Allergic To Girls

There's a hearty sniffle from Nat before he answers. "Mmh. Allergies kicking mby ass," he whines, rubbing at his watery blue eyes. "Maybe I should have called idt off today."

He pouts, and the sight pulls at Toby's heartstrings. It's unusual to see his typically bright, sunshine-y boyfriend look so glum. He must really not be feeling well.

"Awh, it's okay. We were just planning to stay in anyway, right? U-Unless you want me to go…"

Nat responds with a low groan, which progresses into a dry cough and thick sniffle. "Nooo, I wanna spend time with you," he whines. "I just don't want you to have to deal with me being gross."

"I don't mind," Toby says quickly. And it's true, in more ways than one. "I-I mean, I don't think you're gross in the first place, s-so you don't have to worry about that."

Slowly, a smile breaks out across Nat's face. Now he's looking more like his usual self.

He huffs a laugh. "Okay, okay. C'mon in," he says, motioning for Toby to enter.

Toby's only been to Nat's apartment once before, and that was for his birthday party. At the time, there were a bunch of other people there, and the place had been prepared for guests. This is his first time here with just the two of them. It's fallen into a bit of disarray, he notices, as he walks toward the living room. Sweaters left in piles, a discarded pack of allergy pills here, empty drinking glasses there.

And tissues. Tissues everywhere.

Nat winces. "God, sorry, I really meant to clean the place up, I just—hh'ITCHhiew!"

He wrenches his body away from Toby, bringing his wrist up to his nose just before taking in a big, wavering inhale.

"hh'ITSCHhu! tschiew-iscchuu! hhITSchuuew!" Another sniffle, then a sigh. "Well, I've been trying to clean, but that keeps happening, and it's kind of exhausting. So I gave up."

Toby gives him a pitying look, and for a minute, he considers cancelling their plans to cuddle and watch TV and instead spend his afternoon cleaning up Nat's apartment for him. But that idea leaves his mind as soon as Nat makes it to the couch and holds his arms open wide, waiting for Toby to join him.

So he does. How could he say no to Nat in such a state? Cleaning will just have to wait.

Nat pulls Toby into his arms, giving him a quick squeeze before letting go to grab the remote. He keeps one arm draped over Toby's shoulders as he scrolls through Netflix's latest offerings.

It's only been about a week since they officially started dating, and Toby is still getting accustomed to the kind of open affection that Nat offers with ease and enthusiasm. Before Nat, Toby had been living somewhat of a socially reclusive life, preferring to stay indoors and having more friends on his phone than in real life. With his family not being the affectionate type, either, human touch wasn't something he experienced often until now.

He likes it—loves it, really. Craves it. But he's not quite sure how to accept it. So, he sits there a bit stiff, quietly basking in the warmth of Nat's embrace.

…at least until Nat nudges him closer, guiding Toby's head down against his chest with a startled little gasp, to which Nat lets out an affectionate chuckle. Over time, Toby settles in, lulled by the rise and fall of Nat's chest.

It's not long before those lulling breaths become short, uneven hitches punctuated by congested sniffles, and Nat starts intermittently rubbing his nose. That seems to stave off the tickle for a while, though each set of hitches sounds more urgent than the last.

"hhehhh…hihh…mmnghh."

Toby's far past the point of paying attention to the show they're watching.

"h-hehh…ihh—?? hhehhh…"

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Nat pinching his nose between his forefingers, and he's really, really tempted to tell him to just sneeze if he needs to. He can't imagine saying that out loud, though, so he holds his tongue.

Eventually, Nat's attempt to hold back fails, and his body jerks forward with a stifle.

"hehh…hh'nght!"

The movement jolts Toby's head upward, and a shiver runs up his spine. Nat seems to notice his reaction.

"S-Sorr…hehh…hhngxt! hh'ENnggchh! Gah, I'mb sorry."

"I-It's okay," Toby stammers, wincing at the way his voice cracks on the first syllable.

To his disappointment, Nat tries to shift away. Instinctively, Toby grasps for Nat's shirt, not wanting to give up their closeness just yet.

Nat turns to him with a sly smile. "Hey, I'll be right back, okay? Just getting a tissue." He ruffles Toby's hair. "So cute."

Toby can feel his face heating up. He returns to an upright position, pressing his thighs together and fixing his gaze at the floor as Nat blows his nose.

While he's waiting for Nat to finish, he takes a steadying breath. Act natural, he tells himself. He's still struggling for composure when Nat resumes his position with his arms open wide. Toby hesitates, but the brief flicker of uncertainty in Nat's expression makes him quickly put aside his internal struggle and settle back into his spot on Nat's chest.

For the next little while, they enjoy cuddling and watching TV without disruptions. Well, mostly, aside from Nat's near-constant sniffling. They're about 30 minutes in when Nat abruptly shifts away, causing Toby to slip out of his arms with a soft noise of confusion.

"S-Sorry, I…" Nat manages to explain between shallow, rapid hitches. "I…f-feel a fit comi-hhing on…"

At that, Toby's mouth goes dry.

"hhehh…hheh'iTSCHhiew! h-hehh…iihh'itschew! tschiew! tschiew! chhiew! O-Oh God-hehh-hh'issh-isshuu-isshuu-itschu-ihh'ITSCHhhiew! Ugh, f-fuck—"

As the fit picks up, it sounds like he can't even get a breath in between sneezes. Despite feeling a little dazed himself, Toby musters up the presence of mind to place a supportive hand on Nat's back.

"Y-You okay…?"

Nat responds with a sharp, urgent breath before crumpling forward with another rapid fit.

"hh'ITSChieww-itschhu-itchu-tschu-tchiew-IITCHhieww! I-I can't—hheh—st-st'ttschieww! Stop—hhITSChiew! S-Sneehhh-hESChiew! sneezing, ugh…"

Heart racing, Toby leans in closer, rubbing circles on Nat's back. "Aw, babe…u-um…b-bless you, s-so much…"

Nat shivers under his touch, still hitching wildly as he tries to distance himself.

"W-Wait, I'm g-gonnasneezeagain-hii'ITSCHieww! iTSCHieww! itschu-itschhu-itsschiew-chiew-hh'EETSchiewww!"

Toby's teeth sink into his tongue as he bites back a moan that tries to escape his throat. Looking for a distraction, his eyes land on the tissue box that Nat retrieved earlier. He picks it up, waiting until there's a small pause in the fit to cautiously offer it to him, but Nat shakes his head.

"N-Not done…hhh'iihh'iITSchhu-itschu-tschiew…ihhh'tschhu…hi'ITChhhiew! hhmng…hh'hETSCHiew! Ah…hhh’ITSCHUuu…hh’hhitschuu…hh'TSsscCHhiew…hhehh…hehhh…hhhETSCHieww!"

Once the fit finally seems to have slowed down, Nat accepts the tissue box and grabs a handful, burying his nose deep in them for several minutes. When he's cleaned up, he shoots Toby a pitiful look, eyes still red and streaming.

"Gonna be like this all day, I think…"

That hits Toby right in the heart. He scoots closer to Nat, closing the distance until their legs are flush and wrapping an arm around his taller frame.

"That, um…s-sounds like it really sucks, I-I'm sorry," Toby soothes, trying to keep his voice even. "Can I get you anything? I assume you already took medicine today…?"

Frowning, Nat nods. "It hasn't really been helping lately, though."

"Oh…" Toby trails off, unsure of what to say.

Nat collapses back into the couch with a frustrated groan. "I probably need to try something else…gah, sorry. I didn't mean to be such a drag today." He glances over at Toby, eyes glimmering with the remnants of allergic tears. "I promise I'm usually more fun to hang out with."

"This is fun-" Toby starts, but quickly catches himself, "I-I mean, I always have fun spending time with you, no matter what. And besides, you can't help it. S-So you don't need to be sorry. I just wish I could do something to make you feel better."

Nat pauses to think. "Well, there is something…" He averts his gaze, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. "Could I lay down…?"

"Yeah! Of course!" Toby scrambles to make space for Nat to lay down on the couch, but he grabs hold of Toby's thigh before he can move.

"I wanna lay right here," Nat emphasizes, looking pointedly at Toby's lap.

"Oh!" Toby squeaks. "U-Um, sure."

Nat's face lights up, and he starts leaning down to claim his spot. Just before his head reaches Toby's lap, Toby grabs a nearby pillow and slides it underneath.

Once Nat's made himself comfortable, he takes Toby's hand in his own, guiding it up to his head. Instantly, Toby takes the cue to stroke his hair. Nat looks the happiest he's been all day.

There's a few moments of peaceful silence before he speaks up again.

"You sure you don't mind having the world's sneeziest boyfriend?

Toby goes still for a moment, then clears his throat, pulling himself together. "Not at all," he reassures Nat, trying his best to sound unaffected as he continues to run his fingers through his blonde waves. "I, um…I-I think you're pretty much the perfect boyfriend, actually."

Nat smiles widely, and soon, his eyelids fall closed, their TV show long forgotten by now. In a few minutes, he's fast asleep, as evidenced by his congested snores.

And her son had forgotten to even mention this biological curse of his mother’s to his bride-to-be, now putting Queen Ingrith in a predicament she had not planned for. Getting Aurora to trust her was imperative to her plot, and that meant playing the warm, motherly presence welcoming her into the family… not keeping her at arm’s length or more.

“Your Majesty,” Aurora said softly and bowed before the Queen. She was so close that Ingrith not only saw the pink flowers braided into the younger woman’s hair, but felt the sweet, tickly fragrance of them hit her nose like a punch. She sniffled – a mistake, as she drew even more pollen into her nose that way - and recoiled slightly as the scent of the flowers forced itself even deeper into her sensitive nose, tickling like a small but persistent feather.

She let go of Aurora’s hands in what could best be described as controlled panic, and brought her hand up to her face. She pressed her finger hard against the underside of her nose, trying to fight back the sneeze she knew would be forming within moments of this perfumed assault. Pollen often took a little while to cause a reaction. The scent however, that could be mere seconds from exposure to loss of control.

Aurora looked up at her, and the smile on her lips slowly disappeared. Ingrith knew she had to say something, but she feared that if she opened her mouth right now she would sneeze. She swallowed hard and a small groan escaped her as she forced the tickle into submission – it was a momentary truce rather than a battle won, and she knew it only too well, but she had to take what she could get in this moment. She could actually feel some liquid soaking the delicate fabric of her white glove where it was pressed against her flaring nostrils, but that was secondary. She had to control the situation with Aurora. Now.

“Ugh… the flowers in your hair,” she said, and as she felt the urge momentarily fading as she spoke, she waved dismissively with the hand that had been firmly placed under her nose just a second ago. “I’m… I’m allergic.”

Aurora’s face filled with guilt, and she looked from the Queen to her husband-to-be. Philip looked back at her and then at his mother with an expression of confusion morphing into detached guilt. Yes, he knew about his mother’s little ailment, but like his father, he didn’t take it too seriously. She had the sniffles around nature. What was the problem?

Yes, what could possibly be the problem with that? Queen Ingrith thought, quietly furious. What is the problem with rendering your Queen – and she did see herself as his Queen before she was his mother, if necessary he should bow to her like any other subject – a weeping, allergic mess barely able to speak between sneezes? Surely no problem at all.

“I’m so sorry,” Aurora said, looking horrified and ashamed, and Ingrith had a sudden feeling that the young woman would turn on her heel and storm out, childishly dramatic as she was. That would severely impact the Queen’s plans, far more than her hayfever might.

“Oh, no,” Ingrith said, gently putting a reassuring hand on Aurora’s arm. Her voice was soft, warm even. “No, no, no, it’s alright. They’re beautiful.”

They were, but the Queen’s nose did not enjoy them one bit. The wings of her nose were rapidly turning as pink as the petals themselves as the pollen worked its very own dark magic on the older woman’s sensitive nasal passages.

“Oh, that’s right,” King John said with a chuckle, “your little affliction, Ingrith. Perhaps we should open the windows and let in some fresh air?”

“I can do that,” Philip offered and started towards the windows.

“I can take the flowers out of my hair, Your Majesty,” Aurora said, eager to mend her faux-pas with her future mother-in-law. “It’s no problem at all.”

And she started trying to untangle the flowers in her hair, rousing the pollen to a point where Ingrith could see the particles dancing in the candlelight like dust motes.

I married an imbecile, I raised an even bigger imbecile, and now I’m supposed to smile and welcome a third into my family, Ingrith thought, clenching her jaws in frustration but somehow managing to force the smile back onto her face, even though the itch was getting worse by the second.

Philip may have meant well, but, like his father, and even more so Aurora, he lived in a world of intentions. Ingrith lived in a world of consequences. And the consequences of their ‘help’ was not going to be what they intended.

She quickly raised a hand to stop them before they could make the situation worse.

“No,” she said, her voice a bit higher in pitch than usual even though she really tried to hide her alarm. “Don’t you dare letting in even more nature into this hall, Philip! Aurora, I told you it’s alright. Leave the flowers.”

Aurora finally stopped messing with the flowers in her hair, but Ingrith could see pollen glimmering like golden powder as it settled on the younger woman’s blonde locks. She shuddered. Did they not have any real jewels in the Moors, who could possibly consider weeds jewellery?! They were such uncivilised creatures. All of them.

Philip sheepishly returned to his bride-to-be’s side, thankfully without opening any windows.

Letting ‘fresh air’ in to help with her hayfever, by gods, it would be like pouring grease on a fire to put it out!

The Queen lowered her hand again but held it out with her palm up, knowing her servants at least knew what she needed. And indeed they did, thankfully there were some in this court who had a brain. Gerda, her favourite, quickly produced a lace-rimmed handkerchief and placed it in the Queen’s hand. Ingrith closed her slender fingers around it and felt her tense shoulders relax slightly; at least she now had something to catch the inevitable sneezes in.

Because the crisis had not been averted, not at all. She could feel the tickly sneezes building slowly, quietly, in the depths of her inflamed sinuses. Her allergies were not forgiving, not retreating, in fact, they were much like her. Brooding. Quietly building force. Waiting for the perfect (or in this situation the worst possible) moment to strike, and when they did, they would be ruthless. She knew they would. She had spent many hours in the throes of her allergies, the most powerful woman in the kingdom reduced to nothing but a drippy, itchy, sneezy mess. What her husband the King referred to as her ‘little affliction’ and her son, whose fault it technically was, called ‘the sniffles’.

Even though Aurora was seated across the table with those god-awful blossoms, Ingrith still felt the irritation intensifying deep inside her nose as the dinner went on. She wanted to rub at it, as hard as she could, really crush the itch by physical force, but she knew it didn’t work like that. The more she'd try to rub the itch away, the worse it would get. Allergies were sheer torture that way. Her handkerchief was still unused, resting on her lap, but it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. Her eyes burned and watered, her inflamed nostrils twitched as the irritation kept heading for the inevitable with each breath she took.

“Your Majesty, are you… are you really alright?” Aurora asked hesitantly as she noticed Ingrith raising her hand again and pressing her knuckle against her twitching, flaring pink nostrils.

“Perfectly fine, dear,” she replied in a thick voice.

“Don’t you worry about the Queen, Aurora. Our dear Ingrith is just averse to anything that grows and blooms,” King John chuckled. “She has always preferred pearls and diamonds to flowers.”

“I prefer things that do not make me sneeze to things that do, John,” Ingrith said in a clipped tone. “As I imagine most people w-woul… ahh… would… huhh…”

Her breath hitched again, her eyelids fluttering shut, and the finger under her reddening, quivering nostrils was a weak barrier just about to break.

“Here she goes,” Philip whispered to Aurora, whose cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she witnessed the Queen’s desperate struggle against her own biology, knowing it was her fault.

The Queen quickly reached for her handkerchief and clasped the delicate fabric over her mouth and nose, turning halfway away from the table and stifling several breathless sneezes. She so viciously suppressed them to begin with, that the only sound was an almost elegant little clicking sound in the back of her throat.

But holding them in was not doing anything about the feathery tickle deep inside her left nostril or the growing wildfire in her sinuses, and after several of those quiet, elegantly suppressed sneezes in a row, it became increasingly difficult to keep it up. 

“Ngkt! Nngkt! Ngkthh! Nnkthh-huh! NgtSH! NKTSCH!”

She dabbed at her now leaking nostrils with carefully maintained dignity, but Aurora noticed that her hand was trembling a little. Actually, her whole body was trembling with the desperate effort to hold in the sneezes.

The King raised an eyebrow and glanced at her over his wine goblet, looking quite amused.

“Are you finished soon, Ingrith?”

“Forgive me,” she sniffled, but her tone indicated that she was not apologising whatsoever. “My a-ah-alleehhh… allergihhh… ah-allergies appear t-to be…”

But before she could finish the sentence, she lost the fight against her desperate allergic need, she inhaled sharply and practically exploded into the expensive handkerchief.

“Huhh-TSSCHHoo!! HEH-TSSSCHHIEW! HUH-ETSCHHH-ETSSCHHOO-AITTSSCHHoo! Huhh-ATSSSHHUHH!”

Those cursed flowers, why were they so impossibly potent?! Was it because they came from Fae lands?

“…huhhTSSSHHHIEW!”

“Bless you, Your Majesty,” Aurora said, and by now her face was as red as the Queen’s nose. “Oh I am so sorry, perhaps I should leave…”

“No, no, you stay, dear,” Ingrith managed as she stood up, the now damp expensive fabric firmly pressed against her face. “It’s not your fault. I… I simply need… ahhh… hahhh-AETTSSSHHHoo!”

She gave up trying to speak and simply fled the hall, sneezing repeatedly into the wet handkerchief, furious with her body’s betrayal, furious with her thoughtless son and his naïve fiancée, with her husband’s nonchalance and most of all, with nature. With the Moors.

Once the Moors is mine, I will scorch it, she thought as she headed towards her chambers, the echoing sound of her helpless sneezes mixing with the click-clack of her heels. I will burn it all down and I will not leave a single blade of grass, not one flower. I swear it.

I swear it.

***

The scene the fic is (loosely) based around:

By some miracle, he manages to make it home without accidentally sneezing on a fellow commuter. Front door barely shut behind him, he shudders out of his coat and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Stepping in front of the sink, he reluctantly looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Certainly not a sight to instil confidence. It's worse than he had feared.

The culprit is there on full display, of course, front and center of his tired, bleary-eyed, slightly puffy face. For the past - god, what might it be? Eight hours now, at least? - he has known all too well what it feels like, but it's only now that he's had the chance to actually survey the damage, as it were.

He winces at the sight, but his expression quickly morphes into something less sharp, less intentional. Feeling the dreaded sensation pull at his facial muscles once more, he stubbornly fights to keep his eyes open as his mouth relaxes open and his eyelids droop.

"Huhh..."

The last thing he sees before his eyes fall involuntary shut is the star of this terrible show he has found himself in. His nose. Huge on his face. High in the air from his head tilting back, his nostrils take center stage. Scarlet ovals flared wide open, pulsing impatiently -

"Hh...! Huh...! H'DJSHNXGHiew!"

He sneezes uncovered, straight down toward the sink. Something between a bark and a wet snarl, the sound distinctly angry. He can feel the spray land on his hands that are gripping the sink.

"HEH'DJSCH! HIH'DDJSH! HEH, HEHH, -H'TJJSCHew!"

Horrible, awful, disgusting.

(Bliss.)

Leaning over the sink, shaking his head groggily, twin strings of drool and snot, thin as spider silk, slide from his nose and mouth into the drain. He sniffles, or tries to, and his nose gives a whistling squelch instead. He opens his eyes again, looks up. His gaze flickers across the mirror for a moment, as though searching in there for something other than his own reflection. His eyes soon revert back, however. Drawn by the sheer spectacle.

Fuck, but he looks a mess. His normally immaculate hair is standing every which way, his eyes are puffy pink slits, his lips chapped, his nose painful-looking, so red and inflamed it looks like he's taken a punch to it. He knows that, technically, it can't actually have swollen to twice its normal size, but it certainly feels like it. His nose isn't exactly small to begin with, and with all the rough treatment it's been put through lately... well. It definitely isn't pretty.

Hand not entirely steady, he reaches up against better judgement and touches the tip of his nose. Bright red bulb, shiny with inflammation, too warm to the touch. Itch immediately stirrs inside it, spidering up and down his nasal passages, making his eyes water.

Right. No time to waste.

Blinking hard and scrunching his nose to buy himself some time, he hurriedly reaches into the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror and pulls out his antihistamine nasal spray.

Bracing himself, he gingerly inserts the nozzle tip into his left nostril, but his nose is already on such high alert that he doesn't have time to press down and release the spray to where it might, hypothetically, do some good. For the second time today, he sneezes full force without so much as a second's warning, a clipped double sneeze that echoes off the tiles in his bathroom. He opens his eyes and meets his own gaze in the mirror again. A look says more than a thousand curse words.

Next try he actually manages to push some spray up there, but again his nose rebels on him, violently evicting the medicine with a sharp "Eh'TDSHHjsh!" before he can contain it.

For fuck's sake.

Attempt number three. This time he pinches his nostrils closed before he can take another breath, squeezing tight as the repressed reaction shakes his diaphragm with strangled little "hdT-!, htTT-!, hdtT-!"-sounding sneezes. The action leaves him dizzy and his eardrums pop, but this time around the medicine stays put. He can't wait for it to start working. Even just the slightest bit of relief would be a massive improvement compared to his current situation. Sensing a small break in the ongoing fit, he lets go of his nose just long enough to push a second dose into his right nostril, then promptly squeezes it shut again. His nostrils twitch in his grip, the sharp menthol-y sting of the medication prickling horribly.

"heh'dt-! eh'dtj-! 'ttdjNXGH!"

Finally daring to loosen his grip of his nose, he looks at his reflection once more and cringes at the sight. Why couldn't he just have... moderate hayfever? Itchy eyes, runny nose, some sneezing here and there. Annoying, sure, inconvenient, absolutely, but not... not this. Not this embarrassing, crippling, dramatic spectacle of an allergy. A nose that demands him to drop everything to deal with its constant temper tantrums at having to breathe a little spring air. Speaking of breathing, his nostrils have begun to twitch again with little fluttering hitches. It's not that his nose has started to tickle again - it never stopped tickling in the first place - but rather that the ever-present irritation spreads and grows in intensity, its crawling, bristling needles of sensation blooming all throughout his nose, hijacking all other mental and physical functions. His breath stutters, his eyes overflow, his face twitches and contorts into all sorts of ridiculous expressions while his hands fan limply at the air in front of his face. For all he knows, the only thing this accomplishes is to waft even more pollen into his nose, but the action is reflexive, barely conscious. His chest heaves and expands, head rearing back, upper lip curling, baring teeth. His nose itches. God, it itches so bad. He wishes he could reach his fingers up there and just scratch, wildly rake his nails across the inside of his nasal passages with complete abandon. It's as if someone has packed his nostrils full to the brim with a mixture of dust, pepper and chili powder, or a million tiny feathers, or the world's most potent itching powder, or...

Or pollen. That hateful, inescapable stuff that seems to coat every surface outside in a powdery film. Just now, when walking up to the house, he had seen it floating on the surface of the rain puddles in his driveway, like watercolor splotches of pale yellow. So much of it. Everywhere. Sticking to everything. His coat, his hair, his eyelashes. Grass. Birch. Oak. Hazel. Riding on the breeze, infiltrating his every breath.

"hihuh... h'hih, hih, huhh...!"

Reddened eyelids drift to half-mast, his gaze goes unfocused, then crossed-eyed. His nostrils spasm fitfully, seeming to flare wider with each consecutive breath until they're gaping open, perfectly circular, frozen in limbo. His head is thrown back, chest straining against his shirt, his lungs full to capacity, his face a cartoonish caricature of an allergy sufferer on the cusp of a truly devastating sneezing fit.

"huhh...! hhHHUH...!"

He can't think for itch. For a brief moment, his entire face seems to consist of itch, his nose its red-hot singularity. Stinging, burning, all-consuming. A crisis of itch.

"-AAHH...!!"

A beat. His body is so ready, so desperate to sneeze that it actually starts the process, producing a half-strangled "AH'DJh-...!" at the back of his throat, but then... it doesn't follow through!? His voice manages a pathetic, whispered "...tsheww"-sound, a toothless imitation of the release he was promised. His entire nose aches with disappointment. Fat, itchy tears spill down his face, adding their salt to the metallic taste in his mouth. Groaning, he grinds the lower part of his palm up against his nose, then again, and again, working the bulbous tip back and forth with aggressive fervor, attempting to ease the itch inside by rubbing his nostrils together. It barely makes a difference, and the screaming tickle high up in his sinuses threatens to drive him mad. He snatches a handful of tissues from the box on the sink and blows for all he is worth, immediately soaking the paper all the way through. Another handful, same result, but the blowing seems to be helping at least a fraction. Gasping and cursing, he buries his nose in a third wad of tissues, massaging the bridge of his nose through the paper all the while, giving a final, resounding blow... one that sets his nasal passages vibrating at just the wrong frequency. The resulting tickle goes off inside his head like a fire bomb:

"AHDTJSHCH-HIH!! -ADTJSCHIH!! -ATJCHIH!! - - - h'ddtjTTJSCHSCHHIIH!-djshIH!dschIH!tjshIH! dtjSHIH! ddtjiSSCHIEW! 'DTJSHIH! -dtsh!-djish!-ddtsch!-tsh!-ttsh!-djshdshtjsh'TTSCHH!!"

Bliss. Torture. Bliss. Torture. The faint flicker of relief each sneeze grants him feels so good, even as the unbearable itch reignites immediately after. Goosebumps break out on his arms and his whole body tingles with sensory overload as he keeps sneezing and sneezing and snh... huhh-

"HUH'D---tjshih!-ttjsh!-dtjsh!-ttgsh!tsh!ttsh!dsh!ddjsh!---"

He hates the rapid-fire sneezes the most. They make him feel so out of control, not to mention dizzy from the lack of air. Each frantic, breathless double-triple-quadrouple-quintuple bursting out of him only seems to aggrivate his nose further, triggering an endless chain reaction of allergic frenzy.

"---DDJSHih!-TDJJIH!-ATTJIH!-TJSHIH! AH'TSH!DJSH!DDJSH!DSHTJSH'TSH'GKSH!!"

He has to stop -

"---GTDJ'XSH! HZDJSH! ---DTSH!DTSH!TTJSH! Huh.... huh, huh, huhh...!"

He can't stop.

"AAH'GDJSHIEW! AH-AH-ACKDJSHHEW! ---JJSHU! NXJSHUH! TJSHIEW!"

It's never-ending. That dreadful, squirming, crawling sensation of panicked nerve-endings writhing inside the tight confines of his swollen sinuses. Like a nest of angered ants, swarming and biting.

"AH'KGDJSHHIW!"

But maybe it's...

"GH'DTSCHEWW!-TCHEW!"

...finally starting to...?

"HP'TDSCHUH-TSCHUH!-tCHEW!"

Tingling lips parted, pouring eyes blindly shut, pulsing nose pointing at the ceiling -

"HAH'TDDJSCHHIEWW!!"

Bent over the sink, nose buried deep in his... fifth? six? handful of tissues, one hand gripping the side of the sink for support. Panting. Lightheaded. Exhausted. He tries to sniffle but is so brutally congested at this point that he barely makes a sound, his nose only manages a kind of wet squeak as he wipes it. Like a fucking clown nose, he thinks mirthlessly. Big, red, and making ridiculous noises.

"Guh..."

Please, that must be it, right? He has been sneezing non-stop for at least five minutes straight. His nose is so stuffed-up at this point that it feels physically heavy on his face, pulsating dully and aching with pressure. His abdominal muscles are sore, his throat raw, his eyes stinging, but his nasal passages don't feel like they are actively on fire anymore? Ever so carefully, he wrinkles his nose, scrunching his nostrils first to the left, then to the right. Waiting, breath withheld. It still tickles, of course. That feather-light buzzing tingle won't go away for at least another two months (god help him), but at least for the moment it seems his sinuses are no longer in absolute panic mode.

The meds must finally be starting to take effect. Either that, or his body is simply too exhausted to keep firing on all cylinders like that. Whatever the reason, he'll take any respite he can get.

At least now, he's able to keep his eyes open for long enough to find his way to the shower. He can't wait to get under the hot water and finally rinse all of that p... p-pollen off...

Don't think about it.

Of course he's still covered in the stuff. It's on his shirt collar. His sleeves. His hair. His face.

"Hh..."

No. He flat-out refuses.

"Huh... hh... "

Shirt, trousers, socks, underwear. In a mad scramble, he's shed them all and dropped them on the bathroom floor. Then he's in the shower, nearly slipping on the floor tiles in his haste to get in there before his nose can take him hostage yet again. Faceing the shower head, he doesn't even care that the water is freezing at first. If anything, the cold spray feels good and soothing against his flushed, itchy face.

"Hhuh --- djsh!"

The sneeze is weak, half-hearted, spray meeting spray, barely audible over the sound of the shower.

He might as well not have sneezed at all, the way his nose doesn't even register this sisyphean attempt to scratch at the itchiness inside.

Wincing deeply, he jams an outstretched forefinger up against his sore septum and starts to rub his nose again. Lightly at first, but soon he is applying more pressure, crushing his nose upwards, shortening the sloped bridge into a mass of crinkles. Finger sawing away, back and forth beneath his nostrils, pushing their inflamed insides together and grinding them against each other. The itch is a throbbing heat all throughout his nose, but searing sharpness has been replaced with a duller, more muted sort of irritation now, one that doesn't threaten to make him sneeze every two seconds. Instead, he's stood there scrubbing away at his face, not wanting to stop despite how tender and sore his nose is becoming. It feels so good to rub, to finally be able to scratch the itch that's been plaguing him for hours and actually feel it have a soothing effect rather than make it worse. A sigh of relief, then an almost sensual whimper escapes him, as he switches the position of his hand and starts pulling his nose up and down with his fingers wrapped around either side of it.

"Nnh... fuck..."

The squelching sounds are disgusting, and he couldn't care less. Eyes blissfully shut, fingers working away, loosened congestion mixing with the shower water and running down his lips.

All day he has been so. fucking. itchy. From the second he woke up and started off his morning by sneezing violently six times in a row into his pillow. All throughout his workday which ended with a disastrous sneezing fit and an humiliating early exit. Nine hours of this. Non-stop. Of the histamine-drenched nerves in his nose, eyes, ears and palate screaming bloody murder.

And now it's letting up.

One final, sensous pull on his nose, from brow to tip. He lets go of his grip just as the last remnant of a tickle sparks back to life in the raw depths of his sinuses. A pinprick stab of sensation, one big, quick gasp, and he is thrown forward with possibly the most satisfying sneeze he has ever experienced in his twenty-odd years of suffering from hayfever.

”AHH --- ! 'AATTDJSHOOohh!-ohhhh god.”

And so, for one, long, blissful moment there in the shower, his nose feels completely clear, calm, and unaffected by the raging springtime outside.