorrow,â Vincent starts. He looks a little sheepishâas if he doesnât quite want to be the deliverer of bad news. âI can still go. But IâmâŚâ
âIf something came up,â Yves says immediately, âyou donât have to come.â âItâs not that,â Vincent says.
âOr even if nothingâs come up,â Yves backtracks, âand youâre just not feeling it anymore? Also totally fine. Seriously. I can always just go by myself.â
Vincent seems to consider this. Yves is starting to get worried that something might actually be very wrongâsomething that Vincent is hesitant to even bring upâwhen Vincent takes a generous step backwards, raising his elbow to his face as his eyes squeeze shut.
âhhihânGKTsHuhh-!â
The sneeze sounds harsh, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve; it tears through him with little warning, loud enough to echo slightly in the confines of the office space.
Thatâs when it all clicks into place: the tiredness. The slight off-ness to his complexion, the tension to the way heâs holding himself, the fact that Yves hasnât caught him in the break room at all over the past couple days. The fact that heâs currently standing so far away from Yvesâs desk.
âYouâre ill,â Yves says, comprehending.
âYes,â Vincent says. His voice sounds a little off, too, now that Yves knows what to look for; it has that quality it often takes on after a long day of discussions with clientsânot quite hoarse, but getting there. âIâm positive itâs just a cold. I just wanted to give you a heads up.â
âDonât worry about it at all, seriously,â Yves says. He feels guilty, suddenlyâhere he is, asking Vincent to spend his already-limited free time at a party, when Vincent probably has a high volume of important clientsâand a burgeoning head coldâto deal with. âIf you want to take a rain check, you should. Iâm sure this week has already been rough for you as it is.â
âWhen is the next time youâll be going to an event where Erikaâs going to be there?â
That question makes him pause. âI donât know. In another month, or so, if I had to guess?â
âSo this event is important,â Vincent says, sniffling. Itâs the kind of light, liquid sniffle that implies that whatever heâs caught, heâs just at the start of it. âIn that case, Iâll go.â
âWait,â Yves says. âThatâs not what Iâyour health is more important than any event. You shouldnât push yourself.â
âI feel fine,â Vincent says. âNo headache, no fever. Itâs just a slight cold. I will be fine tomorrow if I make it a point to sleep early.â he sniffles again, his expression growing hazy for a brief moment before he blinks, rubbing his nose on one knuckle. âI just wanted to make sure you were fine with it.â
âI am completely fine with it,â Yves says, reaching for the box of tissues thatâs perched on his desk. He holds it out. âI just feel bad about making you go if youâre sick.â
Vincent takes a handful of tissues out of the box, brings them up to cover his nose, just in time forâ
âhh- hHânGKT-! snf-! hH-Hhih⌠hhâhiHhhâiiZSCHHh-uhh!â
âBless you,â Yves says, with emphasis, pushing the entire tissue box towards him. âTimes two. Seriously. I think you could use the weekend offâyou know, to catch up on sleep.â
âAssuming that things havenât changed from the event details you forwarded me, the party will be in the evening,â Vincent says, taking the tissue box from him, a little hesitantly, and tucking it under his arm. âIâll have plenty of time to sleep in.â
Yves opens his mouth to protest.
Vincent says, âIâm fine. Iâll call a rain check if I wake up with a fever.â He turns on his heels. âOtherwise, see you tomorrow.â
â
Vincent, as Yves is coming to realize, is very good at appearing presentable, even when heâs under the weather.
âYou made it,â he says. This time, theyâd driven here separately. Yves had thought, initially, that itâd be easier to just drive Vincent places, so that the only thing heâd had to account for was his actual presenceâbut Francesca lives between them. I donât mind driving, Vincent had said. Youâd be going out of your way to pick me up, but heâd coordinated a spot a couple blocks down to meet up, so that it would look like theyâd come together.
Itâs cold outside stillâitâs the sort of indecisive weather that seems to periodically hint at spring: a cold front, then a few warm days when all the ice thaws, a few flowers lining the grass along the road where the snowâs melted, and then another snowstorm. Itâs easy enough, then, to chalk up the slight redness of his cheeks, the redness at the tip of his nose, as another effect of the not-quite-spring weather.
Yves is carrying his present for Francesca under one armâa hardcover bookâa sequel to one sheâd read last year and gushed to him about liking; a couple fridge magnets, which she likes to collect; film for the polaroid camera her sister got her last year; and a letter, all wrapped up in a brown paper parcel.
Itâs nice to have an excuse to see everyone again, especially some of the members from crew whom heâs not close enough to invite to parties personally, that he knows Francesca was closer to.
âIt was a pain to find parking,â Vincent says. Heâs wearing a red scarf today, and a white overcoat with black buttons and a sharply cut collar. Personally, Yves thinks itâs unfair that someone can be down with an irritating head cold and still look so good.
âNo kidding,â Yves says. âYou wouldâve thought thereâd be more than one tiny parking lot for all those shops.â
Yves asks how he is (fine, Vincent saysâperfectly capable of spending a few hours at a party. Yves says, I feel like you would say that even if you were like, dead on your feet with a high fever, to which Vincent laughs, but doesnât explicitly deny.)
Yves supposes he isnât one to talkâheâd showed up to a crew event, near the end of the season, with the flu, just because it had been their then-captainâs last big event, and heâd been planning to give him a farewell speech. The speech had gone fineâand so had the first few hoursâbut then all his symptoms had hit at onceâfever chills, exhaustion, a pounding headache, the likesâand Francesca and Erika had practically had to drag him home.
But that had been an important eventâa once in a lifetime thingâand heâd drafted that speech for two weeks. This is so much less high-stakes.
âI prombise Iâm fine,â Vincent tells him, lifting up the side of his scarf to muffle a cough into it. âItâs just all the - hHIh-! all the annoyidg symptoms. I dodât - snf-! - feel any worse than I did yesterday.â âAny worse?â Yves says. âDoes that mean you were already feeling pretty badly off yesterday?â
âI barely even feel udwell at all,â Vincent says. âItâs justâ I keep havidg toâ hHih-! hihHâIIITshHHh-uuH!â
He sniffles, raising a sleeve to his face to cover the next, resounding,
âhHihâiITTSshhâUhh! snf-!â He buries his face deeper into his sleeve, his shoulders trembling with another gasp. âHhihâŚ. HIihânNGKTâSHhuh!â
âBless you,â Yves says, laughing. âOkay. Point taken.â
Vincent lowers his arm slowly with a curt sniffle. âAre Erika and Francesca close?â
âYeah,â Yves says. âI think they still keep in touch pretty frequently.â itâs one of the reasons why he hasnât told Francescaâor anyone else in the friend groupâabout the specifics of their breakup.
It feels wrong, somehow, to paint her in a bad light, to give people reason to take sides, when itâs always been all of them together as a group. 5am practice was a hell of a bonding experience, she was part of all of that, too. He has no right to take that from her.
âHow about Brendon?â
âBrendonâs sort of an odd one out,â Yves says. âI donât think most of us had met him until he started dating Erika during our senior year. He usually hangs out with a different crowd, so heâs only really around when Erika is.â
Perhaps thatâs better, tooâmore mercifulâthat when Erika had left him for someone new, it hadnât been one of the people he knew and deeply trusted. If Brendon had been there too, at all those 5am practices, at all those oddly timed meetingsâif Yves had had that much time to look back on, to wonder when Erikaâs feelings for Brendon had materialized, to watch her fall for him firsthand, to look back and know that he was losing herâŚ
Itâs better, this way, he thinks, that at least he can look back on his time rowing crew as heâd always wanted toânot like the way he feels when he looks at Erika: heartbroken, and a little betrayed.
âI guess Iâm in that positiod now,â Vincent says.
âIn the sense that you didnât meet everyone through crew?â
âIn the sedse that Iâm an outsider.â
Yves considers this. âMy friends really like you, though,â he says. âI donât think they think of you that way.â Itâs a short walk to Francescaâs doorstep. Vincent really does seem to be okay, Yves notesâaside from the frequent sniffling, and the sneezes he turns away to direct into his sleeve, he isnât shivering under his coat, and he doesnât look more tired than usual.
Despite everything, Yves finds himself feeling cautiously hopeful. Something about Vincentâs presence has that effect on him. Vincent is always so sure of himself, even in situations Yves thinks he canât possibly be certain will go well.
It makes Yves want to have faith in this too. Yves will see Francesca and his friends from crew, and he wonât have to say anything to Erika and Brendon, his friends will like Vincent very much, and everything will be just fine.
âWait,â Vincent says, right after Francescaâs let them in through the apartment buzzer. âWe should look like we actually like each other.â He holds his hand out, expectant.
âGood point.â Yves takes it. Vincentâs hand is warm, and a little callousedâwhen Yves tugs his hand a little closer, Vincentâs fingers interlace nicely with his.
âFor the record, I do like you,â he adds.
Vincent laughs. âYou kdow what I meant.â
â
Itâs almost a relief, seeing everyone again. Yves used to feel a little apprehensive about reunionsâaround the possibility for the people that heâd known and loved to have changed past recognition, to have internalized everything some way but to come back and see that everyoneâs moved on in their own ways, grown a little more into themselvesâand a little further from himâthan he remembers them to be.
But when he sees Francesca, she still greets him with the same hug â one arm looped around his shoulders, for a firm squeeze. He hands her her gift, and wishes her a happy birthday, and she laughs and says the only good part about getting old is having an excuse to have everyone back in her living room.
âAnd Vincentâs here too,â Francesca says, turning to Vincent, whoâafter looking caught off guard for a secondâsmiles back at her. âIâm so glad you were able to come!â
âItâs good to see you agaid,â Vincent says. âAnd happy birthday. You look great, by the way.â
âThank you!â she says, beaming. Sheâs wearing a cocktail party dress which slips elegantly over her still-bare shoulders. âI needed to pick something out for the occasion. I swear, these days, half my closet is just business formal attire. Itâs depressing.â
âIf that mbeans that the other half of your closet is filled out with idteresting clothes,â Vincent says, with a quiet sniffle, âyouâre doing a lot better than I am.â
Francesca laughs. âItâs just for my sanity,â she says. âCanât let the clients dictate everything I wear.â
âItâs ndice that youâre celebrating your birthday, though,â Vincent says. He lifts a hand to rub his slightly-reddening nose with one knuckle. âMy coworkers are always sayidg that theyâre too old to want to ackdowledge it anymore.â
âIt definitely feels that way sometimes,â Francesca says. âBut itâs a good excuse to have everyone here, while we still can. Speaking of whichâYves is the worst at planning things for himself, which is ironic, because heâs always the one planning things for everyone else.â
âThat is not true,â Yves says.
Francesca gives him a pointed look. âLast year, you were practically banking on having everyone forget your birthday.â
That is an exaggeration. âIâm pretty sure you wouldnât let that happen, even if I wanted it to,â Yves says.
âYouâre damn right.â
âThe ndext time youâre planning a birthday for him,â Vincent says, clearing his throat with a quiet cough, âIâll pitch in.â
Francesca brightens, at this. âFinally another soldier on the right side of the war,â she says. âYou can definitely be part of the secret planning council.â
âThadk god,â Vincent says, playing along. âI was starting to thidk I was going to have to do it all alone.â
âItâs not a secret if Iâm right here,â Yves says. Francesca ignores him in favor of having Vincent type his number into her phone.
â
Halfway through the evening, Vincent disappears into the kitchen for a moment. When he comes back, itâs with two drinks in handâcanned cocktails, Yves realizes, judging by the cans. He hands one over to Yves.
âI actually donât think Iâve ever seen you drink before,â Yves says to him. âEven at happy hours.â
âI donât drink very often,â Vincent says.
âDoes this mean that I get to see you tipsy? Iâm sure our coworkers will be jealous.â
âIf youâre expecting my personality to change,â Vincent says, âyou will be disappointed.â he says it with such certainty that Yves pays closer attention to him after that.
Vincent does hold his alcohol well, as it turns out, with the exception of the slight flush to his cheeks a few drinks laterâthough even then, Yves canât be entirely sure it canât be entirely attributed to his cold. He listens intently as Yves talks to Dianeâwhoâs a couple years younger than Yvesâabout how Crew has been ever since Yves graduated (mostly the same; the new underclassmen are good at showing up to practices on time, but thatâs partially because their captain this year is a little intimidating). He gives several of the crew members a candid summary of his relationship with Yves, when asked. He tells Marin how they first met and he tells Kenneth what itâs like keeping their relationship secret at work and he laughsâa little sheepishlyâwhen Sasha says they make a cute couple. If lying so openly is difficult for him, it doesnât show.
If thereâs anything thatâs off, itâs subtle. It takes some time for Yves to noticeâ
The next time Vincent sneezes, his breath hitches with a sharp, desperate, â âhHhiHâ!â Then he turns away, craning his neck over his shoulder for an uncovered, âHIiiIKTshH-uh-!â
He blinks in the wake of it, as if a little dazed, before he seems to straighten, lifting a hand to wipe his nose on one knuckle. Itâs not stifled, as it usually is, nor is it neatly pinched off into his fingers, which is unexpected.
Itâs as if the sneeze has fully caught him off guardâas if all the systems he has in place to sneeze as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible are just slightly impaired by the alcohol. Not that it matters muchâFrancesca has put some music on, and it sits in the background now, a low thrum, all but the percussive elements muted by the chatter of conversation.
âBless you,â Yves says, leaning over to grab a cocktail napkin from one of the neighboring tables. He hands it to Vincent, who blows his nose and emerges with a small cough. âHowâs the cold?â
âFide,â Vincent says, with a sniffle. âNdo worse than before.â
âAre you just saying that to get me to drop the subject?â
âIâm sayidg it because I actually mean it. Itâs a very tolerable cold.â
Yves laughs, and reaches for his drink. Heâs about to take a sip when he feels Vincentâs fingers close around his wrist
Itâs only a brief moment of contact, but the warmth it leaves around his wrist stays, even when Vincent lets go.
âSorry,â Vincent says, a little panicked. He withdraws his hand. âThatâs mine.â
âWhat?â
âThe cocktail.â
âOh.â Yves looks down to the can in his hands. He supposes Vincent might be rightâtheyâve both had a few drinks, so heâd lost track awhile ago. A lot of the canned cocktails taste roughly the same to him, anyways. âIs it? I can get you another one if you want.â
âNo,â Vincent says. âI drank from it.â As if that explains everything. And thenâa little quieter, as if heâs embarrassed to say it: âI donât wadt you to catch this.â
Truthfully, the possibility hadnât crossed his mind until Vincent mentioned it. It seems a little endearing that Vincent would be worried about it in the first placeâYves has certainly shared food and drinks with friends who were worse off. âIâm not worried about that,â he says. âItâs just a cold. Didnât you say it was very tolerable?â
âItâs stillâŚâ Vincent trails off, averting his glance with a sniffle. â...an annoyance.â
He looks like heâs about to say more when his expression goes distant, his eyebrows furrowing.
âHHihâIIIzSCH-uhh!â It sounds so thoroughly unsatisfying, half-shielded by a hand raised a few moments too late. âhh-HIh-! HhâŚâ He pauses, his eyes watering, his breath still wavering, andâafter a few seconds of nothingâsniffles; a forceful, liquid sniffle that practically emanates frustration. âhIiIIhâkSHhhhh! snf-!â
âBless you!â
Vincent emerges, teary-eyed, still sniffling. âCase in point,â he says.
â
He doesnât see Erika when she gets there. It isnât until she passes him in the living room, halfway in a conversation, that she makes her presence known to him.
âHi Yves,â she says, and he looks up. Today sheâs wearing a pink dress which cuts off at her kneesâa strapless dress, save for a pink rose over her left shoulder which blooms into a sleeve. She is every inch as beautiful as she always is.
He smiles at her, cordial, tight-lipped. âYou made it,â he says. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more, and he realizesâwith a flash of panicâthat he doesnât know what more to say to her. He hasnât kept up with her over the past few months. He knows that sheâs working as a quantitative analyst, at a company sheâd been hired at a couple months after theyâd broken up, but he doesnât know if she likes her work, if she likes her coworkers, if itâs been busy as of late. If she works long hours, if sheâs taken up any new projects. âGlad you found time. I assume workâs been keeping you busy,â he says,
âAre you kidding? Itâs Francesca,â Erika says. âI wouldnât miss this for the world.â
And there it isâthat decisiveness. That same resolve that, back then, made everything with her seem so easy. Erika and Francesca have always been closeâthrough college, back when they met during crew, and even after, when all of them had been still settling into their jobs or going off to grad school or moving halfway across the country; when seeing each other no longer meant just a fifteen minute walk across campus.
âYeah,â Yves says. âI know.â
They donât speak, after that. Yves thinks itâs probably for the bestâhe doesnât have anything to say to Erika right now. Back then, he could talk to her about anything, even if it was pointless or insignificant or of no real importance, and sheâd make the conversation fun.
These days, he only tells her things on a strict need-to-know basis, andâgiven that the only times he sees her these days is at events like thisâthereâs not really all that much to talk about.
It had been difficult, at first. Heâd wanted to share everything with her, still, back when his work schedule had settled enough for him to take long walks downtown, to start to go to concerts and bars again; when heâd redecorated his apartment, when heâd gotten someone to mentor at work, when heâd gotten back into cooking. For some time after the breakup, it still felt instinctual to turn to her, to text her about something interesting thatâd happened, to ask her to try out something new that heâd found.
But he hadnât. Something about feigning normalcy seemed worse, even then, than accepting that she was really gone.
Perhaps her avoidance of him tonight is merciful. Itâs easier, when heâs not thinking about her, to slip into the familiarity of talking to everyone, to enjoy all of it just as himself.
Itâs only when he excuses himself to get another drink that he runs into Brendon.
Yves has always been civil with Brendon.
Brendon isâwell, to say that Brendon isnât someone he considers a friend is a vast understatement. The less of Brendon Yves sees, the better. Yves avoids him when he can, but he is good at holding up small talk, when itâs necessary, and on most days, Brendon has enough good sense to not start a fight.
Today, it seems, is not one of those days.
âSo,â Brendon says. âYouâre still dating him.â Something about the way he inflects the word still makes something sour in Yvesâs chest.
Yves frowns at him. âIs that supposed to be surprising?â
âI guess Iâm surprised,â Brendon says. âI have to say, I wasnât expecting it to last.â
âWell, Iâm happy to have exceeded your expectations,â Yves says. âThough it doesnât sound like they were very high.â
âI donât mean it like that,â Brendon says, waving a hand. âItâs justânew relationships can be fairly unreliable. Especially when youâre dating around.â
âMaybe in your experience, thatâs the case,â Yves says. âBut personally, I tend to date people I can see myself with long term.â
âThatâs the thing,â Brendon says. âIâm surprised you can see yourself with him.â
Yves sets the drink heâs holding down and turns to face him properly. âIâm not sure what you mean by that.â
Brendon scoffs. âIt doesnât take a genius to see that you two are very different people.â
âSo people can only date their clones,â Yves says flatly. Heâs already tired of this conversation. âMy bad. I mustâve missed that rule somewhere in dating 101.â
âObviously, I donât mean it to that extent. Youâre blowing it out of proportion. I just mean that you can only be so different from someone before youâre incompatible. â
âI agree,â Yves says. âAnd I donât think weâre incompatible.â
âAre you sure?â Brendon crosses his arms. âThis isnât his scene, is it? Cocktail parties? I mean, heâs practically married to his work. Does he even like parties?â
Vincent doesnât like partiesâBrendon is right about that point. But hadnât Vincent been the one whoâd agreed to come here in the first place? To imply that heâs only here because Yves has dragged him along seems somewhat disingenuous.
Yves says, âIf Vincent didnât want to be here, he wouldnât be here.â
âSure, but from what Iâve heard from Erikaââ Yves doesnât like this implication that Brendon and Erika talk about them behind their back, but he supposes itâs to be expected. ââheâs not exactly the type of person youâve tended to go for in the past.â
That sounds awfully like an accusation.
âWhat exactly are you getting at, here?â
âIâm saying that it sort of looks like you just picked the most convenient rebound you could find,â Brendon says, quiet. âBut usually people are honest with themselves when thatâs the case.â
That startles a short, indignant laugh out of Yves. âYou have no idea what youâre talking about,â he says.
âDo you really not think thatâs the case? Wouldnât you say youâd usually go for someone more personable?â
âPersonable?â Yves repeats. âPersonable? Donât make me laugh. Do you know how many clients Iâve seen Vincent talk down to a pleasant resolution because heâs so good at negotiating? Do you know how many conferences Iâve been in where Vincent is the one people come to after to privately compliment, because heâs so good at knowing how to talk to people?â he thinks to Joelâs housewarming partyâto how compellingly Vincent had lied for him, then; to how good he had been at conjuring up a sense of history between them, of warmth. âHis ability to answer difficult questions on the spot, with virtually no preparation at all, is something I canât even begin to comprehend.â
Heâs not sure why the accusation from Brendon makes him so upset, only that it does. Only that he wants to do nothing but tell Brendon just how wrong he is. âIf youâre trying to imply that Iâm settling for him, donât patronize me,â he says. âVincent is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people I know. Do you seriously believe Iâd be dissatisfied with someone who holds himself to such a high standard?â
âIâm happier than Iâve been in months,â he says, resolute. âBecause of him.â
Through the adrenaline, Yves realizes, faintly, that he hasnât lied about any of it. He certainly could haveâafter all, Brendon would be none the wiserâbut everything heâs said about Vincent is something he really, genuinely believes.
âAh,â Brendon says, knowingly, as if he has it all figured out. âI got it wrong. This whole time I thought you were the one that felt lukewarm about him. But itâs the other way around, isnât it?â
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âYouâre so sure heâs the one that youâre willing to overlook all of your obvious differences,â Brendon says. âHave you ever stopped to consider whether he feels the same way?â
âPresumably, he does,â Yves says. âOtherwise, we wouldnât be in a relationship.â
âThat doesnât necessarily mean anything,â Brendon says, as if Yves should already know this from past experience, whichâif Yves is being really honestâmakes him want to punch him.
Instead, he takes in a deep breath, schools his expression into a smile. âUsually, people in relationships arenât still looking for other options.â
âYes,â Brendon says. âUnless theyâre unhappy.â
âYves!â
When Yves turns to look, Vincent is standing in the doorway. How long has he been here? Just how much of the conversation has he overheard?
âSorry for the wait,â Yves says sheepishly. âI was getting us drinks.â Evidently, heâs been away long enough for Vincent to come check up on him, so heâs already spent unreasonably long getting drinks, and now he doesnât even have the drinks to show for it. âOr, I guess I got a little sidetracked, but I swear that drinks are on the wââ
Vincent leans in, unprompted, and kisses him.
Yvesâs brain grinds to a complete halt.
Itâs only a moment later that Vincent pulls away, but the decisiveness with which heâs carried it out, the broad confidence on his face as he smiles, unwavering, isâ
Fuck.
âOh,â Yves all but stammers. His face is most certainly red right now, and he canât even blame it on the alcohol. âUm. Did you need anything?â
âNo,â Vincent says. Thereâs something telling to his expression, some sort of quiet acknowledgement. âJust wanted to see what was takidg you so long.â
Suddenly, it makes sense.
Vincent must have heard. Everything Brendon saidâor at least, the last part of it; the implication that Vincent isnât as invested in this relationship as Yves is; the implication that their attraction towards each other is somehow one-sided. Vincent is doing this to cover for him, because he wants to make it excruciatingly obvious that Brendon is wrong.
The fact that he would go to such lengths to make a point makes something settle in Yvesâs chest.
âItâs actually good that you showed up,â he says, playing along. âI donât know what kind of drink you want. I was just going to get you something generic.â
He heads over to the ice box on the other side of the kitchen, and Vincent follows.
Theyâre far enough that theyâre separated from Brendon by the granite islandâand, beyond that, the cushioned high stools lined up next to it, but not so far that Brendon canât still see them.
So he certainly can see, Yves thinks, this:
Yves leans in, reaching up a hand to cup Vincentâs jaw, and closes the distance between them.
Itâs nothing like the kiss at the New Yearâs party.
That one had been all nervesâbrief, impulsive, all adrenaline. This kiss is much more involvedâYves presses in closer, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Vincentâs skin, so close that he can smell the faint, not unpleasant smell of laundry detergent on Vincentâs shirt collar. So close that he can feel the breath that Vincent exhales, warm on his cheek; can feel the softness of Vincentâs hair as he shifts. He feels Vincentâs hand settle on his chest, feels his fingers curl inwards to rest on the fabric of his shirt, andâ
On the other side of the kitchen, Brendon is watching, and Vincent is hereâhere, present, in the flesh, looking as put together as always, looking like someone out of a goddamn magazineâso Yves kisses him like heâs used to kissingâgreedily, as if heâs been wanting this for ages. Itâs been awhile since heâs kissed someone like this. Back then, there was universityâthe people at parties who heâd met and kissed out of momentary attraction, or out of alcohol-induced courageâthough of course back then, neither party had harbored any delusions about how impermanent that connection was, or how little it meant. And then there was Erika, who, for the longest time, he thought was going to be the last person heâd ever kiss like this.
For months after theyâd broken up, he hadnât looked for anything. It felt wrong to subject othersâeven strangers, to which he had no allegianceâto the messy remnants of his feelings, to attempt to get into something he knew could only be half-hearted, at best, when there was a person in his mind who lingered so sharply.
But Vincent crowds up every corner of his mind, as if to say, pay attention, and Yves finds that for once, heâs not thinking about Erika at all.
When he feels the small hitch in Vincentâs breath, he thinks nothing of it.
Except, thenâabruptly, and with barely any warningâVincent is wrenching away, craning his head over Yvesâs shoulder to let out a sudden, uncoveredâ
âhh-hIIIHâhH-IIKTshHuh!â
Their proximity to each other means he feels the way Vincentâs body jerks forward under his hands, his chest tensing. For a moment after, the rigidness of his posture doesnât dissipate, tension still strung through the line of his shoulders.
âBless you,â Yves says, surprised.
Then Vincent curses under his breath, drawing away with a sniffle. âIâmb sorry,â he says, sounding really, honestly panickedâa reaction which Yves finds both disproportionate to the situation and a little endearing. âThat wasâ sorry, I shouldâveââ
âDonât worry about it,â Yves says, with a laugh; âI honestly couldnât care less.â Impulsivelyâand maybe to prove just how little it bothers himâhe leans back in.
Vincent is less hesitant, this time around, when it seems to register to him that Yves really doesnât mind. Heâs a surprisingly good kisserâYves probably isnât the first person heâs kissed, and he probably wonât be the last, but the second Vincentâs mouth works around his, Yves feels himself nearly go weak in the knees.
Fuck. Yves canât say he expected to spend this evening making out with his very attractive coworker-slash-fake-boyfriend, but at the same time, he isnât complaining. Yves thinks he could do this for hours, given the chance. He kisses Vincent as if to say, thank youâfor the New Yearâs party, for going along with this, for lying on my behalfâand Vincent kisses him back as if he wants this just as much.
It registers to him, faintlyâas Vincent pulls away with a sharp gasp before he pitches forward, smothering another abrupt, wrenching sneeze into the palm of his handâthat heâs probably dooming himself to Vincentâs cold ten times over. But it occurs to him, too, that if he were really dating Vincentâif, after the party, theyâd head back to Vincentâs place together; if they were really close enough to share car rides and food and drinks on the regular, to see each other frequently both in the office and outside of itâhe wouldâve almost certainly caught this anyways.
Something about the intimacy of it, the false closeness it seems to imply, is a little intoxicating.
When he finally pulls away, Vincent is breathing a little heavily, his glasses askew, his hair slightly unkempt from where Yves hadâmid-kissârun his fingers through it. Yves looks over his shoulder to see that Brendon has, at some point over the last few minutes, slipped off. Presumably, heâs gotten the point, then.
Itâs a relief. Yves is glad to not have to talk with him for any longer than he has to.
âGod,â Yves says, with a laugh. âWhere did you learn to kiss like that, anyways?â
Vincent smiles. âIâve had some practice,â he says, which Yves thinks must be a massive understatement. âDo you think it was convincidg?â
âI donât know what kinds of standards Brendon has,â Yves says, lowering his voice so that heâs certain no one outside of the kitchen will be able to hear. âBut Iâd definitely be convinced.â
âHe seems strangely idvested in our relationship,â Vincent says.
Yves sighs. âI think he was just trying to make trouble. How much of our conversation did you hear?â
âJust the tail end of it,â Vincent says. âIââ
His gaze goes distant, which is the only warning Yves gets before heâs turning away, steepling his hands over his nose and mouth with a forceful:
âhH-! hhH-hHâiiKTsSHH-uhh! Hh-! Hih⌠HIIhâIzsSCCHhâhhh!â
âBless you,â Yves says.
Vincent is quiet for a moment, his expression still hazy, the irritation evident on his features, before heâs ducking away again.
âhIiihâGKTTSHh-uhHh!â
The sneeze is loud enough to scrape against his throat. It leaves him coughing a little, his eyes watering.
âBless you,â Yves says, with emphasis. He takes a small stack of napkins off of the kitchen counter and hands it over to Vincent, who eyes it for a moment. Thereâs a slight flush to his complexionâwhether itâs from the alcohol, or from embarrassment, or from slight fever, Yves canât tell.
âI hope you dodât regret this in a few days,â Vincent says, carefully extricating one napkin from the stack to blow his nose softly into it. âYouââ His breath hitches, sharply, and then heâs pitching forward into the handful of napkins with a muffled, âhiiHhâIZSSCHh-uhh!â
He emerges, sniffling, looking a little apologetic. âYouâll almost certaidly catch this.â
Yves laughs. âItâs fine. I know what I signed up for. Besides, Iâm glad you stepped in.â He kneels down, at last, to procure two drinks from the long-neglected icebox. âA cold was a small price to pay for getting out of that conversation.â
He hands Vincent a drink. âCan I have a sip of yours? Now that Iâve doomed myself to it already, I suppose you donât have to try so hard to keep me from catching it.â
âThatâs not very reassuring,â Vincent says, but he lets Yves try some, nonetheless.
Brendon is suspiciously quiet for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Erika so much as look Yvesâs way, which Yves thinks is better than another confrontation. Vincent looks happyâa little tired, a little tipsy, but happy. At some point into the evening he resorts to crossing his arms as a means to keep warm (âIs it too cold in here?â Francesca asks, passing him from where heâs sitting on the couch, to which Vincent shakes his head quickly, his face flushing red. âIâmb just slightly under the weather,â he says. âThe temperatureâs perfect.â to this, Francesca brings over a quilt from one of the closets and drapes it over his shoulders. âYour friends are very nice,â Vincent says, pinning the quilt in place with one hand, and Yves laughs).
At some point, Francesca brings out a cake (âearl gray with buttercream,â she says, âErika and I made a smaller one as a test run last week, and it was a little too dense, so weâll have to see how this one turned out.â which Yves thinks is very impressiveâheâs certainly better than average at cooking, but that expertise does not transfer well to bakingâtruly, heâs not sure heâd be confident in his ability to pipe frosting in a straight line. When he tells Vincent this, Vincent laughs and says, âIâm sure people would forgive you as long as it tasted good,â to which Yves says, âI think youâre underestimating how bad I am at decorating.â) Sheâs piped small blue flowers around the periphery of it, and leaves that curl around the edges of the cake. Diane says, âthis is way too pretty to eat,â and âare you sure you want us to destroy it,â while Kennethâtheir yearâs Crew captainâhelps Francesca with setting up the candles around the periphery of the cake and lighting them one by one.
Francesca laughs when Erika tells a story about a series of errors pertaining to their last grocery store run and tears up when Marin gives a speech about how Francesca is the main reason she stayed in Crew. After that, everyone singsâfor a brief moment, the clamor in the living room becomes strictly unified. Then she blows out all the candles in one go, and everyone claps.
All in all, itâs a good evening.
â
Itâs really not a surprise when Yves wakes up a few days later with a sore throat.
Itâs not a surprise, either, when his nose starts running shortly after, or whenâa couple hours laterâa harsh, wrenching sneeze catches him off guard at work.
Itâs as if that first sneeze has opened the floodgates. After that, he finds himself muffling sneezes into his elbow, scrambling for tissues from the rapidly depleting stashâa travel sized tissue pack that he keeps in his briefcase, just in case. The persistent tickle that settles in his nose seems impossible to appease, no matter how many times he sneezes, or how diligently he tries to ignore it. Worse, the sneezes are forceful enough to leave his throat feeling tender and painful, and violent enough that he finds himself coughing a little after.
Vincent was right. The cold isnât particularly miserableâaside from the sore throat, heâs a little tired, but he doesnât feel strictly worse than usual. It is irritating, though, to deal withâand irritating, too, to be at the office as it settles in.
Itâs probably not worth taking a sick day for. Itâs more an annoyance than a tangible inconvenience. Besides, he has only a couple days left of work before itâs the weekend, when he can catch up on sleep.
Heâs scheduled himself for a morningâs worth of back to back meetingsâtwo meetings with clients, one with a coworker heâs been working with to go over her findings, another status update meeting to review the work theyâve all done over the past few weeks.
Yves is prone to losing his voice when heâs ill. Itâs one of his most embarrassing tellsâitâd certainly garnered more attention than heâd wanted in college whenever he was under the weatherâbut in a work setting where his participation in meetings is non-negotiable, with every meeting he takes, he can feel his voice get closer and closer to unusable.
His second meeting ends a few minutes early, which is a relief. But when he heads to the break room to make himself a cup of much-needed tea, he finds that the hot water machine is out of order.
Just his luck.
He pours himself a cup of cold water and looks through some of the storage cabinets for tissues, though he has no luck with that, either.
The office is always turned a notch too coolâair conditioned to keep everyone awake in the afternoonsâbut today, it feels brutally, unnecessarily cold. He really shouldâve dressed warmer. Yves heads to the conference room his next meeting is booked in, speaks on the material heâs prepared, and tries his best not to shiver too visibly. His meeting before lunch runs over, too, which is not uncommon, but today it just feels like insult to injury.
All in all, heâs exhausted. He eats a quick lunch in the cafeteria, downs two glasses of water, and goes through an embarrassing number of cafeteria napkins.
âComing down with something?â Stanley, one of his coworkers, asks him.
Yves smiles at him sheepishly. âI wish it wasdât so obvious,â he says.
âItâs just the season for it, I think. Vincent was just sick last week.â
âOh, was he?â Yves says, feigning ignorance. His cold is definitely, most certainly not related to Vincentâs. âI was just goidg to grab a bottle of hand saditizer to keep at my desk,â he says, with a small cough. âI thidk thereâs somethidg going around.â
Thankfully, the afternoon isâfor the most partâjust occupied with work. Still, itâs becoming increasingly more difficult to focus on the financial statements in front of him, the slew of emails he has pulled up.
His nose is running fiercely, the trash can at the foot of his desk is close to overflowing, and the stack of napkins heâd taken from the cafeteriaâcertainly not an ideal solution, but itâs the best one he can come up with at the momentâis almost entirely gone.
He grabs one off the top of the stackâheâs only able to unfold it partially before heâs jerking forward with a wet, spraying, âhhEHhâiiiZZSCHhâEW!â
Fuck. The napkins, while infinitely better than nothing, are not as soft as tissues would have been. Given the frequency with which heâs been using them, heâs almost positive that his nose is redder than usual.
The next sneeze nearly catches him off guard. He barely has time to lift the napkin up to his face again before his breath hitches again, sharply.
âHhehh⌠HEHhââIIDDSCHhiew! hEHHâiITSSHhâYyew!â
His nose is still running fiercely, and worse, the sneezes are loud enough to scrape against his throat. He thinks his voice is never going to recover if he keeps this up.
From behind him, he hears someone clear their throat.
Yves freezes. His first thought is that heâs probably being disruptive. His second thought is that even if he isnât, whoeverâs behind him must have been waiting to speak to him for some timeâheâd just been too caught up with sneezing to realize, which is a little embarrassing.
His third thought isâwhoever it is, he wants to face them looking at least marginally presentable. Heâs almost certain that right now, he doesnât.
He blows his nose into the napkins heâs holding, runs a hand through his hair, and pivots around in his office chair with a smile that is admittedly a little forced. âWhatâs up?â
He expects to see Cara, who heâs been working more with, or perhaps Laurent, who heâs been shadowing. But standing there, looking every inch as formal and as put together as he always does, is Vincent.
For a moment, Vincent just stares at him, as if heâs cataloging Yvesâs appearance in silence.
Yves tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. âDid you ndeed anythidg?â
In lieu of responding, Vincent steps past him to set a box of tissues down at the edge of his desk.
âI figured youâd want this back,â Vincent says.
Itâs the same tissue box heâd handed off to Vincent last week, he realizes, when Vincent was the one who had a use for it. Vincent has taken care to set it down at the same spot where it was initially: at the right edge, next to his monitor.
âThadk you,â Yves says. âIâll treasure it.â
âThis, too,â Vincent says, setting a mug down in front of him. Whateverâs in there is hot enough to be steaming.
Yves muffles a cough into his hand. âWhat?â
âTea,â Vincent says, as if that explains everything. âChamomile, if it matters. I didnât know if caffeine would keep you up.â
âOh.â Yves stares at it. âYou got the hot water machide workidg. It was broken this morning. Or maybe Iâmb just really bad at using it.â
âActually, no,â Vincent says. âI got this from the third floor.â
âYou walked all the way up here from the third floor?â Yves says, a little surprised. Heâs about to say more, but thenâin a progression that he should probably be used to by nowâhe finds himself succumbing, with little warning, to another sneeze, which he muffles into a perhaps-too-generous handful of tissues. At this rate, he might run out of them, even given Vincentâs generous contribution.
âIt was just two flights of stairs,â Vincent says.
âStill,â Yves says, lowering the tissues from his face so he can take a sip. The thought of Vincent precariously taking the tea up two flights of stairs, careful to not let it spill, just to get it to his desk is so endearing that he finds himself smiling. âThank you.â
Vincent blinks at him, as if he wasnât expecting to be thanked. âI donât think it will keep you from losing your voice,â he says, at last. âBut it might help with your sore throat.â
Yves doesnât remember mentioning that. âHow did you kdow I had a sore throat?â
âHow do you think?â Vincent says. âI had the same cold a week ago.â
Even so, the idea that Vincent already probably knows, and knows intimately, how heâs feeling right now, even though Yves hasnât said anything about it, feels a little incriminating. Yves is under no illusion that his current affliction is subtle, by any means, but at the very least heâd thought that the less visible parts of itâhis sore throat, the growing exhaustion, the pressure he feels building at his templesâwere things that no one else would have to think about.
âWas it this bad for you?â he says. âIâd feel terrible if I mbade you talk to all my friends if your throat was alreadyâ Hh- heHh-! hHEH-heHhâiSSSchh-Iiew!â
Itâs a good thing, Yves thinks, hazily, that heâs still holding onto the tissues from earlier. His nose is running again, and the tissues feel traitorously soft as compared to the napkins heâs been using all day.
âNo,â Vincent says, frowning. âI think you just wore your voice out at work.â
âThat mbight be the case,â Yves says. âI had a lot of meetidgs this morning. Ndow itâs pretty much just heads-down work, thankfully.â He muffles a yawn into one hand. Vincent is probably here for a reasonâbut Vincent is usually very conscientious about the work he passes onto others, so whatever he needs Yves to do for him, Yves doesnât expect it should take too long. âDid you ndeed me to look over somethidg?â âI just wanted to see how you were feeling,â Vincent says, which is not the answer Yves expects.
Yves blinks at him. âHow did you find out I was sick?â
âI heard from Cara.â
âAh.â He probably owes Cara an apologyâheâs sure that sheâd probably prefer to work somewhere quiet, and his cold is certainly making that difficult. âYeah, she would kdow. Iâve been like this all dayâwell, sidce this mording, I guess.â
âIt came on quickly for me, too,â Vincent says. âCan I get you anything?â
âItâs just a cold,â Yves says with a laugh. âIâll mbanage.â He means for it to be reassuring, but Vincent just frowns, looking off to the side.
He looks⌠strangely upset, Yves realizes.
âItâs ndot really all that bad,â Yves insists, backtracking. âAnd the weekendâs coming up soon. Iâll catch up on sleep when I get the chance.â Now is a really inopportune time to have to cough. He raises an elbow to his face to cough as quietly as he can, though the effort only seems to prolong the coughing fitâit leaves him slightly breathless, blinking away the tears that surface in his vision. âSeriously, donât worry about it.â
âIâm sorry,â Vincent says, quiet.
âFor what?â
âFor giving you my cold.â
âI dodât think you can even take credit for that,â Yves says. âI was the one who kissed you.â
Vincent does smile, at thatâa small, almost imperceptible smile. âEven so.â
Yves wants to tell him that he would do it again, if he had the chance to. He wants to tell Vincent how easy it had felt to kiss him, how right.
How it felt to forget about Erika, and Brendon, and all of itâeven if just for a momentâto feel so perfectly grounded in someone other than himself. To let himself experience the sort of closeness heâs been scared of seeking out, after the breakup, after Erika, in fear that no one would ever fit quite the same. To lean into the warmth of someone who still, even now, continues to be kind to him for reasons he canât quite rationalize.
How long has it been since heâs been able to place his trust into someone, blindly, in the way he trusts Vincent to keep up this act of theirs, to lie on his behalf? Vincent is nothing if not competent, but Yves hadnât expected that competence to extend to this arrangement of theirs. How long has it been since Yves has been able to lean on someone the way heâs leaned on Vincent, to trust someone to meet him where he is?
âFor the record, I dodât regret it,â Yves says. He finds that he really means it.
#snz fic#sneeze fic#snz kink#sneeze kink#parts of this are very self indulgent and familiar but also#this took me 3 weeks of writing every day after i came home from work to finish T.T#the number of hours i sat there just deleting and rewriting a few sentences#but it's done! at last! (and i will not look at it for the next 24 hrs)#thank you to everyone who read foreign home and left their thoughts on it!!#reading your tags makes me really happy 𼚠thank you#my fic#me writing vincent's part: just a slight cold :) not miserable at all#me writing yves's part: ...okay. maybe a little miserable#yvverse
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đ... sneak peek of a recent draft
#yvverse#delete later#i know i promised the allergy fic and this is not that#please forgive me đââď¸ i tried writing it for like a week straight but to no avail#to anyone who thinks i have been too nice to vincent thus far#i am happy to say not anymore :)
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finally filled out some picrews for vincent and yves >:) now they need not exist in my mind as a blank slate
picrew link
#yvescent#yvverse#it is them!! :) no longer faceless hahaha#i am super curious as to what people imagined them looking like#pls take this as a suggestion and consider imagining them how you'd like#yves's tiny ponytail exists thanks to people much wiser than i am
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