Sharing The Wealth

With Shane drowsing on his chest, it was remarkably easy for Ilya to fall into sleep as well. He had been up since five to get packed into the team bus, drive to the airport, and catch a flight home. Admittedly, he was a little exhausted. Ilya had planned on arriving to the cottage, getting in a quick fuck, and promptly taking a nap in Shane’s bed or Shane’s couch or honestly wherever Shane was. It wasn’t often that his boyfriend joined him in napping, but Ilya had a way of getting Shane to play with his hair as he drifted under. And that was nearly as good as sex itself. 

Ilya drifted in and out of sleep for maybe an hour and a half, listening to the sounds of people on television bickering over off-white paint. Shane was snoring softly against Ilya’s chest, the sound making his heart squeeze - this was the first time he had heard his boyfriend make such a sound. Firsts were always something he treasured. Shane was soft and relaxed against him, features slack, occasionally snuffling and sighing and burrowing closer. 

They hadn’t really been sick in front of one another before. Hundreds of miles were somehow always between them whenever one of them was down and out. Ilya was pleasantly surprised that Shane was rather sweet and needy when he wasn’t feeling good. 

Shane’s brow furrowed, restless as he coughed softly in his sleep. Ilya rubbed his back with the flat of his palm until he stilled and quieted, soothed back into rest. He felt a bubble of fondness swell in his chest so large it was near to bursting inside of him. The feeling coaxed Ilya into waking fully, tuning back into the weight of Shane on top of him, the gentle sound of the outside wind against the windows, and the afternoon light turning the room golden around them. He continued to stroke Shane’s back slowly, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to his head. 

Although he couldn’t say he enjoyed the extents of Shane’s anxiety, his boyfriend was so endearing in how much he cared about everything. Shane had come a long way from when Ilya had first met him in terms of confidence and excessive worrying, but obviously it still could get to him. The crease in his brow and shining brown eyes when he looked at Ilya earlier, the way he nervously bit his lip, eyes searching for permission to just fucking relax already. As if Ilya would be upset that Shane was getting sick - all Ilya really cared about was being there and, well, he had achieved that.  

Ilya honestly had honestly been insistent about kissing him so Shane wouldn’t spend the rest of the next few days freaking out about contamination. The worst had already been done. Additionally, there were worse things in the world than getting sick. And Ilya really wasn’t kidding about the sexy nurse thing either - that would definitely make him feel better no matter what kind of state he was in. 

It was about twenty minutes before Shane stirred. His gentle, congested snoring was cut off by a deep inhale, a sigh, a gentle reverberation in his throat as he began to wake. His face scrunched up adorably as he registered wakefulness, freckles bunching together as he wrinkled his nose. Shane groaned softly as he blinked to awareness, brows pulled together as he registered the miseries of being awake with a cold. 

Shane lifted his head, eyes widening a little as he saw the the way the light had changed in the room. 

“…Fuck. How long did I sleep?” he rasped, voice beginning to turn gravelly and sore. 

“Almost two hours?” Ilya said, glancing at his watch. “I thought maybe you had died.” 

Shane groaned again and ran a hand over his face, thumb putting pressure on his temple like he had a headache.

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be out so long. You must be bored,” he lamented, sighing and pushing his cheek into Ilya’s chest. He sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. 

Ilya smiled and hugged him tight. 

“Is okay. I was tired after the flight, I took a nap with you.”

Shane sighed and deflated. “Okay. Good.” He sniffled and turned away to cough into the crook of his arm, far away from Ilya. As if that would make a difference at this point. 

Shane looked a little miserable already, brow pinched, mouth in a tiny little frown, nose pink and sniffly. Ilya thought he kind of looked like a pitiful kitten, brown eyes big and watery, hair a mess, pout on his lips. And, like a pitiful kitten, he clung to Ilya like he might not make it otherwise. It always amazed Ilya that all six feet and 180 some-odd pounds of his boyfriend was able to look so small and kissable. 

So, of course, Ilya leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Shane sighed with content and wriggled closer.

“You’re very adorable,” Ilya murmured, so very fond. 

“Mmph. I don’t feel adorable,” Shane mumbled, following it up with a soupy sniffle as if to prove his point. His face was scrunched up in some mixture of disagreement and discomfort, eyes barely open. 

“No, is adorable. You are like a baby animal, so cuddly and sleepy and sweet.” Shane groaned and rolled over to hide his face in the back of the couch, but Ilya could see from his ears that he was blushing. Ilya laughed and continued, “Now is my little kotonok hungry now? I am starving.” 

Shane rolled back over to face him, sighing. “Not really, but I probably need to eat.” 

He slowly peeled himself off of Ilya and sat up on the couch, reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. He took one and sheepishly turned away, blowing his nose as quietly as possible. It wasn’t as effective as it should have been, leaving him still sniffly and pink-cheeked, desperately avoiding eye contact. 

Ilya patted him on the thigh and got up to look in the fridge, giving Shane a moment to clean himself up in private. It was endearing to Ilya how Shane still managed to get embarrassed at such mundane things. Ilya understood to a degree, as anyone would after growing up with his father, but he did not feel ashamed about most bodily functions around Shane. 

Still, it was cute. 

It was very quickly apparent there wasn’t much to work with in the fridge in terms of sick people food. It was stocked full of vegetables and healthy lean protein and even more vegetables on top of that. 

Ilya groaned and dug through to the back of the fridge, calling over his shoulder to Shane. “You eat like insane person. The insides of this fridge are a disgrace to all kitchens.” 

He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Shane trailing in sleepily, affronted frown on his face. 

“Shut up. I eat healthy. It’s better than the shit you eat,” Shane grumbled, coming to stand beside his boyfriend to peer into the fridge. 

“I am ordering more groceries, there is no food for sick people in here. I know it is not diet-approved but I will make you some borsht later, yes?“ Ilya said, rummaging around and pulling a few things out of the fridge. 

Ilya expected Shane to deny, to interrogate him about the ingredients, to ask for changes here and there to cut back on carbs or fat or whatever. But he just nodded, sniffling, keeping his eyes away from Ilya’s. He still looked sheepish, embarrassed about something. Being sick, maybe. Ilya kissed the side of his head and shooed him over to a stool.

“Sit, I will make us sandwiches. I will make yours with gluten-free bread and everything. Does that sound good? Okay for your throat?” 

Shane settled onto the stool, leaning onto the counter, nodding in agreement. “Sounds great, thank you.” 

They talked idly while Ilya put everything together, sliding a cold can of ginger ale for Shane to drink while he waited. Ilya plated everything, cut the sandwiches into neat triangles, and hopped into the seat next to his boyfriend with a can of coke. They ate, talked, laughed. Ilya told him about his trip, stupid shit his teammates said, chirps towards players from his last game. Shane let Ilya talk as he ate slowly, stopping now and then to cough softly or pull a tissue from his pocket and dab at his pink nose. 

Once they had finished eating, Ilya took their plates to the sink and began washing them. He looked up at the quiet sound of Shane’s breath catching. Ilya watched as his nose twitched, eyes blinking several times in rapid succession. Memorizing every micro-expression. Noticing how similar they were to the ones he made during sex. The way his eyebrows pulled together, floating up and up and up, lips beginning to part. Shane’s chest shuddered with a few near-silent hitches before his expression scrunched up. He turned to the side, ducking away from Ilya and into his elbow. 

“Hih… hehH-hTDSH! Hih-iITChiew! ETshoo!”

Shane pulled away from his elbow slowly, immediately bringing up the tissue from his pocket to pinch and swipe at the moisture left behind. His cheeks were pink, and he was definitely still avoiding eye contact. 

“Bud'te zdorovy. Did that feel good?” Ilya teased, finishing with the plates and drying his hands on a nearby towel. Shane’s blush deepened as he brought his eyes up to Ilya’s to glare. 

Ilya could see the panicked arousal behind it.

“Is it possible for you to not be an asshole right now?” Shane scowled and busied himself with shoving the tissue back into his hoodie pocket. Ilya did feel a little bad for teasing - Shane’s voice was going rough and he was getting more sniffly by the minute. But also he was blushing, so maybe Ilya didn’t feel too bad. 

“I thought you were very fond of assholes the last time I had you bent over and-" Ilya was cut off as Shane groaned loudly into his hands, ears red. 

He was so much more reactive than usual, so much more affected. Maybe because he was trying not to share his germs, Ilya thought, trying to make it seem like he didn’t want. Usually by now Shane be all over him. But either way Ilya was going to make sure his boyfriend was well taken care of, in more ways than one. 

Ilya just chuckled and made his way to the bedroom, tugging Shane along with him. 

“Come, it’s time for more medicine, yes? I will stop teasing you.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Shane grumbled, which was a fair point, but he followed anyway. 

Ilya stepped into the en-suite, pulling open the medicine cabinet. Shane followed in after, sniffling and clearing his throat as he leaned against the counter. He still seemed shy, sheepish. 

“What have you taken?” Ilya asked, opening the bathroom cabinet to rummage through the medicine shelf. Thankfully, this was Shane’s cottage, so he was stocked up with absolutely fucking everything. Ilya’s place wouldn’t have had nearly as fruitful findings. 

“Just some Advil earlier.”

Ilya pulled out a thermometer, capsules of DayQuil, name brand decongests, and a large bottle of ibuprofen. He then ducked down to rummage under the sink for a new box of tissues. He rose and dumped his findings on the bathroom counter. 

“It is your nose that is giving you the most trouble, yes?” Ilya asked, choosing to talk about Shane’s nose just because he could, because it was the easiest tease in the world, because it always got Shane so worked up so fast. His cute shy boyfriend with his cute horny sneezes. 

The current circumstances were technically uncharted territory as this is his first time experiencing Shane with a cold, so Ilya continuously kept an eye on his body language. And by his findings it looked like Shane was battling to keep his restraint intact. Ilya watched hungrily as the question registered, then promptly choked him until he could gather back his bearings. Shane blinked twice, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and brought a hand up to tug at his earlobe nervously. His face was still pink, eyes absolutely anywhere but on Ilya. 

“Um— uh, yeah,”Shane choked out after a brief moment of obvious internal struggle.

Ilya frowned at him, feigning ignorance. 

“You look flushed, lubimyy, do you have a fever?” 

“I don’t think so,” he replied. Ilya stepped closer into his boyfriend’s space, cupping Shane’s cheek with one hand and lighting up with desire as he watched the blush there darken. 

“It is okay if you are feeling bad. I want to take care of you,” Ilya said, aiming for earnest and caring and much less horny than he actually felt. He wanted to get to the root of whatever was working Shane up so much, wring it out with his bare hands until the answer was at his feet. 

“I’m. Uh, I’m okay,” Shane said, still struggling to maintain eye contact. He sniffled again, sound wet and thick, and it made him wince. Shane dabbed at his rapidly-reddening nose with the tissue from his pocket, too embarrassed to blow. 

“Let’s check just in case.”Ilya drops the hand from Shane’s face to pop the plastic cap off of the thermometer, shaking it. “You know how to do this part - open.” 

Shane did as he was told, letting Ilya slip the thermometer under his tongue before the words really registered. Ilya saw the moment they did as Shane froze, eyes finally snapping up to meet Ilya’s. His eyes were the perfect deep brown they always were, gaze that familiar curious mix of anger and embarrassment and lust. 

Ilya patted his cheek. 

“Good boy. You always look pretty with something in your mouth,” Ilya purred. Even under the circumstances it was true. Shane looked unbearably lovely even in the midst of a cold - cheeks gently flushed, nose red and twitchy, freckles prominent. His brown eyes were ever so slightly glassy, much like they were when he was sex drunk and sated. 

Ilya saw the moment Shane was about to open his mouth and yell at him a little, so he put a finger to the underside of Shane’s chin, firmly holding his jaw shut with the pad of his finger. Shane could have easily fought it, but his lips stayed sealed, bowing to the faintest pressure. 

“Ah-ah. No talking. We need your temperature.” Ilya continued to look him directly in the eye, still holding his chin so Shane couldn’t tilt his head away. Shane’s face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, a longing look of lust seeping through the seams of his expression. 

They both knew he didn’t have a fever but they played along anyway just for the sake of the game. Ilya was aware Shane knew he was just playing this shit up, but Shane let him anyways. He was malleable and perfect like he always was when Ilya laid it on this heavy. 

Then suddenly, Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. Ilya thought that maybe he was lost in the pleasure of the moment, about to finally give in and reach out and take, but then his breath hitched. 

Oh, Ilya thought. 

Ilya caught Shane’s arm as he brought it up to rub at his nose, lowering it back down to his side. No touching unless I say so, it said. Shane’s eyes snapped open, still squinty and itchy, giving Ilya a questioning glare. The thermometer still poked out from between his pouting lips. 

“Don’t sneeze. We will have to start all over. You can hold it back for me, lubimyy.”

The command landed as they always did. Shane shuddered, eyes squeezing shut again as his brows knitted in concentration, all confusion and frustration replaced by focus. He kept his mouth firmly shut, breathing slowly through his nose only to be interrupted by a hitch in his breath. He scrunched and wiggled his nose, chest rising and falling with each scissoring breath. Shane clenched his jaw, blinking furiously as irritated tears gathered at his lash line. 

There was a second that Ilya thought Shane might loose it, teetering on the very edge of a sneeze - his chest swelled high and stayed there, eyebrows pinched upwards, head tilted back and giving Ilya a perfect view of damp, flaring nostrils.  

But, after a few wavering moments, the urge passed. Shane blinked his eyes open slowly to meet Ilya’s, glassy and teary, still with the thermometer under his tongue. He shifted his weight, bulge now obvious in those grey sweatpants that always drove Ilya fucking insane. Ilya held Shane pinned with his gaze for a couple of long seconds before he leaned forward to whisper directly into Shane’s ear. 

“Good.” 

Shane let out the quietest shaky breath through his nose, eyes rolling up and slipping shut like one word alone was too arousing to handle. Ilya ran a feather-light touch over Shane’s clothed dick just to watch him shiver. 

The thermometer, finally finished with its reading, beeped and flashed numbers on the small digital screen. Ilya stepped back and plucked it from Shane’s lips, not missing as Shane chased his touch with his hips, making a soft noise of protest. 

“Ugh, fuck you,” Shane grumbled, sniffling and rubbing at his nose with the tissue from his pocket. Ilya was unsure which part of the last two minutes he was being cursed at for specifically. 

To Ilya’s surprise, Shane did actually have a low-grade fever: 99.8. He flipped the instrument around to show his boyfriend the reading. 

“You’re warm. Will be a fever later, maybe. We will keep an eye on it,” Ilya purred, setting the thermometer aside and cupping a hand to Shane’s cheek to feel the warmth there. 

Shane was about to respond when his breath caught on a huge inhale, sudden and aggressive. He barely had time to bring up his elbow before he was sneezing harshly. 

“Hah-hiITCHiew! HiINGTShu-hDTCH-ADTChoo! Hih-INGTSHIEW!” 

Shane stayed tucked into his elbow, panting and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. Ilya was a little bit shocked - he had never in his life heard Shane sneeze like that. It was fittish like how it was when he was aroused, but also heavy, harsh, and visibly uncontrollable. Shane’s head had jerked forward with each one, pulled down again and again with the force of the fit. He had to cough several times after like the congestion had shifted wrong and choked him. 

Ilya quickly pulled a handful of tissues out of the new box and pressed them into Shane’s free hand. He quickly brought them up to his nose, still hiding in the crook of his arm. 

“‘Scuse mbe, sorry. Thangk you.” Shane’s voice came out clogged and hoarse and once again, embarrassed. He avoided Ilya’s eyes as he cleaned up and tossed the evidence into the bathroom trash. He started to cough again and ducked back into the crook of his elbow. As if that would save Ilya from the germs he had already kissed right from Shane’s mouth.  

The giveaway that Shane was still enjoying it all was the straining fabric of his sweatpants. Ilya was a little surprised at that - if anyone was a big enough horndog to want to fuck while unwell it was himself. But Shane still looked painfully riled up. Even despite the mess and the sore throat and the headache and the sneezing. If Ilya could have taken a guess before, he would’ve thought Shane would be uptight, overstimulated, and cranky when he was sick. But so far he’s turned out to be needy and panting and pliant, and Ilya is absolutely not complaining. 

Shane was so turned on, and Ilya wanted to get him so desperate that Shane finally broke and went for it, took it with his own two hands for his own pleasure, his own want. 

“Oh, lubimyy, you really don’t feel good do you? Bud'te zdorovy, I have never heard you sneeze like that before. My poor malysh. Someone needs to take care of you, yes?” Ilya brought his hands from Shane’s shoulders, sliding down to his hands, passing over the backs of them to rest on his hips where he rubbed slow, slow circles with his thumbs, arching ever closer to where Shane clearly wanted touch the most. 

Shane’s breath caught as he shuddered. He didn’t speak, currently too overwhelmed for words. 

Ilya wanted him to say it anyway. 

“Yes? Is what you want?” 

Shane nodded, eyes hazy. 

“Tell me,” Ilya purred, thumbs still rubbing circles in the divots of his boyfriend’s hips. 

“I wandt you to take care of mbe,” Shane said, voice hoarse and wavering, increasingly clogged with congestion. Ilya felt through the stretch of fabric under his fingers as Shane’s dick twitched. 

It was then Ilya began to figure out where this heady, needy arousal of Shane’s was coming from. 

“Yes? Because you’re feeling bad? Tell me why.” 

Shane noded again, eager, waiting for Ilya to touch him, to kiss him, to do /something./ 

“I… I wandt you to mbake mbe feel better. Mbake mbe forget. Take care of mbe. Please,” Shane said, voice wavering and nearing a whine. He was panting now, staring blatantly at Ilya’s mouth. His face was beautifully flushed, eyes wanting and glassy, expression so painfully longing that Ilya wished he could take a picture of this moment to have it forever. To sear into his memory. 

Ilya, still holding him by the hips, leaned in and kissed Shane with an open mouth. Shane sighed into it, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head for best access to Ilya’s lips. Their noses brushed, and Ilya was surprised to find he didn’t mind the transfer of moisture that occurred as a result. Not when Shane was gasping into his mouth, unable to breathe through his nose but still desperate to kiss. It was like Shane was starving for it, for the feeling of Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, oxygen deprivation be damned. He was puffing breath into Ilya’s mouth, panting, yet still ravenous with his intensity.

When Ilya broke away to give him a fucking chance to breathe, Shane chased him with his mouth, making a low displeased noise in his throat. His eyes were dark and hungry, covered by a glassy, watery sheen. 

“Fugck, Ilya, cobe on,” Shane whined, still short of breath, almost more worked up and desperate than Ilya had ever seen him. He sniffled thickly and ran a hand under his now-red nose, too distracted to care about how gross he usually found it and that tissues were literally within his reach. On top of all of that, he had a slight wobble to him like he was dizzy. 

“You can’t breathe, milyy, you need to blow your nose,” Ilya replied, hands roaming up and down his boyfriend’s ribs. 

Shane visibly reddened all the way down to his neck. If Ilya looked, it would probably be deliciously spread over his chest. In Ilya’s peripheral vision, he saw Shane’s dick twitch again. Proof that he was on the right track whether Shane would verbally tell him that or not. 

Still making eye contact, Ilya reached over and drew a few tissues from the box. Shane reached for them but Ilya pulled back, making a tutting sound 

“I am taking care of you, remember? This is for me to do.” 

Shane visibly struggled for a second, embarrassment beginning to creep back in, but it was stopped by a furrow in his brow and a twitch of his nose. He hitched, expression tortured and itchy, gearing up for however many sneezes his body decided was enough to express his arousal. He loved Shane’s little fits. They were like music to his ears, visual and auditory proof that Ilya was turning him on just right. 

“Hah- Ilyaahh, I-,” 

Ilya reached out and cupped the tissues around his nose. Shane’s hands flew up to meet them, clamping Ilya’s hand firmly in place. 

“HiISHIEW! HihH-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! HahH-ADTCHOO!”

Shane sneezed harshly, over and over again, breath warm and damp against Ilya’s palm. The tissues flooded with warmth as the expulsions forced the congestion to shift and loosen and expel itself. He finished the fit with a noise between a groan and a whine, equal parts relief, mortification, and arousal. 

“Bud'te zdorovy,” Ilya purred, pinching the mess away from Shane’s nose with one hand while the other plucked a few more tissues from the box. Shane’s hands slowly withdrew from his face as he let Ilya do the work, face beautifully flushed. Ilya was quick to tent the fresh tissues against Shane’s nose, holding them tightly in place. “Now blow.” 

Shane for a second looked like he would protest, but something in Ilya’s expression stilled it. Instead he took a trembling inhale and blew, a couple hours worth of congestion flooding outward into the folds of the soft paper, warm against the pads of Ilya’s fingers. While Ilya clearly understood this was foreplay (Was it weird? Yes. Did he really give a shit? No.), it also felt sweetly intimate and trusting. Like a skittish kitten eating out of your hand. Or something. Maybe Shane just always reminded him of a kitten. 

Ilya had him blow one more time before cleaning him up, murmuring sweet praise into his ear while he did so. Shane looked so fucking blissed out it was insane and Ilya wanted to swallow him whole. 

Thankfully, it did seem like he could breathe a little better after blowing, which made Ilya feel better about accidentally suffocating his boyfriend during a makeout. Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s collarbone, gently teething on the skin there. Shane shivered and swayed, fingers tightening on Ilya’s shoulders as he moved in for another kiss.  

“You should be lying down,” Ilya breathed into his mouth, kissing him and walking Shane out of the bathroom and towards the bed, pulling their shirts off as they went. Shane fell back on the bed once the back of his knees hit the edge of it, propped up on his elbows and looking up at Ilya through his lashes with dark, glassy eyes. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and nose beautifully red. 

Ilya went for the drawstring of his boyfriend’s sweats with fast, nimble fingers, tugging them down and off in a single practiced motion. Shane shivered as Ilya ran his fingers up his thighs and to the seam of his boxers, throwing his head back and exposing his neck. 

“You have been so reactive to me. So tense, so nervous. But I can see that you like it. I told you, I can always tell when you want,” Ilya said lowly, leaning down to mouth at the skin of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane trembled, sighing, twisting the bedsheets with tight fists at his sides. “You just want someone to take care of you, yes? Fuck the cold out of you?” 

The man beneath him groaned at that, dick twitching in his boxers. And the next moment Shane was sneezing again, gasping once and twisting to the side.

“Hih…hihH-INGTSHiew, ihHITCHuu, hah-ADTCHiew! Ngh, fugck, sngff, Ilya blease-”

Ilya watched, mouth watering as his boyfriend’s abs contracted and released over and over. With the next breath he was begging, panting, sniffling thickly, pulling Ilya closer by hooking his heels around Ilya’s ass and tugging. 

Ilya chuckled and kissed a line up Shane’s throat. 

“Oh, I know that sound. So eager even when you don’t feel good.” Ilya pulled back to look Shane in the eye for a second, savoring the tension and want in his boyfriend’s gaze. His nose was running already, eyes dark, embarrassed flush blooming down his neck at the intense attention. He sniffled thickly then turned to cough into his wrist. Ilya ran his hands over Shane’s ribs. “My poor Shanya, you are so sick.” 

Shane made a keening noise in his throat, reaching up and pulling Ilya down for the neck to mash their mouths together.

Soon enough Ilya had Shane on his back in the middle of the bed, the both of them naked, kissing a line down Shane’s body until he reached his groin, dick straining and untouched. Like the rest of him, it was flushed red. Precome gleamed at the tip. Ilya licked a slow, sensual stripe up his cock before swallowing it to the base in one smooth slide. 

Shane moaned loudly and tried not to writhe, both hands balled into fists in Ilya’s hair. His voice was fully hoarse now, but that didn’t seem to be interfering with his need to be vocal. Ilya took the opportunity and reached up to put his fingers in Shane’s mouth. Shane groaned and sucked on the digits dutifully, coating them with saliva. Ilya focused back on the cock in his mouth, bobbing his head and laving his tongue along the underside of it, pausing to suck at the tip with each slide. He was startled out of his rhythm when Shane caught him by he wrist and tore Ilya’s fingers from his mouth, grip tight and desperate. But then he was gasping, twisting to the side and - 

“Fu-uhhck, Ilya, I- INGtshiew, hDTCH-ahINGTSH-idtSHIEW, ahITSHIEW! Hih-hiISHIEWW!”

Shane’s dick thrusted into Ilya’s mouth with each sneeze, fingers tightening on Ilya’s wrist in time with the expulsions. Ilya stilled and relaxed his throat, feeling as the sneezes forced Shane to fuck forward into his throat again and again. Shane had never let Ilya do this before, too afraid of being rough and choking him. He had this irrational fear he’d make Ilya throw up... as if Shane could be rough enough cause anything other than a ghost of a gag. Ilya groaned at the sensation, eyes rolling back into his skull. Fuck this was hot. He couldn’t believe a cold is what got Shane to finally fuck his face. 

He didn’t give Shane a chance to think about it too hard though, quickly taking his slicked fingers to work his boyfriend open at the conclusion of the fit. Shane was clearly in no mood to wait - as soon as Ilya’s fingers were inside him he was groaning and squirming and pulling at Ilya’s hair, murmuring fever-drunk pleas all the while. 

Ilya was never one to say no to him. 

Ilya pulled Shane closer by the thighs, reaching up and making sure his beautiful head was propped up by a pillow so he at least had a chance at breathing properly. He smoothed a hand down Shane’s chest and stomach, admiring. Shane looked so wrecked already and he had only had a few fingers in his ass. He appeared as though he had already gone a couple rounds, face red, hair a mess, body slick with sweat. Shane’s nose was glistening and he couldn’t go a handful of seconds without sniffing. Ilya put a few tissues to his nose for him to blow, then kissed his forehead. 

Ilya slicked himself up with lube and pushed in slowly, giving time for Shane to adjust. He felt warmer than usual, hot muscle tight around Ilya’s cock. It felt so unbelievably good that he had to stop and breathe for a second one he was fully seated. He was glad he did because seconds later Shane was succumbing to another fit of sneezes, squeezing him tight over and over. 

“Hah! Hah- haAETCHiew, ITCHiew-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! Hih-ITSH-ISH-ADTCHIew!” 

Shane usually had a fit right when Ilya bottomed out, but just how good and warm and tight his boyfriend’s ass was nearly made him forget. The spray fell cool on his overheated, sweat-slick skin. 

Once he was able to access coherent thought again, Ilya said, “Bud'te zdorovy. So sneezy. Does your nose really like this?”

“Shitd,” Shane whispered, dropping his head back and clenching down on Ilya’s dick as he began to thrust. “Yes.”

Ilya pulled Shane’s legs up over his shoulders for a deeper angle, to which his boyfriend cried out. Ilya kept his pace steady and thorough, hands roaming and groping every bit of flesh they could find - his boyfriend’s stomach, his pecs, his thighs, his ass. Shane shivered underneath his touch, overwhelmed tears gathering in his eyes and rolling in fat drops down his cheeks. Every time Shane had to stop to cough or sniffle it seemed to push himself ever closer to the edge. He was moaning and slurring words in that beautiful congested voice of his. 

Ilya was getting close. The feverish heat of him combined with just the sight of his lover was ruining him forever. Shane was a fucking mess - sweaty and fever flushed, lips dry and mess gleaming on his top lip as he’d stopped caring about appearances some time ago. His eyes were hazy, far-off and glassy, with tears leaking steadily over his cheekbones. 

But Shane had to come first. This wasn’t about him. 

Ilya kept his pace steady, bringing one hand down to wrap around Shane’s dick. Shane’s legs clenched around him. He groaned as Ilya thumbed at the precome-wet slit at the apex of each stroke. Shane was fuck-drunk and lost in it, brow pinched with pleasure, mouth open as he continued to lose his voice around the moaning and incoherent babbling for mbore, yes, blease, Ilya, righdt there.

Shane gasped, breath hitching and catching around his desperate panting, and Ilya knew he was close. 

“Come for me, Shanya. I will take care of you, come for me, good boy, yes, /fuck/-“

Shane climaxed with a cry, squeezing Ilya tight with his cry. The come on his stomach was immediately joined by the spray of his desperate, aroused fit of sneezes. 

“Ahhng, fuckfuck fuuhHITSHiew, hiISHIEW, iINGTSHoo, ADTCHOO-ETSHIEW-ITCHOO!” 

Ilya wanted to keep going, wanted to fuck Shane through it, but Jesus fucking Christ the way Shane looked and sounded and clenched down on his cock with each sneeze was too much. 

Quickly, he pulled out so Shane didn’t have to clean out, and was coming hard over Shane’s stomach with three quick stokes of his hand. Shane gasped, threw his head back, and snapped forward with another predictable fit. Ilya shuddered with pleasure as his dick was drenched in it. 

“HihH-idSHiew! hiISHIEW! HihH-hDTCH-ahISHIEW-ITCHoo! HahH-ADTCHOO!”

Shane’s face was a mess. His nose was an irritated red, wetness spilling over his cupid’s bow and down his chin. But in the post-coital bliss he didn’t seem to care yet. He was boneless and panting, staring at the come on his stomach and chest with drowsy, leftover arousal. It was unbearably sexy when Ilya made Shane a mess, when he fucked him so good that he didn’t care about the sweat or the come or the spray. That he alone was able to have this, to see this, to make this happen. That he was able to get Shane so fucked out that he didn’t care if he sneezed all over himself or all over Ilya. He cherished the fact that he was the only one who knew how much Shane Hollander liked to be covered in come and sweat, disheveled and messy. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed. It felt extremely well-spoken all things considered. 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, just as out of breath. “Fuck.”

Ilya sat back on his heels on the bed and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “So,” he started. “You will catch a cold again soon, right?” 

Shane burst into surprised, hoarse laughter and Ilya thought it was maybe the sweetest sound he had heard all day. 

…

After Ilya had cleaned Shane up with a warm cloth and fed him a handful of various medicines from the discarded pile in the bathroom, he pulled Shane on top of him for a cuddle before he began to insist on a shower. Shane sounded a lot less congested after the sex and multiple rounds of blowing his nose. Ilya filed this away for later when he eventually caught this - oh Shane, a blowjob would make my nose feel better, don’t you think? But for the moment he was just content to hold his boyfriend and run a hand through his damp hair. His skin seemed to be more sensitive than usual so Ilya kept the pressure firm until Shane stopped squirming at every touch. He still had a bit of a cough and his voice was definitely going out, but Shane didn’t seem to be too bothered by it. 

“So,” Ilya said, “Will we talk about this now or later?” 

Shane groaned and turned red, burying his face between Ilya’s pecs. 

“Never,” he groaned. 

Ilya chuckled. 

“Later, then. I have never seen you so worked up, lyubov.” 

“This is so embarrassing,” Shane replied, still hiding his face.

Ilya rolled them over so they were both lying on their sides, nose to nose. Ilya kissed the freckles on his face, then his eyelids, then his nose until Shane was relaxed and giggling. 

“Never. You are the hottest man alive and it isn’t fair you kept this kind of sex from me.” 

Shane laughed. “It’s not like I meant to. This is like, our first time really together when I…” He gestured vaguely - he couldn’t get himself to finish the sentence. 

“Have a cold? You are very sweet and needy when you’re sick, it’s very nice. I thought you would be a big asshole.”

“Hey!” Shane punched his arm. “I’m never an asshole. You’re the asshole.” 

“Shane Hollander, that is a lie. You and me are the same amount of asshole,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane and rolling on top of him, trying to tickle his sides. 

Shane groaned and tried to push him off. “Ew, Ilya, you’re so sweaty. We need to shower.” “You did not care about this five minutes ago.” 

“Well five minutes ago you had my dick in your hand. Things have changed.” 

"Dearest Clive, I hope this letter finds you well! 

Filming has been tolerable. Thankfully, that oaf of a director was fired. I put in a good word for a replacement, my friend Dionne (the lovely girl I met while climbing Mt. Crucious). Unlike that OAF, she actually has a vision! I hope production can finally take a turn for the better now. I can't be in another turkey. 

I'm so glad you are getting on well, I know the holidays are stressful for you. I'm also happy to hear our darling Terry has gotten a raise! It's about time. 

Speaking of Terry, I hope you've received the ointment I sent you for his aches. It hurts me to know he suffers so. 

I hope to see both of you soon, I miss the pair of you terribly. 

Yours forever - 

Merle Das.

P.S. Don't forget to give yourself a break, you idiot!" 

💜 💜 💜

Clive smiled and folded the letter reverently. She was always so thoughtful with gifts. Even just seeing Merle's swirling handwriting made him feel like she was there, an eternal comfort. It's something he needed to get through the absolutely horrible season. 

The considerate Merle was right. The winter holidays were one of the busiest months for the Grand Pietre. Wealthy vacationers fled to the warm Riviera, fleeing snow for sunny shores. The more guests there were, the more events were organized in order to entertain them. Everyone on staff had to pull overtime, and Clive had to step up as ringleader of the chaotic, vacationing circus. 

Of course, as always, with a heavy flow of guests, a holiday bug would inevitably hatch amongst them, the plague spreading from person to person and, of course, to his staff. It was always during the most critical parts of the holidays when the circus fell. All it took was a single sneeze, and the chain reaction would begin. 

This year, in a horrible twist of irony, the patient zero was him. 

His entire career was spent crafting an image of untouchable authority, a servant to guests, someone who existed outside of the physical form. As such, he hid his sickness like a cat. 

Coughing was handled well enough. He always kept a pocketful of lemon drops, even when he was healthy. A stray cough from allergies or otherwise was always seen too, as soon as it manifested. At the first tingle of a sore throat, Clive made sure to keep a cup of hot tea poised on the kitchen counter. He'd excuse himself, take a sip, and pop a lemon drop. 

It was his nose that betrayed him. As soon as the day of a sore throat subsided, the endless dripping began. He kept a handkerchief balled up in his fist, hidden from immediate view but quickly accessed as soon as he sniffled. And he sniffled a lot. He spent the week with a handkerchief poised, sneakily dabbing at the point of his nose. Clive didn't dare blow it properly, as blowing meant a red, raw nose. Unsightly. Diseased-looking. The last thing guests wanted to see while mulling over a dinner menu. 

But because of the lack of a good, proper blow, Clive's sinuses tickled relentlessly. A constant, irritating flutter that begged for relief but was denied every time. And with the tickling came the sneezing. 

Or there would be sneezing. If he allowed it. But Clive was a professional hotel concierge. Professionals never sneezed in front of guests. 

He knew every trick in the book to keep it at bay. As soon as the ever-present tickle burned into something stronger, he'd quickly press at the divot under his nose. Counting from ten backwards also seemed to distract him, his meticulous mind easily occupied. Sometimes, when counting and pressure weren't enough, he'd employ Merle's ridiculous "pineapple" strategy, muttering the word to himself under a hitching, shaky breath when he knew no one was within earshot. 

There were many times Clive found himself trying to stand at still-attention, watery-eyed with the threat of a sneeze tickling him mercilessly. But he never let the reflex win. Not until his shift ended. Then he'd sprint to his quarters, breath hitching by the time he gripped the door handle. 

"hih—oh-hiih—" 

He'd make sure to lock the door behind him, chest ballooning with an inhale. 

"heeehh—" 

"Clive! You okay?" 

"hhh—goddamnit Terry… you scared the life out of me. What the hell is wrong with you?" 

Clive didn't mean to snap. He didn't expect Terry to be waiting for him, and the man did have an unnerving tendency to scare people accidentally. His sinuses burned away as he pinched at the straight bridge of his nose. 

"Hey, don't come at me with that! You said you wanted to go to the pictures tonight." 

Clive's heart fell. He had completely forgotten. 

It wasn't the first time this happened. The day before, he'd also forgotten about having an evening with Terry. And the day before that as well. As soon as the holiday season began, Clive had distanced himself. He didn't realize how distant. A week had turned into a month, and then two months. 

And Terry had been busy too. Overwhelmed with maintaining the changing grounds during the season. Chopping down overgrowth, removing a tree gone sickly. When Clive did see him, he'd be bent forward, his old back injury acting up. He'd keep up a brave face, but Clive knew he was in pain. 

And he didn't even bother to ask about it. He'd been so wrapped up in his own misery, so overwhelmed with the guests and the staff and the budding cold in his head.

"I can't. This day has been miserable. Start to finish. Maybe tomorrow…"  

Clive looked up to see Terry's crestfallen face. The man looked genuinely hurt, but resigned to it in a way that only someone who was used to being hurt could be. He nodded and put his jacket back on. 

"Don't worry about it, Clive." He muttered and left. A dark cloud hung low over his head. 

Merle was right, Clive thought. He was a complete idiot. He needed to rest, to stop micromanaging and let his staff do their job. And he needed to make up for all those missed dinners. 

Thanks to Merle, he had just the thing. He grabbed the small jar of ointment Merle had sent him and ran off to the dark of the gardens. The light was still on in Terry's small house. There was still time. 

——————————

The apology tumbled out of him, clumsy but honest. He was unused to them, and he worried that he'd only dig himself deeper. But Terry understood, and suddenly it was Terry apologizing, and then it was both of them tripping over each other's mutual apologies. Then it was laughter, and then it was relief, and warm embraces. 

And then it was Clive pulling Terry's shirt off. He gently led him to the bed, kissing and murmuring quiet reassurances. Clive eased Terry onto his stomach, straddling him.  

"Clive— you don't have to. You're under the weather…if anything, I should be the one to-"  

Terry gasped as Clive smeared a healthy dollop of oil on his back. It was hot and cold all at the same time, with an intense aromatic scent that filled the room. 

"Hush. I've been an ass." Clive bent forward and pressed a kiss to the small of his back. "I'm not that sick, anyway." 

That was a lie. Clive could feel a fever setting in. His eyes were heavy with it, but that didn't matter. He wanted to make it up to Terry, to make him feel good. He added more oil to Terry's back and sank his fingers into the tight muscles, searching for knots. The scent of the medicine was overwhelming, it made Clive's stuffy nose run, and he sniffled with it as the aroma loosened the congestion in his head. 

It seemed to affect Terry, too. In between the shameless moans and sighs from Clive's soothing ministrations, Terry began to snuffle from the odor. He rubbed his nose against a pillow, growing more and more bothered. 

Clive smiled. He knew what'd come next. He could feel it happen right under his fingertips. Terry's ribcage fluttered and expanded with a hitch, muscles tightening as he wound up for a sneeze. 

"Heeh—HEPT'SHHH!!!—hh—sorry." 

Terry's head snapped forward, spraying into the pillow. The sorry came out automatically, like it always did. A nervous tic developed from a more harrowing life. 

"It's okay.." Clive reassured, stroking a hand through Terry's auburn hair. "I got you." 

"hh—HGG'SHHHIEW!! HRH-PHHHBT!!" 

More sneezes, muffled against the pillow. They sounded watery and wonderfully relieving. Clive couldn't help but feel his own nose tingle with envy. It'd been denied for so long, and the odor of the ointment made a sneeze enticing. Clive wriggled his nose back and forth, trying to ignore that old feeling of shame and scrutiny that came with it. 

"Heh—" a hitch warbled out of him, hesitant. He felt his nostrils twitch in anticipation.

Terry softly huffed underneath him. 

"snff—you gonna finally sneeze or what?" Terry peeked over his shoulder, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His hand found Clive's knee and gave it a squeeze. 

Clive blushed from the attention. 

"Oh shut up—hih—you know I can't concentrate with you waiting on it like that." Clive scrunched up his face, feeling the sneeze dangle at the tip of his pointy nose. He pinched at it a little, trying to lean into the sensation. 

"Just like that one night at Merle's…" Terry winked. 

Clive lightly spidered his fingertips against Terry's ribcage. The man spasmed, and his arms quickly coiled over his sensitive sides. 

"CLIVE!" He yelped. 

"Oh-oh scared of a little retaliation-snff—" Clive rubbed at his nose, trying to escape the clawing tickle that bounced between his eyes. "Now-just let-let me—hhh—HHH—" 

His mouth parted, and his nostrils curled open.

"hihp-tSHHiew!!" 

Annoyingly small and shy as always. But a sneeze was a sneeze, and he felt all the pressure of the months behind him crack open with it. His shoulders sagged, and he smiled through the second hiccup of a sneeze, a soft but relieving "Hh'Shieww!!" 

"Bless ya." Terry's voice was muffled in the pillow, his body still tense from the threat of being tickled. 

"..hhh Thanks…" Clive sighed and returned to the task at hand. There'd be no more teasing for Terry tonight. The massage continued, melting into heavy caresses as what little clothing remained between the pair of them peeled away. 

The fever made Clive's movements sluggish, the night blurring into a melange of pleasure and release. 

And sneezes. Encouraged by the mentholated ointment. As Clive hitched and against the skin of Terry's throat, his mind drifted to Merle…

Prowling cemeteries at night wasn't something the seminary prepared him for. But after serving the small community of Cat's Cradle, Reverend Nathaniel Lark knew better than to question the concerns of a worried mother knocking on his door at 11:00 pm. 

He swore it was the trees—Cat's Cradle was a mountain town surrounded by an ancient forest. Tales of ghosts and monsters flourished in the dark, and it wasn't his place to disprove or deny the concerns of his parish. Their belief was real, and that was enough for him. So he peered down every haunted well, climbed up every ominous staircase, and looked under every bed. He hadn't planned on becoming an official boogeyman hunter, but he preferred it over listening to his pompous, bigoted peers back home. He took up the collar to bring comfort to others, and if bringing comfort meant going out into the dark with a crucifix and a jar of garlic in the middle of the night, he was going to do it. 

"Igheh'Hhh—Hihff'Shhiew!!" 

He unfolded a new bundle of tissues, already exhausting a box. The miserable cold that spent its time passing from townsfolk to townsfolk in the winter had finally caught up to him just as spring finally came around. He practically sneezed his way through the last mass. It was a proper head cold, one he hoped would dry up in a week. Thankfully, most of his colds were short-lived. 

"Heeh-hh—ohdearmbe—hehh'IGHHFFF!!!" 

That one bent him in half. His back twinged in pain, and for a moment, he stayed bowed, lower half of his face buried in a handkerchief. The airy sneeze rang out in the graveyard, the only sound of life amongst the dead.

Wincing, he slowly, carefully straightened out again. The grand age of forty-five had done his spine no favors. Or his knees. Or his neck, for that matter. Funny, the things one took for granted. Working backs and knees. Graveyards had a way of making him meditative on his own mortality, as graveyards should. They were places for contemplation. To honor and grieve loved ones. They were places where memories were buried forever.

They were not supposed to be dug up again, least of all by the local priest. But the kindly baker told him she'd seen a vampire take its residence in what should have been her auntie's final resting place, and he wasn't going to argue with her. If a flock of sheep bleated at a wolf in the woods, the shepherd would be foolish not to go and chase it away. 

He still felt foolish placing the jar of garlic on top of the grave. He felt even more foolish when he nearly jumped out of his skin in fright when the caretaker yelled at him. 

"What the hell are you doing?" The old man stood at the stoop of the funeral house, weathered face lit by the glow of his outdated lantern. 

"Oh, hullo!" Rev. Nathaniel Lark smiled awkwardly, trying to make the act of digging up a grave look perfectly normal. "Just uh—snff—checking for…something." 

The caretaker scowled. 

Nathaniel cleared his throat. 

"You haven't uh—seen, any..oh..I don't know—uh—vampires around?" 

The caretaker grumbled a string of colorful expletives and returned to the funeral home, slamming the doors behind him. 

"Have a good evening!" Nathaniel lamely called after him. He always tried his best to end every interaction on a positive note. You never knew when a goodbye would be your last. 

Nathanial was unsure if a jar of processed garlic with "a hint of rosemary" would have the same effect as an actual garland, but he didn't have any time to sew one together, and frankly, he didn't feel well enough to focus on crafting one. He took a small bottle of holy water and gave the top of the grave a generous sprinkle. Though he seriously doubted a vampire had exhumed the body in order to take up residence in its place, He hoped the process was convincing enough ward for the baker to feel comforted by it. 

She was waiting for him in the parking lot, watching from the safety of an old truck. The baker still seemed worried as he approached, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"You think that's enough to keep it away, father?" She asked. 

He coughed lightly into the crook of an elbow, the cold had passed the point of scorching his throat, but the drip of it remained. 

"—I don't see why it wouldn't, Mrs. Keller. From what I'm told, even jars of garlic are enough to keep evil spirits from harassing the dearly departed remains." 

He wasn't told about any of this. But he wasn't lying. Lying was a sin. He was comforting someone, and there was nothing wrong with that. The look of relief on the baker's face was enough to make the harmless pantomime worth it. 

"Thank you so much, Father! You'll get a whole month's worth of fresh bread, I guarantee it." 

"It's the least I can do—Now, is there..any-anythihg—anythingelse-??" 

A sudden tickle fluttered between his eyes, and he quickly pressed a knuckle to the underside of his nose. Guiltily, he begged for the conversation to be over, so he could get back to bed and sneeze out the rest of this cold. 

Mrs. Keller took her time thinking of another investigation while Nathaniel tried to smile through the burn of an approaching sneeze. 

"Mmm…I don't suppose you could check the graves tomorrow, just to make sure?"

"Hhhh!!—"  He held his breath, eyebrows lifted dramatically as he clamped his nose between the tissues. "—HFFFHIEW!!" 

"Oh! Bless you!" Mrs. Keller grinned, suddenly amused, "How funny, me blessing you. Feels a bit strange." 

Nathaniel sighed into the tissues, still muzzy with a second sneeze brewing. He did his best to extricate himself from the ever-gregarious Mrs. Keller, finally leaving the dark graveyard parking lot for a long walk back home. It was a bit of an eerie walk, the kind where you were almost sure someone was following behind. Perhaps the superstitious nature of the town was starting to influence him. 

At least he didn't live far away. For that, he was grateful. He was even more grateful when his landlord remembered to let the plumber in to fix the sink. But it was odd that the plumber showed up so late at night and didn't actually fix the sink. It still leaked when he trudged into the kitchen. He rolled his eyes at the puddles of water on the kitchen floor, snuffling thickly as he tried to mop them up. 

Nathaniel knew he had many flaws, as all humans did. One of them was self-pity, something he tried to dip in only occasionally. But tonight, being sick as a dog and with a busted sink, he let himself wallow in it. Poor Reverend Nathaniel Larkin, crawling on his hands and knees mopping up puddles, nose as leaky as the broken sink. 

Another puddle mopped, another one to go. Nathaniel's mouth slowly swung open as yet another sneeze tickled him. He would have had it too, if he hadn't wiped away a splatter of blood. 

He bolted upright, eyes following the trail of blood to the couch. A man lounged there, leg crossed. He looked perfectly cordial despite the front of his shirt being covered in blood. He grinned crookedly up at Nathaniel. Teeth razor sharp, eyes glowing in the dark. 

"Heads up. You might need a new landlord." The man said. 

Nathaniel didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. Only feel pure terror. 

"He was kind of a boring guy. Talked too much, no real flavor to him." The man's eyes flashed. 

"Worst of all, I'm still hungry." 

Before Nathaniel could even think, the creature pounced on him. 

His head slammed against the floorboards as he felt the fangs sink into his neck. Nathaniel yelled for help, flailed, and shoved at the monster on top of him. Strong hands (or were they claws?) held him fast, all he could do was scream.

But there was no pain. That was the odd thing. After the agony of the bite, there was nothing. He felt the blood and the cold skin of the creature's lips against his throat, but he didn't feel pain. His mind fogged over, and his vision went blurry, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was being fed on by a damn vampire, it was almost…good. 

Really good. 

In the cloud of sensation, Nathaniel felt a sudden inhale against the divot of his neck, where throat met chest. Then another sip of air, and a distinct sound of a sniffly nose. He thought for a moment he was sniffling, the cold chasing him to his death. But he felt the fangs unhook from his flesh, and he looked up to see that the vampire was rubbing at his nose against the heel of his hand. Panting, his glowing eyes hooded as it sucked in another gasp of air, nostrils fluttering open—

"What—heh—the-h-hell—HH—" The vampire's voice wavered as his lips curled up in a snarl. But he no longer looked ferocious. He looked confused, almost soft…

Sneezy.

"Ah—Ahh—HAHk'SHHH!!" 

It exploded out of him, spluttering messily between sharp teeth. Body cringing forward, eyes closing despite his best efforts…

It was just enough time. Nathaniel used the moment to shove the vampire off of him and reached into his back pocket for the crucifix. The world swam before his eyes as he lurched forward with it, pressing the holy object to the vampire's back. He heard the creature cry out in pain, saw the smoke, the fire, and then nothing.

Reverend Nathaniel Larkin swooned, and his world went black. 

———————-

It'd been a month since he got a crucifix to the back. 

He sat at the empty bar, nursing a full glass of beer. Just for looks, of course. Human drink could never satisfy as much. It might as well have been air. He wasn't there for the drinks, he was there for the music. Soft guitars strummed effortlessly from the modest stage, and a handful of true devotees sat and enjoyed the gentle ballads. Every Saturday he'd go to sit and listen, music was the last true thing that made him feel alive. 

The fucking scar itched. He thumbed at his back uselessly. What did it look like? Did it leave a mark?  There was no way he could know. 

"You gotta leave." 

The bartender gave him a final warning. Nice guy. Knew about the whole vampire thing. Knew enough to let him in and leave him be, at least. Nodding, he slid off the barstool and skulked into the dark. One of the things they didn't tell you when you became a child of darkness was that you should always honor a few spaces. You couldn't run your whole immortal life. He had quite a few spots across the globe by this point, places he could rely on for shelter, at least briefly. Some were permanent, some less so. 

For now, his less-permanent shelter was a trailer, the final home of his last meal. It was ratty, but it was dark, and it had a couch. And a tv. He could hardly complain about that. Flopping on the sofa, he kicked up his boots on the coffee table, and reached for the remote. He was almost at peace.

Almost.  

He hissed, and pinched at the bridge of his nose as a sneeze sparked to life. He'd felt one coming on all damn night, a tickle that flowed and ebbed seemingly at random. He never thought he'd be bothered with sneezing again. He hadn't done it for hundreds of years. Up until the encounter with that priest, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. At first, he thought it was a fluke, perhaps drinking the blood of a clergyman ignited an allergy he was unaware of. Whatever it was, he hadn't indulged in it since. 

Until tonight. He woke up with his nose buzzing, and he'd almost been excited to try for one again. Almost. But every time he seemed to work up to one, it went away, leaving him stuffy and frustrated. Twice during the concert he nearly got an AH in, but the fucking Choo would die away. At one point, his ridiculous gasping made someone's head turn, drawing unwanted attention. He flushed with embarrassment, just thinking about it. He didn't know he could still blush either. 

"Oh-come on.." He sniffed at the cold air, twiddling his wide nose against the palm of his hand. His breath snagged, and he felt a swell of anticipation in him as his chest rose, and rose, and rose—

"Ah—hh-hh—AHHH!!" 

He tilted his head back, as if the sneeze was a thing to be caught in the air with his teeth, a thing just right out of reach. 

Curiously, he could hear someone else hitching, too. Someone unseen in the dark. Someone close by, who didn't want to be seen, was struggling not to be heard. 

"—AHt'CHHHHSH!!!" He launched forward with it, exaggerated. The sneeze scraped through his sinuses in a wonderfully relieving way, like a rake of nails down his itchy nose. He licked his lips, indulging in the strange little reflex he thought he had left behind ages ago. 

"Hhh-INDG'T!!" 

Someone else sneezed. Or rather, tried not to sneeze. 

Someone else was in the dark with him. Unusual, not to see someone in the dark. Humans were easy to spot, animals too. The only thing that could hide from a vampire was another vampire. 

He bolted from the couch and flicked on the light. Standing in the corner, with a finger hovering uselessly under his nose, was the priest from a month ago. Tall as ever, but this time without the silly white collar they all wore. In its place was a red scar wrapping around his neck, a permanent ring burned into his skin. 

The priest grabbed him. Lifted him up by the jacket collar and shoved him into the wall. He'd been weak as a human. He wasn't weak anymore. 

"Turn me back! TURN ME BACK NOW!" The priest spat. His nose ran, and his pupils glowed bright. "YOU DAMNED ME!" 

"What the fuck are you blabbing about? I can't turn you back! What the hell do you think this is??" He struggled to pull the priest's hands (or were they claws?) off of him. 

"You gave me this dark gift. I never wanted it. You…you ruined my life." 

"I..I think you need to be a bit educated on this one." He grinned, trying to placate the newly turned spawn. "I was gonna drain you. Right? You'd be dead if I did. But you're not. You're a spawn now. Fresh as a daisy. And I'm your sire." 

The priest sniffled. A dribble of mess trickled down his lip. 

"You're… like my father now?" 

"NO! Fuck no. Disgusting." He wrinkled his nose at the idea. "No, I'm like…your friend. You have my power now, and my thoughts. And I have yours. If I die, you die." 

The priest's grip loosened, and he released him. 

"Look, let's try this over. Hello there! My name's Quintus." He held out his hand for a shake. "You can call me Quint. What's yours?" 

The ex-priest, now-vampire, glowered at him. He wiped his runny nose with a cluster of tissues. 

"Nathaniel." 

"Nice to meet you, Nate. Now, let's not tear each other's heads off tonight. Let's just talk. Can we talk?" 

Nathaniel nodded. He understandably wasn't happy about it, but he was willing to hear Quintus out. 

And he did hear him out. For an hour, they sat and talked. Quintus shared his own fractured knowledge of vampirism and how to live the life, and Nathaniel quietly moped and took it in. No doubt it would be years for him to really adjust, but Quintus wasn't about to let a spawn go on in the world, sad and clueless. He wasn't responsible for spawns, but he felt responsible for this one at least. There was something inherently sad and puppyish about the man that compelled him to charity. Besides, it didn't seem like he was willing to just leave Quintus alone. Whatever situation they found themselves in, they'd have to work it out together, since killing each other was not an option. For now. 

"Excuse—mbe..hih-Igh—" Nathaniel reached into his pocket for another nest of tissues, eyebrows rising. "Th-this stupid cold—been'd taking forever to—hhhh" 

Quintus felt the tickle crawl up and down Nathaniel's sinuses. It made his own nostrils pulse and his own breath wobble. Dread realization hit as his lips curled away from his fanged teeth in an itchy snarl. 

"Ah-AHH'GHSHHOOH!!" 

"HF'Fhieww!!" 

They both sneezed in tandem. Quintus first. Nathaniel second. They both sniffled and looked at each other, surprised. 

It was the first time in a long time Quintus felt real dread. 

"You were sick when I bit you?" 

"I was, yes. Horrible little cold-snff-snff-" Nathaniel dabbed at his runny nose. "I just don't understand. I thought I'd be over it by now. Sickness doesn't linger with me." 

"As a human no." Quintus's glared. "But whatever you are when you are turned, you remain."

"…Are you suggesting I will have this cold…forever?" 

"I don't..know. Maybe, maybe it'll last for a year, or a hundred years. Or it'll go away tomorrow..I don't know. What I do know is— I think we're sharing more than power. If you sneeze, I'll sneeze." 

Nathaniel sniffed, looking sulky. He pinched his nose between a clean fold of tissues and gave it a loud blow. Quintus wrinkled his own nose at the sound, he could feel his sinuses shift from Nathaniel's exertion. 

"Well. Snff—looks like someone will have the sniffles for a while then. Should have thought about that before you feasted on my neck."  Nathaniel lowered the tissues, his septum a red, raw streak. Twitching his nose back and forth, his chest began to huff up and down, and a small, sarcastic smile spread over his parting lips as his nostrils ticked open. "Speakig-of..get ready..I think'g—this is gunna be a big—one…" 

Quintus couldn't help it. Despite hundred's of years' worth of power, of sheer focus on survival, he couldn't stop the tickle crawling up and down his nose as Nathaniel's face crumbled. He pinched at his widening nostrils, trying to stop them from flaring. 

"Don't! Hh-Come'd on-Nate-don't—Don't s'deeze—I—ah-" 

"-S-Sorry—Hhhh—" 

In a last, pathetic effort, Quintos slapped a hand over his mouth. He could feel his sharp teeth parting open, desperate, helpless. 

Oh fuck. Helplessness. That was something he hadn't felt in a long time…

"AH—AH—" 

It terrified him. 

"AH-AHKTCHH!!" 

There was a time, long ago, when he knew how to stifle a sneeze. To properly bottle it up. Some murky part of his past where he was hiding, the last time he felt fear. He couldn't remember how to do it now. The sneeze sprayed wetly against his hand, his ears popping with the painful explosion. 

"Hieh'FFHshh!!" Nathaniel smiled wryly as he blew at his nose and folded the tissue neatly on his lap.  "Snff-Snfff. Gesundheit, Quint." 

Quintus groaned and slowly lowered his hand and wiped the drool on his pants. That stuck-up, whiny, no-good, asshole Nathaniel was doing this on purpose. To think he almost pitied the guy! He wanted to punish him!

 If they couldn't kill each other, they'd have to resort to annoying each other. For all eternity. And beyond. It was a fate worse than death. 

They were five weeks into the heat of the desert when Mad Marn realized they were headed in the wrong direction. 

Because of course they were. 

She crouched over a map, the tent oppressively hot despite the sun having finally set over the horizon. Despite her line of work as a dubious go-getter for rich losers, she always hated camping out. Roughing it. Terrible.

Taking a sip of coffee, she re-read her geographical notes. Despite her best efforts to bargain for the best map, they still managed to overshoot the supposed location of the supposed damned tomb. 

There were plenty of times when she'd accidentally led her men to the wrong location. Bum maps, bad hearsay. Nothing was guaranteed in her line of work. It's why rich idiots hired her crew in the first place. No matter how badly some aristocrat wanted some supposedly magical ruby, they were loath to actually break out a tent and get it themselves. Of course, she'd be out of work if they did. 

She sat, nursing the butt-end of a cigarette, trying to make her limited supply of smokes last for who knows how long. She turned the map upside down, cursing, and turned it right side up. Nothing made sense. 

"Ma'am? The crew is waiting…" 

Dynamite expert Pierce stood at attention, her shaved head having grown out to a teddy-bear length after weeks in the desert. She looked washed out and sweaty. Granted, everyone was sweaty. 

"I got nothing to tell 'em." Marnie killed the cigarette, crushing it against the table. 

Pierce coughed. It was a wrenching, painful one. 

"—You gotta tell 'em something, Ma'am. Word is going around that we're lost." Pierce's voice was strangled and stuffy. Whatever wretched illness that'd been hopping from one mercenary to the next had finally found her. 

Mad Marn sighed. Pierce was right. When the crew started having enough time on their hands to wonder about being lost, that's when they got out of line. That's when she had to put the fear of the gods into them. It was a pain in the ass, really. But it had to be done. 

The desert winds raged against the rickety walls of the hangar. Her men stood at attention as she slowly walked down their ranks. They were dirty and banged up from survival. Some are sick and feverish. A flurry of irritating coughs and sniffles echoes through the hangar, a symphony of illness. 

She lit a fresh cigarette. 

"You all look like shit," Marnie announced, her hands clasped behind her back. "Sad, pathetic. If I had half a mind, I'd leave the lot of you for the buzzards." 

She gave one particularly woozy-looking mercenary a sharp look.

"But, I am, as always, merciful. And I do believe I've found the right path to—" 

"HIh-FSHHHIEW!!" 

A sneeze exploded from somewhere in the crowd. It was wolfish and itchy. It was also instantly recognizable. The perpetrator's voice lived in it. 

"Terry!" She yelled.

The crowd parted instantly, revealing the sniffling culprit. Upon discovery, he straightened his posture and put his arms behind his back, standing at stiff attention. 

"Tinfoil Terry…you look as fresh as a carcass." 

The mercenary was the shortest in her crew, a chewed-up coyote of a man. One ear with a chunk bitten off from a match in some godforsaken fighting ring, a wild desperation in his eyes. He held his dubious nickname for being the one member in her crew who always ended up in the worst predicaments. Terry was as crumpled as a piece of tinfoil. 

Terry was the weakest of her crew, and yet the one man she could never quite get rid of. 

"You feeling alright?" She asked, eyeing him. 

He nodded curtly. 

"Yes, Ma'am." 

"You know. There's been a bit of a plague going around the crew recently. Even Pierce caught it. Plagues are spread by rats, you know." 

Terry's brows furrowed, confused.

"Tell me, Terry. Are you the plague rat who gave everyone the sniffles?" 

"-No? No Ma'am!" Terry's steely demeanor broke into panic. "I'm not even sick, I swear!" 

Mad Marn knew toying with Terry was cruel. But she knew the others needed to know their place. Terry was just a casualty. As usual. 

She grabbed his chin in a rough pinch, tipping his head upwards, examining him. He was ugly on the best of days, but the fever made him worse. 

"Mm. Not sick, huh? You sound really congested to me. Are you my rat?" 

His eyes watered. Marnie could tell he was ready to explode again at any moment. His nose was a dead giveaway. Nostrils dilated open, tickled by the cold he no doubt carried and passed on. 

"N-no Ma'am—snff—I'mb-snff" His chest swelled. His words warbled at the edge of a sneeze. "—feeligfin'ed-" 

"Sorry, didn't catch that. Speak up." Keeping his chin tight in her grasp, she dragged a thumb across his raw septum, wiping at a dribble of mess leaking from his nose. He stretched his upper lip at the light touch. He seemed desperate for the contact, anything to scratch at his nose. She was merciful to oblige him. 

"I'm-I'm.. feelig—hhhheeh—" 

A sharp intake of breath hissed between his clenched teeth, and he quickly curled his lips together. Trying to bottle up the inevitable. Eyes squeezed shut, he held his breath for a moment, then breathed out a shaky "—euuhh.." 

He looked relieved not to give in to the reflex. Despite the wants and needs of his body, he obeyed orders. Sniffling fitfully, he seemed almost proud of the accomplishment.

"You're Feelig Fide?" She mocked his stuffy voice. "You don't look Fide to me."

Taking a drag from her cig, she exhaled directly at Terry's face. The acrid smoke stung him, he scrunched up his face, nose flaring, angry and red as his sinuses tickled at the irritating smoke. His chest hitched up, up, up…

Marn quickly pinched the round bulb of his nose between her fingertips, just as the sneeze crested. 

"HIHP-BBHHPTTT!!!" 

It was a terribly loud, spraying excuse of a stifle. Spittle trailed down his lips as she released his burning nose from her fingers, wiping the mess against the front of his jacket.

"Look at you. Can barely hold a damn sneeze in. How you're still alive I'll never know." 

"S-sorry..ma'amb.." Terry flushed, humiliated, and bleary-eyed. 

She put her hands on either one of his shoulders and spun him around, facing the rest of the crew. 

"Plague rat here got you all sick. Plague rat stays quarantined in the shed out back for the rest of our cursed tenure here. Got that?" 

Terry hung his head as the rest of the crew nodded, unable to look Terry in the eye. Pierce escorted Terry away, coughing and sniffling as she went. Mad Marn was satisfied, her ever-disloyal crew of mercenaries properly threatened.

Still lost in the damn desert though. With nothing but the moon to guide them. 

———

The moon was still out when Merle awoke. It was a gloriously clear summer night. She had to commend herself (as she usually did) for picking the best time to go for a bit of camping with her lovely friends. As nice a stay as a hotel was, the majesty of a good night roughing it was needed. She sleepily undid her curlers, 

and her hair net, 

and her face mask, 

and her nose strip and…

Okay, okay. Just because she was roughing it didn't mean she'd abandon her nightly routine. She scaled mountains in the past while still maintaining a healthy skincare routine. It's more than possible to do both. She was fabulous and enjoyed the great outdoors.

There was a brief stirring from Clive, who was dead-asleep. He was still naked, legs tangled in the sheets. She smiled warmly at him, tucking one of his wavy curls behind an ear. The darling had quite a night. She didn't expect him to be up any time soon. 

"Hehff'SHHHHIEW!!" 

Merle jumped, startled by Terry sneezing outside. Pulling a thin silk robe over her shoulders, she left the tent. 

Her dear Terry was sitting at the edge of the river, washing his face in the cool water. His auburn hair was wet and slightly wild-looking. 

"Bless you, darling." Merle sat next to him, dipping her feet in the river. Bliss. "Still a bit tickly from last night?" 

Terry looked sheepish at the observation. He shrugged and gave his nose a quick swipe. Despite having known Terry for nearly half a year now, he was still so shy around her. Like a stray dog just learning to trust again. 

Clive had told Merle that Terry had a rough past, though the details to her were still unknown. She never pressed Terry about it, but whatever life he lived before was slowly being corroded. He grew softer each day, less hunched and less jumpy. 

They sat together in silence for a bit. Still dreamy from the night of passion. Merle knew when Terry was in a wistful mood, and she respected his quiet. Leaning her head against his, they listened to the frogs singing. 

Eventually, Terry spoke. 

"Hey, Merle.." 

"Yes, dear?" 

"…Nothing.." His voice sounded heady and nasal. Soft. "—I just feel lucky right now. That's all." 

There was a weight to what he said. A melancholia. Merle furrowed her brow and gently cupped his face in her hand. He leaned into the warm contact before taking her hand in his. He held her between his rough palms, reverently. 

"A guy like me doesn't get lucky often. Ever." 

"A guy like you? Terrance. You are an absolute catch! You're kind to animals, great around a garden, an absolute wildcat in bed-" 

"Merle!" Terry flushed bright red, unused to the compliments. 

"Don't you dare stop me now Mr. Penton! You're thoughtful, sweet, beautiful—" 

"Okay, now you're fucking with me." He frowned, "I don't know a lot, but I do know I'm not handsome.." 

"I didn't say you were handsome. I said you are beautiful." Merle pressed a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Anyone can be handsome. Not everyone is beautiful." 

Terry sniffled. He looked away from Merle, eyes getting misty. 

"And. Confidentially." Merle leaned in, close. "I've had to kiss a lot of actors in my day. Occupational hazard. And trust me, you outshine them all." 

"Fuck Off." 

"I won't fuck off! I'm deadly serious. I'm always serious, as you know." 

She could see his light eyes drift to her lips, he swallowed thickly. 

She didn't wait for him to ask. Merle leaned in for a kiss, one that started slow and gentle, then heated as he pulled her close. 

Merle, despite making a career out of pretending (what is acting but well-done lies?), was always truthful when it came to matters of the heart. She was not flattering Terry. He really did kiss well. There was a naive desperation to them, as if a part of him knew he might never get the chance to kiss again. He flushed easily, face hot against hers as she straddled him. 

Traditional sex was never something she could fully enjoy. All the main bits were boring at best. But everything surrounding it was great fun.

"W-wait a minute.." Terry gasped. Merle leaned back, pushing the hair out of her eyes. 

"What is it, dear? Getting a bit excited? We can rouse Clive to jump in if you need him. Or I could just—" 

"No, I just—hhh-feelig a sneeze coming on—" His voice caught on a hitch. 

Oh. Ah. 

Merle smiled, overwhelmingly fond. Terry's nose always gave him away. Nostrils ticking open, he made to pinch them shut. But Merle grabbed his hands and pinned them to the ground. 

"Now now. You know that's terrible for your ears." She cooed. 

Terry sniveled and hitched between her legs, eyes bleary in concentration. 

"Come on then, give us a nice big one." 

"Hhh—heeeh.." 

"There we are. Ahh! Ahh!!" She coached, gently. Merle loved how flustered he got from teasing. His breath stuttered, and he nearly lost it before another sharp gasp pushed him over the precipice. 

"HHss'SHHIEW!!" 

It rushed out of him, dizzying with relief. She felt his body seize with it. Curiously, her stomach flutter at the sound, and she wondered if Clive's own proclivities were starting to rub off on her. He did have exquisite tastes in things. 

"Good boy. Marvelous." She purred. 

Terry looked up at her, eyes wide and face flushed from the praise. He practically glowed with it, and she felt his body respond to it. Perhaps he, too, discovered something new about himself tonight. 

And that's what camping is about, after all. 

White Water Point was no stranger to bad weather. The lighthouse had stood for over a century, and bore the scars of those many years of wild winds, crashing waves, and the simple passing of time.

For it to be raining inside the lighthouse, however, was a touch more than it had been designed to endure. And yet, endure it did, and rather frequently at present, as Crawford Seaver, the weather wizard who resided there, battled his way through a truly relentless cold.

Tarps had been strung up to protect the table, and the seat by the fireplace, and in a separate room, another covered Crawford’s bed. The bookshelf overflowing with books, and the masses of charts covering the walls, had all been treated with the waterproofing spells Crawford had learned out of necessity when his powers had first begun to run away with him all those years ago. Lightning rods had been installed, protecting the occupants from any sudden bursts of lightning Crawford happened to sneeze up. And yet, no amount of prevention and preparation could keep the chill, misery, and rain from the air as Crawford battled his way through his ailment.

Crawford himself stood before his wall of charts, frowning at one in particular, watching enchanted lines of ink move about, indicating wind and air pressure, forever shifting. He shivered constantly, despite the thick woolen blanket wrapped about his gaunt frame, the scarf wrapped around his neck, and the cup of tea clutched in both hands, sweetened with honey and spiked with rum. His prominent nose, red and raw from constant blowing and wiping, twitched with constant, useless sniffles, each one holding back the tide for mere moments. He desperately needed to blow his nose, but that would mean letting go of his mug and loosening his blanket, and Crawford had no desire to relinquish either.

Sniffling, however, could only serve him for so long, and before long, his bleary eyes began to grow hazy and filled with dread, and his chapped lips parted as his breath began to catch.

“Oh… Ehhh… Huhh… Oh dear…”

Neptune, Crawford’s scruffy little terrier, let out a whine, and retreated under the table, where his bed had been moved to protect it from the rain.

“Sorry, Neptune, I… HhhYUSSHOO!”

Occupied with both mug and blanket, Crawford merely turned away from his charts, narrowly avoiding catching them with the spray of mist that burst from his nose and mouth. Not that it would have mattered much; they’d been rained on enough already.

For just a moment, Crawford hoped he might have gotten away with a single sneeze. So long as he could keep it to just one, all would be well. His magic would remain at bay. The moment seemed to drag as he waited, eyes closed, lips parted, nose quivering, until…

“HhhuHHESSSHOO!”

And that was that. When there was a second sneeze, a third followed, as inevitable as the tide. And with it…

“HhuhhHAASSSCHOO!”

A crack of thunder sent Neptune whimpering and huddling into his blankets, as lightning struck the rods outside the lighthouse. Inside, a gust of wind swirled about the room, tearing a chart from the wall. The rain, which had slowed to a miserable drizzle, began to patter down anew, dripping from the light fixtures, the furniture, and Crawford’s long-suffering nose.

Crawford heaved a sigh that turned into a cough, and looked apologetically to Neptune.

“Sorry, old man. I am trying.”

Snuffling, groaning, rain splattering into his spiked tea, Crawford made his way across the room to collect the chart. It had landed dangerously close to the fireplace, and he hastily snatched it away from the reach of any errant embers. Sighing, Crawford dropped his rain-soaked blanket and settled into his chair by the fire, the tarp protecting both him and the flames from the sneeze-induced rain for now.

He stretched his feet out towards the fire, though only one could actually benefit from the warmth. The other, a wooden prosthetic, served as a grim reminder of the consequences of careless magic. Even over twenty years after the loss of the leg, Crawford still felt a dull ache where the limb ought to have been. It was always the way, when he was ill.

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, shoulders heaving with the effort of an enormous snuffle, Crawford looked wearily over the chart. One finger came to trace a pattern of lines. A hurricane in its infancy, and in a region where no hurricane should ever be. His sigh turned into a cough.

“Again… Less than a year since the last… What’s going on there..?”

Neptune, seeming to trust that no further sneezes were imminent, ventured out of his bed and came to sit at Crawford’s feet, looking up at him and heaving a sad, doggy sigh. Crawford echoed it with a sigh of his own, and reached down to scratch the little terrier behind his ragged ears.

“No two ways about it, my friend. This one’s got me at a loss.”

For some time, Crawford sat and puzzled over the chart, turning the matter over with a mind muddled from both congestion and weariness. He sipped his spiked tea, the honey doing a little to soothe his raw throat, the rum not chasing the chill from his bones half as well as he had hoped. He took a sodden bandana from his sleeve, and gave his dripping nose a foghorn of a blow, wincing at the pain it caused deep in his sinuses. The more he puzzled over the chart, the more the lines ceased to make sense, until he felt ready to throw the damned thing into the fire and be done with it.

Not that he would ever do such a thing. Too much hard work had gone into those enchantments. Too much lost sleep…

“… Sleep… Gods, I need to sleep…”

Crawford’s eyes, having been growing ever heavier, suddenly opened, and he sat up a little straighter. Neptune tilted his head, and offered a questioning “wff?”, watching as Crawford stepped out from under the tarp’s protection, shivering violently as he went to rifle through a cupboard.

“Two heads are better than one, as they say, and I know of a head a lot older than mine. Let’s hope Thalassa is still asleep, hm?”

Neptune gave an uncertain whine as he watched Crawford fish out a glass medicine bottle, together with a dry bandana. Trembling and snuffling, Crawford brought both back to the fireside, carefully dabbing at his nose with the latter, and pulling the stopper from the former. Crawford glanced guiltily at Neptune as he poured a little of the bottle’s contents into the remains of his tea.

“I know. Awful stuff. But it’s the only way I’m getting any sort of decent rest right now.”

Neptune gave a noise of discontentment, his expression awfully judgmental for a terrier.

Setting aside the bottle, Crawford took the bandana and carefully blew his nose again. Doing so cleared out another flood of congestion, but ignited a spark of irritation as the blowing vibrated his raw nasal passages. Crawford frowned, wrinkling his nose extensively as he tried to sniffle and snort it into submission. It didn’t seem ready to become a sneeze, but nor did it seem to be going anywhere…

“Ugh.. Right, let’s get this over with…”

Taking the mug, Crawford took a deep breath and drained the contents, grimacing and shaking his head as he swallowed.

“Gods, that stuff is more vile every time! Still, let’s hope it works.”

Settling himself into his chair once more, Crawford wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth into his aching muscles and joints. Leaning his head back, he gazed into the fire, watching the glowing embers, trying to breathe deeply, listening to the sounds around him. The howling winds outside the lighthouse. The slowing pattering of rain within. The gentle crackling of the flames…

As the potent cough medicine began to take effect, Crawford yawned, and Neptune echoed with a yawn of his own, stretching out by the fire and resting his head on Crawford’s foot. As Crawford’s eyelids began to grow heavy, he raised his hand to a thin strip of leather around his neck, drawing a peculiar amulet from beneath his jumper. An odd sort of coral, worn smooth from years of handling, a dull red in colour. As his breathing grew slower and deeper, Crawford turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the lumps and ridges, calling to mind the one who had first pressed it into his hand. As sleep began to claim him, his last thoughts centered on a vision of silver eyes, and a mighty form stirring in ocean depths.

His nostrils gave a warning quiver, but before his nose could be satisfied with a sneeze, his head slumped to one side, a congested snore emanating from his lips instead.

When Crawford opened his eyes, it was to bright sunlight, and sand and stone beneath his mismatched feet. Looking about, he found himself on a sunlit shore, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs. A place he had never visited in the waking world, but in dreams, many times. He took a moment to close his eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves; a far cry from the wild seas he had heard as he slept. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost make himself feel the warmth of the sun, chasing away the fevered chills.

A lingering prickle nagged at his cold-ravaged sinuses, a reminder of the state his body was in. Pawing clumsily at his nose, Crawford made his way further up the beach, where great pillars had been carved into the cliff, standing on either side of the door of a temple long since abandoned. Crawford bowed his head respectfully as he stepped inside, onto cracked tiles half-buried in sand.

An altar stood in pride of place, and behind it, covering one wall, the faded remains of a great mural. It depicted a line of robed figures on a cliff, one in front raising a staff, as the others bowed their heads in worship. Depicted in the sea beneath the cliff was a figure not unlike a stylized dragon. A mighty leviathan, with a mane of flowing kelp, and great branches of red coral for horns, and great fin-like wings.

Crawford was not alone in the temple. A woman knelt before the altar, gazing up at the mural in quiet contemplation. Her robe looked to be made of tattered sail-cloth, and the silver hair that spilled over her shoulders was topped with a crown of red coral. Though plainly not young, her age was difficult to guess; though her eyes were creased at the corners, and laugh lines framed her mouth, there was something oddly ageless about her. Crawford knelt quietly beside her, and nodded up at the mural.

“Memories of happier days?”

The woman turned to him, smiling, warmth in her strange silver eyes.

“Memories of sunnier climes. I thought it might appeal to you. I could feel the chill and heaviness about you as you called to me. You are unwell.”

Crawford tried and failed to suppress a shiver at her words, and turned away briefly to scrub his nose on the back of his hand. The itch still lingered, and he longed to give a good hard sniffle to try and quell it. But not here. Not in Thalassa’s presence.

“It’s nothing worthy of your concern.”

“And yet, I am concerned. I know you do not rest properly when you call on me. And if you are unwell, rest is what you require.”

Crawford felt his cheeks warm a little, and he cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose again.

“I’m perfectly alright. It’s barely a sniffle.”

Thalassa chuckled, shaking her head.

“You admit to a cold like some might admit to a mistress. So be it. So, why is it you felt the need to call on me, when you should be sleeping off your sniffle? Loneliness, perhaps?”

Crawford quickly shook his head, and turned away to scrub at his nose again, growing a little more flushed.

“I would never bother you for something so trifling!”

There was a certain sadness in Thalassa’s eyes as she watched him try and fail to discreetly deal with his troublesome nose. She sighed softly.

“And yet, I wish you would. It pains me, to see a friend lonely.”

Crawford avoided her eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You needn’t trouble yourself over such things. Especially not over me. You… I’m a mayfly, in comparison. Why worry, over someone who, to you, will be practically gone tomorrow?”

“You are here today, are you not? Here, and ill, and troubled. If I can ease your troubles, I want to. Besides, do you see no beauty in mayflies?”

“I… erm… I suppose I…”

Crawford shifted awkwardly, avoiding Thalassa’s eyes. Somehow, she always did have a way to wrong-foot him. He cleared his throat, and sniffled. The irritation in his sinuses was spreading, moving forward, just begging him to…

He forced himself to speak, refusing to let his voice waver.

“There’s a hurricane forming off the coast of Altir. Hurricanes have no business forming there, and yet this is the second in the space of a year. I can find nothing in my research to explain it, and no history of anything similar occurring in the region. I thought… As you…”

He trailed off, rubbing his nose again, cheeks burning as he felt Thalassa’s silver eyes upon him.

“As I predate your written histories, you thought my memory might offer something your research cannot?”

“I… I did wonder…”

Crawford grimaced, feeling almost lightheaded with sheer irritation. He held his breath, and bit down hard on his tongue. His nostrils flared, and he scrubbed beneath them urgently with his fingers. Completely against his will, he gave a tremendous snort, loud and congested and completely revolting. Cheeks now positively flaming, he buried his face in his hands, bowing his head, mortified.

“I… Please, forgive, me, I… This wretched cold… I shouldn’t have called…”

 Though he refused to look at Thalassa, he heard her laughter, soft and warm with amusement, and felt her cool hand on his wrist, forcing him to lower his hands. Chancing a glance at his companion, he found her looking at him with fondness and concern. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, and Crawford only barely stopped himself from leaning into the touch, scrabbling back to some semblance of decorum at the last moment.

“How unwell you must feel, to be in such a state even here! You have nothing to apologize for, my friend, and there is nothing to forgive. I only wish I could do more to set your mind at ease. Alas, I’ve never known the waters in question to be home to such weather.”

Crawford groaned, bowing his head once more.

“I thought as much. I apologize for disturbing you. I should…”

“You should be gentler with yourself. And allow me to help. When I awaken, I shall go there myself. Perhaps I may see more from the depths than is visible from above.”

“I… I never meant for you to awaken, I… I can’t ask you to…”

“And you haven’t asked. I have offered, and will do as I say. In the meantime, I believe you have weather stations in the area? People shall receive warning of the conditions?”

“I… Well, yes, but I…”

“Then for now, you have done all that can be reasonably expected of you.”

“Yes, but I…”

Thalassa shook her head, and reached out, resting a cool fingertip on his lips, silencing him.

‘Go back now, my friend. And sleep properly, without seeking out solutions even in your dreams. Call on me again when you feel well, and I shall tell you what I have seen.”

Crawford sighed, and closed his eyes. His nose threatened to drip, and he snuffled pathetically.

“… May I not stay a little longer?”

Thalassa’s smile widened.

“I would be glad of the company. But I suspect you may not have a choice. Here. Let me help you along, so you can get to your bed sooner.”

With that, the cool fingertip left his lips, and instead flicked lightly against his nose, teasing the raw skin of his septum. The tickle flared to life in response, and Crawford’s breath caught, his eyes opening wide in alarm as he pulled back, covering his nose and mouth with both hands.

“HaaAAhh! Ahhh…”

“Bless you, my friend, and I hope to see you again soon.”

Crawford caught one last glimpse of Thalassa’s smiling face, before his teary eyes closed, his chest expanding with a great, urgent “HhaaAAHhh…”

“HhAASSHOO!”

Neptune, having perched himself on Crawford’s lap, leapt back with a yap of surprise as Crawford was jolted from his slumber, lurching forward with a tremendous, spraying sneeze. Crawford, disoriented and looking borderline drunk from both slumber and sneeze, had no chance of stopping the next, only managing to clumsily bring a hand up in time to mist it with spray.

“Uhh… HhhUHHhhRUSHHOOO!”

Neptune heaved a sigh, and crawled beneath Crawford’s chair as he helplessly gasped in a breath to fuel the inevitable third.

“HhhYYYFFFfffsssSSHHOO! Ughh…”

With a tremendous clanging and clattering, hailstones began to rain down, pinging off various metal instruments and the glass of the windows, and covering the floor in tiny while balls of ice, ready to melt into the puddles of rain already gathered. Crawford groaned miserably, taking his bandana and blowing his nose until he was out of breath. As Neptune emerged from beneath the chair to give him an admonishing look, Crawford reached down to scratch his ears.

“Alright, old man. Let’s go to bed. We can see cleaning all this up in the morning.”

Groaning and snuffling, limping slightly, Crawford hauled himself to his feet and made his slow, shuffling way to his bedroom, Neptune at his heels. As he changed for bed, his thoughts lingered on the beach and temple from his dreams, and the ancient being within. Next time he sought her out in his dreams, he hoped, she might meet him on that same beach once more.

"hHih-ngxxt! Uh-hmgxxt!"

celeste ducked into her palm, panting briefly, feeling the pressure in her head build as she stifled what feels like the 100th sneeze tonight into her hand.

"Ugh...hh-" breathing through her mouth, the edges of her nostrils felt cold and wet and prickly, pink little rings flaring as she sniffs and snuffles against unshifting congestion; stuffy but not stopped up (yet). the dull pounding from somewhere inside her skull mingles with the uncomfortable feeling aching in her tired, chapped, reddening nose.

"Hgh-nnxGxx!"

she attempts to groan, before gasping again-

"-nngxx!"

-blinking tears away, squishing her freckled nose into her wrist in an effort to squash the cold leaving her perpetually sneezy and exhausted. she couldn't really deny it anymore, but she could do one thing.

juno wordlessly rolled over in bed, even breathing indicating to celeste that--thankfully, despite her nose's best efforts--juno was still asleep.

it wouldn't leave her alone. blowing her nose hadn't helped much earlier, and she didn't really want to do that now. she needed to sleep, but for the past half hour, celeste just couldn't stop sneezing.

it might be somewhat enjoyable, that is, if juno hadn't just gotten home after working for 16 hours straight, running on 3 hours of sleep and a whole pot of black coffee. she was a heavy sleeper, but...

"Hh-ihH-nNxggt-uh-hieH-nnXGgtuh! Nmf...ugh..." and sneezing in doubles just made the whole thing worse. ordinarily, she enjoyed how much she would sneeze whenever she found something that set her off. a headcold was just an excuse to lay around all day, sneezing her head off.

it supercharged any stimulation of her nose at all into-

"Nnggshxx-! Hngg-xxtt-ew!"

-2 sneezes, sometimes one after another, sometimes-

"Ugh...nnGxxt-! Ugh!" her complaint is louder, but still appropriately whispered out of respect to her girlfriend's relaxed face looming beneath her.

sometimes one, and then-

"Nngsshhh-! N-nuh-hhH-! No...! I-I gotta-" she coughs, recoiling and flailing her hand around her bedside table, searching for a tissue--sending things clattering to the floor, to the bed, grateful her water glass was empty-

"Hh-hihh-! Hghh! HiEHh! N-no! No, I-! I need-"

despite her best efforts, her eyes shut tightly, her mouth hangs open, sitting on the pitiful edge of an overdramatic sneezing fit.

a sudden sharp edge of the tickle pricks at her nostril, and-

"HIUEHH-"

at the last moment before release, celeste's thumb and forefinger found their way around her nose, and-

"NNngxxxxt! HUuhh-nnXxgtt! Nnxxghh-uh, eh, hHnNggxxt!"

-new pressure explodes over and over; her throat is ablaze, her entire head feels like a cement block recently caved in with a sledgehammer, and there's now a mess of random items on the floor.

she needs to let these go. she needs to get something out. she needs to-

"Hnn-KKIIishHHhnnggsh-!"

-she doesn't want to get up. she really doesn't. all this is doing is exhausting her, and it's so warm, and juno is right-

"NnNggxxt! Mmm..." she's struggling not to cry from how much that hurt, a whiny sound that-

"What's wrong?"

celeste nearly punches her she's so shocked, but sure enough, juno's sitting up and reaching for the light.

"Uh-I-I'm j-hehh-" her jaw goes slack and her eyelids droop dangerously close to closing, her nose not quite finished with the fit she was just having.

well, she's already failed her goal. the tickle in her nose was too overwhelming to ignore, and this cold was too miserable to hide at this point. she might as well just...

just-!

"HhnnNKkKsssHHeww...! Uh-hiehh-kKKSSSHHH-uffh...s-sorry..." she cringes at the sound of her voice, which is presently very rough, and sounds...

"S-sorry, I'm a little stduffy...uh, I..." she clears her throat, glad she doesn't have to stifle anymore, but still in a fair bit of pain. she doesn't have the energy to really explain herself.

juno is quiet for a while, then simply reaches her hand up to her-

"H-hey!" -forehead, although celeste doesn't feel much warmer than normal, if she's being honest.

"...No fever from what I can tell. That's good."

she groans, crumpling into her hands as juno scoots to the edge of the bed, pulling the covers aside and standing, ignoring the dull ache in her legs as she does so.

"You have tissues?"

"Y-yes. Really, I dond't ndeed-"

"Blow your nose."

juno still rises, giving what she intends as more of a friendly suggestion than a command, but it still sounds the same.

celeste sighs, acquiescing, pulling the tissue box up from the floor, retrieving a few sheets, and quietly attempting to clear the blockage in her sinuses.

juno returns with a thermometer in hand, as well as a fresh glass of water.

"It's late, but if you need anything-"

"You."

juno stops, eyes dulled with exhaustion raising to meet hers, despite the dark lenses between them. celeste wipes her nose and sighs.

"I just ndeed you. In bed, preferably, and cuddling with me."

...she smirks, and juno huffs out a chuckle under her breath.

"Okay. I can do that. But let's actually take your temperature first, no?"

celeste shrugs, smile unmoved, until-

"HhgkKsHheww! Un-Nkkshhhoo!"

she pitches forward twice, head jerking into the pile of soft tissues in her hand.

"If I can stop sneezing..." she groans again, frustrated.

“Looks like bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Ruby, polishing glasses behind the bar, rolled her eyes as a fisherman, dripping wet from the rain outside, approached her Aunt Hortense with this grim warning. Two weeks working at the Dropped Anchor, banished to the tiny fishing town of White Water for “unbecoming behaviour” with the attractive son of a prominent cleric in the city, had done little to curb her impatience, or tendency towards sarcasm.

“It’s bad weather everywhere. Look outside!”

The fisherman looked to Ruby with disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Aye… But it’s bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Aunt Hortense gave a disapproving tut, looking up from polishing the bar and meeting the fisherman’s eyes.

“Ignore Ruth. She…”

“Ruby!”

“Ignore Ruth. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and won’t be staying. Does it look bad? Poor Mister Seaver, out there all alone…”

Ruby snorted.

“Does he expect a social life, living in a lighthouse?”

Her elders ignored her completely, with the fisherman going on in grim tones.

“We’ll see how bad soon enough. His supply run day, isn’t it? And if he’s got what half the town’s had…”

Aunt Hortense’s brow creased with worry.

“If he’s got what half the town’s had, he’ll be sneezing up a storm. I’ll see that there’s something on the stove in case he wants to stop by for a meal, and we’ll just have to hope he has matters under control.”

As Aunt Hortense retreated to the kitchen, Ruby turned to the fisherman with interest, no longer even pretending to polish the glass in her hands, instead leaning in for a chat.

“So, what’s the big deal about this Seaver? Someone important? How come I never see him around town, if that’s the case?”

The fisherman shook his head disapprovingly.

“He’s a wizard, is our Mister Seaver. A weather wizard, and a good one, too! So mind you show him proper respect, and leave him be, he likes his space.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, turning back to her glasses and making a half-hearted effort at polishing one.

“Who ever heard of wizards these days? I thought they all live off in towers somewhere, all high and mighty and above it all. And if he’s so good with weather, can’t he warm things up a little? It’s been miserable for days!”

The fisherman opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise her, only to be cut off by a gust of bitter wind as the door opened, and a stranger entered. A tall figure, clad in an oilskin coat dripping with rainwater, his face largely obscured by a blue woolen scarf, and his hair wild and damp from the weather. Ruby caught a glimpse of hazel eyes over his scarf, looking watery from the chill wind.

A terrier trotted in ahead of the stranger. A scrappy-looking little creature, with one ragged ear, and a tail held proudly in the air like a banner. He looked up at the stranger, all attentiveness, and Ruby heard a soft, hoarse voice from behind the scarf.

“Go and sit, Neptune.”

The terrier, Neptune, plainly familiar with the place, trotted over to an isolated table in the corner, while his master approached the bar, hanging back a little as if unsure if the fisherman sitting there was being attended to first. The fisherman nodded respectfully and gestured for him to approach, and shot Ruby a warning glance, as if silently urging her to show respect as well. Evidently this was Mister Seaver, the local wizard.

Never one to blindly bow to those deemed respectable, Ruby had a quip ready along with an empty glass, when the stranger stepped forward, carefully unwinding his scarf. Ruby’s cheeky remark died in her throat.

The term ‘wizard’ had conjured up a mental image of an old man with long white hair and an equally long white beard, with flowing robes and perhaps a pointed hat. A somewhat ridiculous creature from a storybook. Instead, the man revealed as the scarf peeled away was strong-jawed with a hint of stubble, his age hard to determine. Handsome, in a weathered and weary sort of way. Jaw-length brown hair peppered with grey, gentle, intelligent eyes, and a prominent nose, the bridge of which was a touch irregular, as if broken sometime in the past.

Said nose was absolutely ravaged with a seemingly brutal cold. Rubbed red and raw, decidedly damp about the nostrils, it sounded dreadfully congested as the wizard wrinkled it and gave a marshy snuffle.

Ruby felt her cheeks flush. Something about a handsome man with a cold always made something inside of her squirm. It was no coincidence that the cleric’s son who had been her undoing had constantly been catching the sniffles. She broke into a catlike grin, leaning forward on the bar a little, displaying herself to best advantage.

“You must be Mister Seaver. I’ve heard all about you.”

The wizard only briefly met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze. Not to where Ruby wanted it, annoyingly, but rather looking at a corner of the bar, as if embarrassed to look her in the eye. He sniffled again, his nostrils arching with the effort of it, and he rubbed a knuckle beneath his leaking nose.

“I am. Crawford Seaver. At your service. You… erm… You’re new…”

He turned away slightly to cough into his fist, and Ruby took the opportunity to tug the neckline of her blouse a little further down. The fisherman, watching her disapprovingly, tutted and shook his head.

“I am indeed. Ruby. A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? You look as if you need warming up…”

Her attempt at a sultry manner was ruined by Aunt Hortense returning and taking her shoulder, pulling her back and directing her towards the kitchen, scowling all the while.

“If you’re not going to make yourself useful out here, you can go back there and start washing dishes. Now, Mister Seaver. You look wretched, I imagine you’ll want something warm in your belly. We’ve a mutton stew, if that suits?”

The wizard, Crawford, nodded, fishing a frayed old bandana from his pocket and roughly pinching at his nose. For a moment, his eyes took on a distinctly absent look, and his breath caught. Ruby, lingering in the kitchen door, watched unashamedly, and tried not to feel too disappointed when the vaguely sneezy expression faded, and Crawford breathed a sigh of relief.

As did the fisherman, who, Ruby noted, had been watching Crawford nervously.

Odd.

Crawford spoke up again, his quiet voice muddled with congestion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Platt. And if I might have some tea? My throat…”

“Sounds like you’ve gargled gravel, and no doubt you could use some steam to clear you up. Go and sit down, the girl and I will take care of it. Ruth, kettle. Now!”

Ruby shot a sulky look at her aunt, and, before retreating into the kitchen, looked back over her shoulder at the ailing wizard. As she watched, he took his bandana again and mopped at his streaming nose, before rubbing it none too gently. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Ruby noted both Aunt Hortense and the fisherman tensing up, the fisherman edging away a little. Both only relaxed when Crawford let out the breath as a soft moan, rubbing his nose once more.

Aunt Hortense spoke up.

“You have those sneezes under control?”

Crawford’s cheeks coloured a touch, and he nodded, avoiding her eyes. Stranger and stranger, Ruby mused, before retreating into the kitchen as Aunt Hortense turned and glared. Grumbling under her breath, she set about filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire, while Aunt Hortense came to fill a bowl with steaming mutton stew, and slicing bread to go with it.

“Why’s everyone so nervous of him sneezing? It’s just a cold, and we’ve had half the town hacking and spluttering all over the bar these last couple of weeks. No more risk of catching it from him than any of them.”

Aunt Hortense shot her an irritable scowl, placing the bowl and bread on a tray and passing it to her.

“Don’t you go meddling in our Mister Seaver’s business. It’s none of your concern. Now, take that out, and then leave him be. The poor man’s ill, he doesn’t need any of your nonsense!”

“Oh, I don’t know. He looks rather miserable. A little nonsense might cheer him up!”

“Ruth, I swear to whatever god happens to be listening, if you keep talking back…”

“Alright, alright, I’m going!”

Tray balanced on one hand, Ruby made her way back out to the bar, spotting Crawford now seated at the corner table, his dripping oilskin removed to reveal the same sort of cable-knit woolen jumper the local fishermen wore. He rested his head on one hand, and with the other, kept his bandana pressed to his nose, alternately pinching and rubbing. Evidently the swollen appendage was troubling him immensely.

The little dog, Neptune, sat obediently at his feet, and alerted him to Ruby’s arrival with a sudden “Wuff!”. Crawford sat up a little straighter, and lowered his bandana, avoiding her eyes once more. Up close, she could hear him giving soft little sniffles with every other breath. Offering her most charming smile, Ruby set down his food, and lingered, holding onto the tray.

“That ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to begin eating in her company. No doubt unused to the charms of city girls, Ruby mused, toying flirtatiously with her braid. She offered a teasing smile.

“Everyone says you’re a wizard. You don’t look like one.”

Crawford blinked up at her. There was a hint of feverish haze to his eyes that melted something inside of her, and when he replied, soft and hesitant, his voice was so heavy with congestion, he struggled to make himself understood.

“Erm… Then I must resort to the old cliché, Miss Ruby, regarding appearances being deceptive.”

“I suppose they must be. Your appearance says you should be in bed. Yet here you are, up and about!”

Crawford flushed a little deeper, and looked down at his bowl as if it might hold the answer to escaping this conversation. Unwilling to let him get away just yet, Ruby grinned, leaning her hip on the table.

“So, if you’re really a weather wizard, can you conjure us up a ray of sunshine? Gods know we could use it around here!”

Crawford continued to stare down into his food, stirring it idly and addressing the bowl.

“That would be inadvisable for a number of reasons. Natural conditions shouldn’t be… Hehhh… Shouldn’t be tampered with. Too much… Huhhh…. Uhh… Sndfff!... potential for… for unforeseen… consequences… I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I…”

Shaking his head as if he might somehow deny the inevitable, Crawford lurched forward into his much-abused bandana, though, having struggled to talk his way through the build-up to his sneeze, he buried his nose in the damp folds too late, failing to entirely cover an impressive plume of spray.

“HhhhHHRUFFFSSSHOO!”

It was as if someone had suddenly pulled out a weapon. The various tavern patrons, who had been shooting Crawford the occasional worried glance, suddenly pulled abruptly away. One or two leapt to their feet. One dived under his table.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by Crawford’s unsteady breathing and pitifully damp snuffling. At length, cheeks and ears flushed red, looking as if he wished to disappear, Crawford emerged from behind his bandana at last, and chanced a brief look around the tavern, raising a hand apologetically.

“… Sorry… Under control…”

The patrons returned to their drinks, though wary glances continued to be sent in Crawford’s direction.

Ruby, mouth dry, face warm, struggled to find her words. Gods, the man sneezed like a thunderstorm. Loud, and wet. She swallowed hard, and struggled not to giggle as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll bless you, even if no one else here has manners. It’s alright. No need to be shy. Sneeze as much as you like.”

Crawford shrank into himself a little more, and dabbed at his long-suffering nose.

“I’d very much prefer not to. Apologies. I… You ought to keep your distance.”

Almost as if he meant to chase her off, Crawford buried his nose in his bandana once more, and, thin chest expanding with a slightly wheezy inhale, let loose with a blow that rivaled a foghorn, giving his nostrils a vigorous rub afterwards. Three times, he repeated this process, and at last tucked his bandana away once more, drooping over the table, somehow still looking heavy with congestion.

Far from being deterred, Ruby clucked her tongue sympathetically, and tried not to squirm. If ever a man needed to be held…

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I never catch anything. Except when I decide to chase something.”

Once again, her flirtation fell on deaf ears. Crawford merely shrank in on himself further, and shivered. Ruby fought back a sigh.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to eat, and get that tea ready for you.”

As she passed the bar, the fisherman, now being poured a glass of ale by Aunt Hortense, let out a low chuckle.

“You’re barking up the wrong wizard there, my girl!”

Ruby’s cheeks flushed with annoyance as she stormed back into the kitchen, and poured hot water into the teapot to prepare it for the leaves.

“Honestly, does anyone in this washed-up wreck of a town have taste?”

Waiting for the pot to warm, Ruby went to listen by the door, and struggled not to squirm as she heard another sneeze from Crawford’s table. Once again, it sounded loud, soaking, laden with cold… And was once again it was accompanied by the scraping of chairs and sound of movement as patrons drew away, followed by a hoarse, miserable apology, and assurance that all was under control.

“Honestly, they can sail through a storm but can’t handle a man with the sniffles…”

As Ruby emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of tea, her attraction to the ailing wizard merged with sympathy. Looking to his table, she saw him shivering hopelessly, having pulled his oilskin back over his narrow shoulders, poking miserably at his food. And, as if to further compound his misery, all those who had been anywhere remotely near his table had relocated to the other side of the tavern.

“Honestly, it’s just a cold…”

Ruby glanced at Aunt Hortense, and found her at a table at the other side of the room, laying down the law regarding a patron’s unpaid tab. Taking her chance, Ruby ducked beneath the bar, seizing a bottle of whiskey and adding a generous shot to the mug of tea. That ought to chase away the chills!

Crawford, feeding Neptune a piece of mutton from his stew, looked up at Ruby with bleary eyes as she approached his table, setting down the mug with a smile.

“There. That’ll have you nice and warmed up in no time.”

Worn and weary and wretchedly full of cold as he looked, this time, Crawford managed a slight, shy smile in return.

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford wrapped his hands around the mug, sighing in relief at the warmth, and raised it to his lips, attempting to inhale some of the steam through his stuffy nose. Failing this, he took a deep sip instead.

His eyes, closed in relief at the warmth, suddenly opened in horror.

“Is… Huhh… Is there… Snff-SNF! Huhhh… HaAHhh… whiskey in this?”

“Just a nip! I thought it might warm you up?”

Crawford gave a flustered snort, setting the mug down and pushing it away, and grabbing urgently for his bandana. His reddened nostrils flared wide, and he shook his head, as if he might somehow refuse the oncoming sneeze, even as his eyelids fluttered closed and his chest and shoulders jerked with violent hitches.

“I… I can’t… Ihh… I’m sorry… I… Ehh… HehEHhh… HhhHRFFFSHHHOO!”

Crawford did his best to smother the explosion in his bandana, but to no avail. It was torn from him, throat-scraping and violent, and already he was gasping in air for another. Neptune gave a sharp yap, and retreated under the table between Crawford’s feet. The patrons at the other side of the table rose to their feet, and Ruby heard one of them cry out.

“Best clear out, here he goes!”

“HhiieeffsssSSHOO!”

The second sneeze left Crawford panting and teary-eyed, bracing himself against the table, coughing weakly, but already drawing in air for a third effort. Several patrons hurried out the door. Others ducked under their tables. Aunt Hortense, spying Ruby, came storming over and seized her by the arm.

“Get away, you silly girl, before…”

“HhhHHRAAASSSSHOO!”

The sound of the sneeze itself was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, and a blinding brightness as lightning flashed just outside the window. Wind shrieked through the tavern, blowing an abandoned newspaper about the room. Ruby gave a shriek of alarm, clutching Aunt Hortense as the sudden violent gust tore at her hair.

Crawford, rubbing furiously at his swollen, leaking nose, attempted to stammer out an apology.

“I’m so sorry… The whiskey… I… Iihhhh… AhhHAAaahh… AHHhhHASHOO!”

Aunt Hortense swore, shoving Ruby aside and taking Crawford by the arm, trying to haul him to his feet.

“What whiskey? Who… Alright, time for you to step outside!”

“I… Hhhehhh…”

“Oh, no you don’t! You keep that nose of yours under control!”

Crawford struggled to get to his feet, but, seemingly clumsy from illness, stumbled back into his seat with the sheer force of the next sneeze.

“HhhhHHYAAASSSSHH!”

Aunt Hortense took Crawford by the arm once more, snapping at Ruby as she did so.

“Help me get him out, girl! Before…”

“EhhhHESSSHOO!”

Another violent wind ripped through the tavern, and this time, fat, heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first, then thick and fast. Ruby gasped as they splashed against her skin, rapidly cooling her flushed cheeks. Seeing the urgency of the situation now, she took Crawford’s other arm, and between them, the two women helped him to the door, the poor wizard already shuddering with urgent hitches, fueling the next sneeze.

“I… I’m really so… Huh! UhhHuhh… sorry, I… HhHRUFFFFSSSHOO!”

The force of it nearly sent Crawford stumbling, and Ruby put an arm around him to steady him as they stepped out into the street, where wild winds tore at their hair and clothes, and sleet stung their skin. The chill, Ruby noted, made the feverish heat radiating from Crawford all the more pronounced. With her arm around him, she could feel his chest heaving, readying for the next effort. The little dog, Neptune, yapped urgently, getting underfoot in his attempts to herd them onwards.

“HhhHRASSCHOO!”

Ruby felt the spray of that one on her cheek, and the shiver that ran through her wasn’t entirely from the cold.

As Crawford, teary-eyed, nose streaming, looking exhausted, stumbled to a halt as the next sneeze began to overwhelm him, Aunt Hortense took Ruby by the arm and tugged her back, looking grim. Still reeling from all that had unfolded, Ruby watched with wide eyes as Crawford leaned back in readiness, and was flung forward by the force of one final, exhausting sneeze.

“Ehh… Hehh… Huhhh... HhhhHHUUURUSSSSHOOO!”

 One last burst of howling wind swirled outwards from the unfortunate wizard, followed by an eerie silence, broken only by his soft moaning and snuffling, as the pattering rain turned to a thick, heavy fall of snow.

Crawford, shivering as snowflakes settled over his hair and clothes, raised his now all but useless bandana to his nose and gave an exhausted, careful blow, and looked to Aunt Hortense with rheumy eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.

“I… I’m really so terribly sorry. I could have sworn I had it under control, only…”

Aunt Hortense folded her arms across her chest, shooting Ruby a look that promised dire consequences to come.

“Only this one slipped you a shot of whiskey, it seems. That’ll be coming out of your pay, girl! And as for the mess…”

Crawford held up a hand apologetically, wrinkling his nose and snuffling terribly.

“You mustn’t blame her, she didn’t know. And if you’ll let me catch my breath, I can clear all this up…”

“She knows better than to slip people drinks they haven’t asked for! And by the time you’ve collected yourself enough for that, you’ll have sneezed us up a proper storm!”

Unable to argue with that, Crawford visibly slumped, hanging his head, mopping at his nose once more. Aunt Hortense strode briskly back inside the tavern, and returned with Crawford’s scarf, which she briskly wrapped around his neck, before pulling his oilskin coat around him tighter.

“Go home, Mister Seaver. I’ll speak to the grocer and have your supplies sent to the lighthouse.”

“I… You mustn’t go to any trouble…”

“Did it sound like I was asking?”

“… Thank you. Good day, Mrs Platt.”

The wizard and his little dog turned to walk away, Neptune with his tail still carried high, Crawford with his metaphorical tail between his legs, sniffling and coughing all the while. Ruby watched them go, vaguely aware of Aunt Hortense scolding her.

“And you, my girl, can spend the rest of the day with a mop for company!”

November, 2013

Cleo M

18:23 On my way!

18:24 *omw Autocorrect lol

Hayden stared at the texts on his phone screen, sat in a little armchair in the corner of his hotel room. When Cliff gets here, this will be their fifth hook up.

He could admit, it was exciting to keep this secret. He did feel like a traitor for fucking the enemy between games, but God did it make things more interesting. He was definitely the first to do something like this.

Hayden got up to do some stretches, leaving his phone on the chair. There was no need to stretch himself out, Cliff was the one to do that for him; he insisted every single time. The man had hands the sizes of hockey sticks, it worked out.

After Hayden's last nervous stretch, there was a knock at the door. Very light for the beast of a man that was behind the door.

Hayden stepped to the door, letting the man in. Hayden was worried that he would feel like a slum for wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but Cliff was stood in sweatpants and a hoodie. Nice.

"I told you we'd beat you today," Hayden started the conversation, plopping down on his hotel bed so he could send a smug look to Cliff through his lashes.

Cliff let out a breathy scoff which turned into a chesty choke into his elbow, head bobbing with it.

Hayden stared, forehead creasing between his brows at the man across from him. "It wasn't that funny."

Cliff sniffled, catching his bearings as he cleared out his throat with a syrupy cough. "You're n'dot fu'ddy."

"Uh," Hayden said, the initial heat in his stomach slowly departing. "Why the fuck do you sound so weird?"

Cliff blinked, expression stone on his face as he eyed Hayden. "My tea'bm has a cold," Cliff paused to wipe his nose with a little crumpled tissue from his pockets that looked like it got passed around the whole team. "'S why you bea'dt us today. Go'dt off easy."

Hayden's eyes flickered somewhere else in the room, trying to make sense of the given information. "So you thought it would be a great idea.. to still come here? For sex? Are you kidding me?"

"Wha'dt?" Cliff mumbled, looking uncharacteristically sheepish as he attempted to catch Hayden's eye again. "I do'dn't see the pro'ble'bm."

"You don't see the problem?" Hayden mimicked with a hiss, truly dumbfounded. "I don't wanna catch that shit!"

Cliff frowned, looking as if he just found out what contagion is. "We jus'dt wod'n't kiss. N'do biggie."

Hayden grimaced, throwing his arms in the air in frustration. "Are you fucking stupid?"

Cliff blinked, shifting his weight on his feet as he stood there, taking the insults. "N'do.. chill.."

Hayden scoffed, stretching across his hotel bed to open the window. Was it a requirement for the Boston Raiders to be obnoxiously unaware of how germs spread?

"There's no way we're having sex. I can't risk that," Hayden laid it out, glancing back at the bigger man. Cliff was looking down at Hayden's tummy from where his shirt had rode up to open the window, glancing back up to his eyes as Hayden turned.

"Fi'dne," Cliff murmured, shrugging a little. "Blowjob?"

"Fuck no," Hayden spat, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrists. "I don't want you snotting on my dick."

Cliff continued to frown, not a smile on his face the whole time he'd been in the room. "You give m'be o'dne, the'dn.."

"In your dreams, man," Hayden mumbled, blinking up at Cliff. Something in Hayden stuttered as he took a moment to look at Cliff's face. His eyes looked softer than usual. His nose was a comical shade of red, harsh against the tone of his skin. He looked.. lethargic. Worn out.

Hayden inhaled a big breath, feeling slightly guilty for how he'd treated the man who just wanted some attention. The man who drove himself here after losing a home game — with a nasty cold — just for Hayden. The man who hadn't spat an insult back like he normally would. "Have you taken something for your cold?"

"Mmbh," Cliff reached into the right pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out a little vial of DayQuil cold medicine. "Bee'dn ta'kging this."

Hayden swiped the medicine from the mans hand, reading over the label. Hayden frowned suddenly, looking up at Cliff through furrowed brows. "This expired in 2010. It's 2013."

"Oh, uhbm," Cliff sniffled, pursing his lips. "Whoops. Aha.."

Hayden shook his head a little, getting on his feet to look through his own bag under his bed. Thank god for choosing an overthinking best friend like Shane. Hayden got out what he was looking for, holding his bottle of Buckley's out for Cliff to see.

"Alcohol?" Cliff cocked his head at the Canadian medicine like a dog, sniffling thickly. "Right o'dn."

"Medicine," Hayden corrected, snapping off the cap as he hadn't had to open it yet. He poured some into the cup cap for Cliff, holding it out to the man. "Drink, like a shot."

"Ger'mbs.." Cliff mumbled as if it was a question, eyeing the cap.

Hayden frowned. "It's fine, I'll wash the cap." Fuck, Hayden was an asshole. Now the man was thinking about germs after being yelled at.

Cliff held the cap off Hayden, taking the medicine like a shot as told. He grimaced lightly, keeping hold of the cap. "I'll clea'dn i'dt."

"It's alright," Hayden murmured, taking the cap from Cliff's fingers. "Just.. lie down or something."

Hayden stood, stepping into the connected bathroom to give the cap a rinse. Once the cap was screwed back on, Hayden returned to see Cliff sat on the floor with his back against the hotel bed.

"I thought I told you to lie down," he mumbled, leaving the bottle of Buckley's on the desk by the television.

"I'bm good," Cliff replied, tightening the strings of his hoodie. "I go'dt n'datural pillows."

"Well, suit yourself," Hayden shrugged, seating himself on the bed next to where Cliff's head was. "So, your coach let you play like this?"

Cliff nodded, knuckling at his nose subtly. "Yeah, he did. Cap didn'dt wa'dnt any of us ou'dt. Coach listens to hi'bm."

"Man, fuck him." Hayden sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Rozanov is an asshole for that. And many other things, but."

"He's no'dt so bahhhd.. hh.." Cliff hitched a little, hands grasping at the neck of his hoodie so he could bring it over his nose. "hH-H'RRSSHHuu! uRRRSShhjjww! RJJDDZZ'HHWWGgh.."

"Jesus, shut the fuck up," Hayden hissed down at Cliff, eyes wide. "My teammates are next-door."

Cliff produced an unproductive sniffle, glancing up at Hayden with his hoodie still held over his nose. "So?"

"So, they'll recognize your sneezes!" Hayden spat, as if it was terribly obvious.

"They won'dt," Cliff scoffed weakly, feeling like a burden with every minute he spent in this hotel room. "Tha'dt's stu'bid."

Hayden stood to stretch out his stress, rubbing at his forehead. "I can't believe you played like this. You shouldn't play tomorrow."

Cliff shrugged, not feeling up for another argument tonight. "It's u'bp to Roz."

"He's your pal, right? Just talk to him or something," Hayden said, sitting himself back down on the bed.

Cliff sniffled, shaking out his hair. "Mm, yeah. He'd probably le'dt us to'bhorrow. Agai'dst Thham'bpa.. easy. Hh- hih! G'nna s'deeze," Cliff warned, blindly feeling around the floor next to him for his tissue. Cliff grabbed the first thing he felt under Hayden's hotel bed, shoving it up to his nose.

"No, no — not my — !"

"Ktt'rRRSHHwwGgh! Kihh'tssSHHRRgghh! Hih — hhHK'hiht'rRSHHDDJjzzw!" Cliff sneezed into the material balled up into his hands, his sneezing not allowing him to breathe between them.

"Oh my fucking god." Hayden mumbled somewhere behind Cliff, eyeing the man on the floor with a grimace.

Cliff coughed a little, taking the material away from his nose. He straightened out the material, realizing that it was a Metros shirt. The logo was now.. thoroughly used. Cliff let out a stuffy laugh at the sight of it.

"Man, fuck you. You're fucking disgusting," Hayden groaned out, moving off his bed. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Cliff balled up the shirt so his mess was contained, keeping the shirt in his hand. "N'do, asshole! I trie'dt to b'he quie'dd." Cliff looked up at Hayden, his brown eyes shining under the cheap light.

Hayden let out a dramatic sigh, bending down to snatch the balled up shirt from Cliff's stupid hands. Hayden threw the shirt in a little plastic bag that he kept for laundry. "You should have told me to come to you or something. I would have declined, but it's better than going out sick."

Cliff stretched his legs out on the floor, rolling his ankles. "I ha'be two roo'b'ates."

"Can't afford a place of your own?" Hayden chirped, eyeing the man on his hotel floor.

Cliff shrugged, closing his eyes for a moment. "I pay their ren'dt. M’by brothers," Cliff babbled, not looking at Hayden. "-a'dt tuitio'dn."

Hayden blinked, not expecting that. They never talk about anything personal with each-other. "Why would you do that?"

Cliff blinked, lazily scrubbing at his nose. "'Cuz I wan'dda? They're m'by brothers. I a'bm rich."

Hayden shifted his weight on his feet, taking in the information. "That's.. nice of you. Surprisingly."

"I ca'd be nice, you know tha’d," Cliff mumbled with a sniffle, stretching out his weirdly long arms. "You live alo'de?"

Hayden gave a nod, adjusting his shirt on his shoulders. "Got a place in Montreal.. obviously. Close to the rink."

Cliff made a little noise in his throat, which Hayden took as a scoff. Before Hayden could retaliate, Cliff was hitching again. Oh. So he wasn't scoffing..

Hayden winced, anticipating the loud sounds before they started. Cliff continued hitching, hands shielding his face.

After about 30 seconds of pure hitching, Cliff groaned, hands dropping down to his lap. He looked weirdly humiliated. "Los'dt it."

"Bummer," Hayden snickered a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you usually sneeze this much with colds? Or, try to?"

Cliff nodded, puffing his cheeks. "Fu'gck, nor'bally a lot more. This o'de has me stuffed."

Hayden hummed in thought, feeling guilty for being such a bitch to Cliff. He couldn't help it. "Remember our first meeting? The hotel bar. Nashville."

Cliff grinned a little, recalling the event. "Mmh, yeah. Yu'bp. Wha'd abou'd it?"

Hayden rubbed at his chin, eyeing his suitcase. "I was wearing that one cologne.. you hated it. Remember? We had to go outside to talk because you got all.." Hayden trailed off, making a gesture to his nose.

Cliff bent his knees to plant his feet on the floor, patting his knees. "Tha'dt was stro'g s'duff!"

Hayden pursed his lips. "Well, I have that in my suitcase. I still wear it sometimes, not around you though."

Cliff eyed Hayden's suitcase, not able to catch up. "Okay.. n'diceee.."

Hayden scoffed a laugh, shaking his head a little. "Nice? Fuck, do I have to spell this out for you?"

Cliff blinked up at Hayden like a wet rat in a cold alleyway, looking back at Hayden's suitcase. "Oooh.. it, uh. You wan'dt to — hel'bp?"

Hayden nodded, eyes wide with sarcasm. "You're so smart. So smart."

"Fucki'd bully," Cliff mumbled, shaking his head. "Okay, wha'dever. How do we do t'hhis?"

"Alright," Hayden took a breath. "Just — get on the bed. Take off your disgusting outside clothes."

Cliff frowned, looking down at his outfit. He started toeing off his shoes, pulling his hoodie over his head. Cliff moved himself up to sit on the bed once he was left in his sweatpants and black vest.

Hayden was crouched over his suitcase, holding the cologne in his hand. Ralph Lauren Polo Black. "Wait, shit, I don't wanna mess you up even more or something. Will your throat swell?" Hayden eyed Cliff, standing straight with the cologne in hand.

Cliff shook his head, lapping his dry lips. "N'do, it won'dt swell. C'mo'd. Hel'bp me."

Hayden made a sound of contentment, stepping into the bathroom to get a spare roll of toilet roll for.. the inevitable mess.

"I know this isn't what you had in mind when coming here, but," Hayden said, coming out of the bathroom to step to the bed. "You'll probably feel.. way better. Hopefully."

Cliff sniffled, sitting crisscrossed at the head of the bed. Hayden moved to sit at the centre. Cliff eyed the man in-front of him, the closest they had been all day.

"Alright, you ready?" Hayden asked, putting the roll of toilet roll between them. The cologne was beside Hayden.

Cliff squinted. "Will you co'blai'd about the 'doise?"

Hayden shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't even think the guys are in their rooms. Probably out.. partying or something. It's Boston."

"So I won'dt ge'dt yelled at agai'd.. n'dice."

Hayden made a face at that, reaching for the cologne. "Alright. Let's do it."

Cliff nodded a little, watching as Hayden spritzed the cologne on his wrist, neck, and t-shirt. "If it gets too much, just hop in the shower. There's a bunch of towels, it's crazy."

Cliff hummed, nodding although not really taking in the information. Their knees were practically touching now.

Cliff leaned in, taking a sniffly whiff of the crook of Hayden's neck.

"Whooohkay. Bold," Hayden mumbled, feeling Cliff's nose against his neck.

Cliff leaned back into his prior position, producing a little sniffle. "Uuf, yeah. I'b feeli'g i'dt."

"Sensitive." Hayden noted, surprised by how fast it hit.

Cliff ducked his head, giving his nose a little rub to satisfy the itch. The squelch that sounded throughout the room made Hayden feel almost sympathetic. The man sounded absolutely miserable.

Cliff desperately reached out, snatching some toilet roll and cupping it over his nose and mouth. "hHH' H! Hh — hHHHRRRUSHHhiue.. hooh.."

Hayden felt the bed shake with just one sneeze, raising his brows at the sight play out in-front of him. "Jesus, bless you. That's one."

Cliff blew his nose out in the same tissue, tossing it into the trash can he saw next to the bed. "Hh- hhHHI'DDTSShhh! H'RUSSSHHHooie! Agh, fu'gck!"

Hayden stared for a moment before quickly ripping more toilet roll for Cliff, passing him some. Cliff hadn't managed to cover that time, instead he baptised his own lap. Probably Hayden's too.

"Are you good?" Hayden mumbled, trying not to think about how he was in the spray zone. Cliff hadn't lifted his head.

"M'by ears are so fu'gging blo'ged.." Cliff managed, pressing the tips of his pointers into his ears.

Hayden reached out to grab his wrists, bringing the mans arms down from his ears. Pressing on them couldn't be good for him. "Hold your nose and swallow, they'll unblock. Hopefully."

Cliff obeyed, bringing a hand up to pinch his nostrils together. The man swallowed, followed by a quiver throughout his body. "Whoa, tha'dt was weird."

Hayden breathed out an amused sigh. "Did that work?"

Cliff nodded, closing his eyes from how much his nose tickled. He grabbed the toilet paper between them, ripping multiple squares off. "hHH! HHRRSHHOO! HrS!- HRRsshu! TDJJSHWW! HrR — RSSHWw!"

Hayden pursed his lips, watching as the man began to blow his nose again. "Jesus, you're worse than a zamboni. So loud."

Cliff smiled a little, taking a big breath. "I feel a little better."

Hayden nodded. "You sound better. I can actually comprehend what you're saying now."

Cliff sniffled lightly, shoving one of Hayden's knees. "Mm. Uh, thanks. For that."

"Yeah, whatever. It's cool," Hayden shook his head, making sure all of the tissues were in the trash. "You owe me a blowjob whenever you feel better."

"You bet." Cliff stretched out, flicking at his nose. "You were a little mean earlier, though."

"I can be meaner," Hayden scoffed, watching Cliff. "I'm.. yeah. I know I can be intense. You just — caught me off guard."

Cliff shook his head, pinching his nose. "Mm, that's fine. Your fuckin' cologne is still irritating me."

"Shit," Hayden moved himself off the bed, standing by the far wall. "Okay, I'm due a shower. Are you staying, or..?"

Cliff made a face, looking down at the trash can. "Ehh, nah. I should probably get home."

Hayden found himself nodding a little, although he didn't want Cliff to leave. "Ah. You got somewhere to be?"

Cliff hid a smile behind his hand, rubbing at his stubble. "No, not necessarily."

"I'll see you after my shower then." Hayden said, stepping into the attached bathroom before Cliff could muster a response.

—

After coming out of the shower, Hayden found Cliff curled up in the hotel bed.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you." Hayden snarked, fixing the towel tighter around his waist so he could bend down for his shirt.

Cliff peeped from the quilt, sniffling softly. "You took forever. Longer than a girl."

Hayden sent a lighthearted glare to the man, throwing on a Nike shirt. "I got a whole ass routine, alright? Shane helped me pick out some skin shit."

Cliff chuckled to himself, keeping watch over the quilt. "Yeah. You and your perfect skin. Perfect hair. Perfect everything. Get outta here."

Hayden threw his towel at Cliff, grabbing some sweatpants and boxers from his suitcase to wear. He never unpacks. "You get outta here."

Cliff rolled up the towel, tossing it to the foot of the bed. "C'mere."

Hayden obeyed, climbing into bed next to Cliff. Cliff handled Hayden, turning the man over by his waist so they were spooning.

Hayden was the first to talk after a while of comfortable silence. "This is really gay."

Cliff took a breath, rubbing his nose against the crook of Hayden's neck. "We're gay. If you hadn't noticed."

"You're gay?" Hayden mumbled, voice audibly softening throughout the evening.

Cliff hummed behind him, sniffling quietly. "I don't care for a label."

Hayden took Cliff's hand, feeling the callouses on his palms from his years of weightlifting. "I.. yeah. I might be bisexual. Or the other one — pan? Pansexual?"

Cliff nibbled at Hayden's shoulder, sniffling over the area he bit. "I've never heard of that one."

"It's 2013.. get with the times, man," Hayden mumbled, bending Cliff's fingers one by one. "It's listed on that 'You Can Play' campaign thing."

"Huh," Cliff mumbled, fingers curling around Hayden's. He couldn't really come up with a response with his upcoming- "h'httDshx!"

Cliff stifled against Hayden's shoulder, arms tensing where they held the other man.

"Bless you." Hayden mumbled, holding Cliff's hand.

"Mmm," Cliff sniffled, his congestion still thankfully loose. "Tired."

Emily placed a gentle hand on Rhonda’s shoulder before stepping around the corner and into the employee bathroom. Once there, she pulled her phone out and texted Elijah back – first, a good morning, and then, a reminder to get a flu shot, something he definitely should have already done, right? They had talked about it at least twice. The restaurant was a cesspool when it came to illness, Emily had come to realize in the six months the two of them had been dating. Close quarters, no one able to take a sick day, and long and late hours basically guaranteed that at least one person was sick at any given time, and this flu season really was shaping up to be… intense. Emily bit her lip as she typed; Elijah was a smart guy, with self preservation, she reasoned with herself. Certainly he’d already done it.

Pressing send on the message, she stepped back out into the hallway and grabbed the clipboard again, cracking her neck on the way to the waiting room. Only two hours into the shift, and she was already on her fourth clipboard. It was going to be a long day.

***

good morning <3. hey, random, and I know we talked about it a few weeks ago, but make sure u get ur flu shot if you havent already, its a srsly rough season this year xx

For the tenth time in two minutes, Elijah reread the text from Emily with his heart in his throat. Fuck, he knew he’d been forgetting to do something this past week – now, he remembered what it was. They had talked about flu shots when Emily got hers, courtesy of her work, last month; Elijah had promised he’d get his in the next few weeks, despite how busy the restaurant was. He did not.

Elijah slipped his phone back in his pocket, making a mental note to find the time today or tomorrow to get the shot. It would take less than thirty minutes, he reasoned with himself. Even he had thirty minutes to spare during the day. Thinking better of it, he pulled the phone back out, sitting back in his seat and perusing the closest pharmacy’s website for open flu shot slot times. There was one tomorrow afternoon, three pm – perfect. Before service, after manager meeting, and the pharmacy was barely a five minute walk away. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? Elijah pressed the time he wanted and began filling out his information, when he heard the back kitchen doors open and slam shut.

He heard Greyson before he saw him.

“HTTSHHH-uhh! Hhh… hh -! HRRTXXCH-ue!” The two massive sneezes were followed by a round of coughing, deep and chesty, the type of cough that you hear from the person next to you on the bus and start to hold your breath. Elijah’s head whipped up from his phone, mid-typing. No, he thought to himself, standing to walk toward the sound of Greyson’s suffering, please no.

“That had better not be you, Greyson,” he said, heading towards the back kitchen, phone long forgotten. Elijah thought back to Monday, when Greyson had texted him asking about the place that sold great miso soup near Elliot’s.

It’s called koi fish, Elijah had texted back. Why?

Because Reed was sick. He had the flu, they’d gone to urgent care to confirm, and he was completely miserable and refusing to eat anything. A pit had formed in Elijah’s stomach even then; Greyson, god love him, was absolutely unable to escape anyone near him getting sick without also succumbing. At this point, it was nearly a joke, a bit in the restaurant: if you have a cold, just go breathe near Chef for a minute. He’ll absorb it from you in a matter of moments, and you’ll start to feel better immediately. A rhinovirus succubus.

Please wash your hands while you’re taking care of him, Elijah had texted his friend. Sequester yourself if you have to. We have such a busy week.

Greyson had agreed, said he was being careful. He’d gotten a flu shot! He’d done everything right! He was a chef, he had to update his ServSafe card every five years to prove he knew how to keep his food from making people sick. If anyone knew how to keep from getting sick, surely it was him. And during Tuesday service, he was fine. Elijah thought, stupidly, that maybe they’d made it over the hump, so to speak.

But then yesterday – Wednesday – came around, and he’d been a little off during service. His consonants had been a little muted, his voice a little thin… but surely he was fine. Right? Surely he could make it through one illness his boyfriend had without catching it. Certainly he could.

When Elijah turned the corner into the prep kitchen, his heart, once lodged in his throat, immediately fell to the pit of his stomach. “Jesus Christ,” he said, taking the chef in.

Greyson looked miserable. His coat was zipped up to his neck, the hood slung over his head doing nothing to conceal his red, watering eyes and chapped nose. Clearly he could barely breathe; his mouth hung open, and when the coughs finally settled he was left wheezing into his sleeve, his breath just a catch away from the coughing fit beginning anew. “Hey, boss,” he managed, pulling his sleeve under his running nose. “How goes it?”

“Dude,” Elijah said, crossing his arms from the entrance of the back kitchen. “What did I tell you about sequestering yourself from Reed? Did it look like he was having so much fun on his death bed you needed to join him?”

Shrugging, Greyson turned on the water at the sink and thoroughly washed his hands before turning back to Elijah. “I got mby flu shot,” he wheezed, attempting to clear his throat. “I figured I’d be finde.”

Elijah closed his eyes, gathering himself before responding. “It’s not a magic spell, Grey. If you’re making out with your flu-ridden boyfriend, you’re going to get sick even if you had the shot. Everyone knows that.”

“Huh. Weird. They didn’t teach us that in culindary school. It’s almbost like it’s fuckigg food college. Ndot all of us went to three years of mbed school, Doctor Elijah. Ndot all of us are fuckigg a ndurse. Hh -!” Again, Greyson turned into his coat sleeve bracing himself on the sink with his free hand to keep from falling over. “HRTTTSCHH-ue! Huhh – HUHHTSCHCH-ueee!”

“Christ,” Elijah said, cringing. “Bless you. That sounds fucking painful.”

“It – hh -! Hh… hnng. Snrf. It is,” Greyson said, trying to sniff back some of the congestion and instead coughing hard enough that Elijah felt his chest contract in sympathy. He dipped out of the back kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the beverage fridge in the server station, and brought it back to Greyson, who drank gratefully until the fit abated. The chef took a slow, deep breath, testing the waters of his lungs, and let it back out. He nodded at Elijah, as if to say good for now.

“I’m not a doctor, dickhead,” Elijah said when Greyson regained control. “They literally tell you that when you get the flu shot, don’t they?” Greyson raised an eyebrow.

“Whend’s the last timbe you got a flu shot?” he asked, rubbing his chest with a closed fist. Elijah flushed red and, realizing how close he was to Greyson, took a big step back.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“Clearly,” Greyson said, moving out of the back kitchen and heading towards the office. Reluctantly, Elijah followed him – whether he wanted to sit next to the chef, breathe his germs in, or not, he did have to finish the schedule and the only place to do it was the office. They sat heavily in their chairs, Greyson’s rheumy eyes meeting his boss’s. “And also, I wasnd’t mbaking out with Reed, I was takigg care of himb. Tryigg to be a good boyfriend or whatever.”

“Mmm,” Elijah nodded. “You know you can be a good boyfriend without laying on top of him, yeah? You can take care of him without being attached at the hip.”

Greyson scoffed, coughed, and put his head on his hand, elbow resting on the desk. “Mbaybe you and Embily can take care of each other through a plastic bubble, but that’s ndot how Reed and I fly,” he said, eyes drooping towards closed. Elijah went to answer, but was cut off by a hastily-covered – “HTTSZZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCHHH-uhhh!”

Watching the droplets rush from the chef’s mouth into the air surrounding them in the office, Elijah remembered the disclosure agreement on the bottom of the form he filled out for the flu shot he was clearly going to desperately need. Any persons with cold or flu-like symptoms will not be permitted to receive the flu shot. Shit. He needed to get out of Greyson’s metaphorical splash zone, and quickly.

“Bless you,” he said again, while Greyson pulled a single tissue – then, thinking better, a whole handful – out of the box. “Grey, you are not well enough to be here. You need to go home, when does Matt get in?”

Greyson cringed as well blew his nose. “Yeah, that’s the thigg,” he said, pressing his fingers into his face where his sinuses resided. “Mbatt’s sigck too. I, uh, mbay have recruited himb to help mbe with Reed while Mbark is away.”

Groaning, Elijah sat back in his chair and pulled a hand warily down his face. Fuck. “So he isn’t coming in, then?” he asked, prompting a laugh from Greyson.

“Ndo, he’s combing in. I can’t do this ndight by mbyself, ndot like this. I figured the two of us incapacitated equals about onde of us healthy.”

Great, Elijah thought, giving Greyson an incredulous look. Surrounded by sick people all night. “You’re going to get your whole staff sick,” he warned his friend. Greyson shrugged.

“Is what it is,” he said, pulling another handful of tissues from the box. “Juuhh – just - HNTSZZCHH-uee!” he collapsed forward into the tissues and let out a little moan of frustration, before blowing his nose and tossing them aside. “Just have to tell themb ndot to get too close,” he croaked, coughing into his fist.

“Yeah,” Elijah said, looking down at the confirmation email from the pharmacy. “I’m sure that’ll work perfectly.”

***

Post-shift, and finally back at her Brooklyn fifth floor walk-up, Emily poured herself a glass of wine and sat heavily on the couch. What a day, she thought, downing half the glass in one large gulp.

The twelve-hour shifts she’d agreed to back in July were starting to wear on her. Sure, she only had to work four a week, and eight of those hours were guaranteed overtime, but christ those four days never got any shorter. Not getting back to her apartment until ten p.m. when she left for the day at seven a.m. had her feeling like Elijah and all the other restaurant workers – a creature of the night, relegated to only seeing the outside when it was dark. Less person, more vampire.

Speaking of Elijah, she thought, pulling her phone out and frowning at the screen. Her boyfriend hadn’t texted her since this afternoon, and even that text seemed hasty and distracted. She’d asked how his day was going, and he sent back the emoji that looked like it was gritting its teeth, followed by two words: Had better. To that, she sent a simple ? and had been left on read.

Now, with the restaurant closing in the next half hour, surely Elijah had some time to talk. Without thinking, she clicked on her boyfriend’s contact photo – a very Elijah-coded shot of him mid sip of a cocktail with a hand help up to the camera – and hit the call button.

Almost immediately, Emily was sent to voicemail. Confused, she pulled the phone away from her face and studied it, eyebrows furrowed. Again, she clicked the all button.

Again, voicemail.

This time, though, a text from Elijah popped up.

Elijah

10:21PM

Hey babe, sorry, we’re still finishing up service and Grey had to go so I’m cleaning on the line. Are you okay?

Emily cocked her head to the side at this message. Cleaning on the line? Where the hell did Greyson have to go that meant Elijah had to get on-line? She clicked the text box to reply.

Emily

10:22PM

yes, all good. what happened to greyson?

A few minutes passed before Elijah finally texted back.

Elijah

10:31PM

I sent him home. He and Matt have the flu.

A sigh escaped Emily’s lips as she read her boyfriend’s message. Of course the chefs had the flu. She put her wine glass on the coffee table and typed out another text.

Emily

10:34PM

oof, the worst im sorry. good thing u got the flu shot, right?

Another five full minutes went by without an answer. Finally, as Emily got up to pour herself another glass, a text pinged through. She looked down at the phone – Elijah had ‘liked’ her message, but didn’t send anything back. Emily pressed her lips together and put the phone down. Self-preservation, she thought to herself for the second time that day. He does have it… right?

***

T-minus six hours until the flu shot appointment.

Elijah let himself in through the back door of the restaurant and immediately pulled a hand down his face, still exhausted from the night before. He may as well have not even left; by the time the line was clean and the paperwork was done, it was nearly three in the morning. The seven a.m. wakeup call to come back in had come in the blink of an eye.

Slowly, Elijah made his way to the office at the front of the kitchen, typing out a text to Greyson as he did.

Elijah

8:55AM

Are you alive?

The evening previous, to call Greyson alive would have been more than a stretch. The chef had made it through about half of service, coughing and sneezing and wiping away fever sweat, but by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he was swaying on his feet. Dishes were leaving the kitchen ungarnished, temps unchecked, and seat numbers given to food runners forgone. Elijah knew if they wanted to keep their Michelin star, he needed to send his friend home. Greyson was entirely too sick to put up a fight; he’d yanked his apron off, donned his coat, and left the building without even saying goodbye to the cooks.

In Elijah’s hand, the phone buzzed.

Greyson

9:01AM

barely lol. fevers down tho, so ill be in later. like noon.

Relief washed over Elijah as he read; Greyson was able to text, he was up at nine a.m., he was joking around. Most likely, the worst was behind him.

Elijah

9:02AM

Matt?

Once Greyson was gone, Matt tried to step up to the plate and take over expo, but the poor kid was down just as bad as Greyson, and Elijah had to send him home about thirty minutes after the executive chef. Whatever Reed had passed along to the chefs was fucking lethal.

Greyson

9:05AM

mmm havent heard from him yet. probably not coming in tho. like I wouldnt bet on it

Elijah sighed; well, one was better than none, he supposed.

He stood from the desk and turned to the kitchen, moving slowly to turn on the lights and the gas and to crank up the heat. Outside, snow had begun to fall, and for once he was grateful; maybe it would be a slow evening. Maybe they could all get out and get to bed before three in the morning. Elijah’s bones ached with the desire to crawl up in his bed, Emily’s warm frame wrapped in his arms, nothing to do but listen to the snow outside and… and…

“Hhh…” Elijah’s breath caught, and he pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth to quell the itch in his sinuses. No, he thought, pinching his nose hard between his thumb and pointer finger. Not now.

It would have been a lie to say that Elijah felt… completely put together. Try as he might, he was just unable to ignore his body in the way that Greyson and Matt always seemed to; he was hyper-aware of it, in fact, tuned in to even the smallest twinge of difference. He’d felt it yesterday, just the tiniest bit off; he knew the second he swallowed and it went down a little weird. Oh, he thought to himself as he watched Greyson and Matt cough themselves dizzy. It’s so over.

Then, despite the late night, Elijah had gone home and tossed and turned in his bed from four until six in the morning, unable to breathe out of one nostril or the other, sitting up every few minutes to guzzle water, his throat dry and sticky despite the wild amount of liquid he was ingesting. As he lay pre-feverish in his bed, he thought of Emily. He thought of the busy-as-fuck week they’d had. He thought of Greyson.

Greyson was sick. And Matt was sick. And Elijah was getting a flu shot today, and Emily had warned him about the flu not just yesterday, but multiple times since fall had turned to winter, and he could not be sick. So when his alarm went off at seven, Elijah took the hottest shower he could handle and looked himself in the mirror. “You are fine,” he said to his reflection. “You are not sick.”

Manifesting had always been one of his strong suits, after all. Had he not manifested this life he made for himself? Manifested the restaurant and its accolades? Manifested his nice apartment, his happy life? Sure, some would say that he worked his ass off for it, had scrimped and saved and worked two or even three jobs at a time when he was young, learned how to wire and plumb and interior design when he finally saved enough to buy the restaurant so that he wouldn’t have to pay someone to do everything for him. Some would certainly argue that he even had to work to be happy, to feel deserving of all that he had, but who were they to say those things? It was all manifestation, baby. One hundred perce -

“HXTSH-uhhh! NTSHH-ieuu! Hh - ! HhIGTXTZCH-uee!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneezes into the back of his wrist, an effort that left him groaning at the pain behind his eyeballs. Can’t manifest health, he thought, then quickly pushed the thought away. Yes, he could manifest health. Of course he could. Mind over matter.

Elijah sniffed experimentally, testing to see how congested he really was. The sniffle barely moved any of the sludge beginning to build in his sinuses, and in fact only managed to make the constant buzz at the back of his nose and throat burn stronger. Again, he pinched his nose shut, this time managing to fully stifle two, three – four – shit – five sneezes in rapid succession, leaving him panting and stuffed up to the gills in the wake of the fit. Who the hell was he holding them in for, it’s not like anyone else was here. But Elijah knew, he was doing it to prove a point to himself – that he was well, that he was fine, that this afternoon he would be allowed by the pharmacy to get the flu shot. Manifesting. That was the reason. He checked his watch, and sighed.

Five hours, twenty-five minutes until the appointment.

***

Emily was sure this week was never going to end.

Eight hours into her fourth twelve-hour shift in a row, and she was the kind of tired you feel in the depths of your bones. The waiting room never got less full. The people never got kinder. At every new patient, every new throat she had to swab and temperature she had to take, she could feel herself untethering more and more. It was barely December – was this going to be the way it was all winter? She shuddered at the thought. Maybe she needed to take a mid-winter vacation.

Also, why the fuck wasn’t Elijah texting her back?

For the third time that hour, Emily checked her phone. No text from Elijah. She checked his location – still at the restaurant. It was two p.m., for god’s sake, it’s not like they were in service. What the hell was he doing?

The thought that she had often, the one she got whenever things seemed to be going well in a relationship, slipped into the back of her mind. Maybe he’s just done. Emily bit her cheek at the thought; much as she wished she could count it out, call it nonsense… it would honestly make sense. Elijah was chronically single, as Greyson put it when they all went out back at the beginning of her and Elijah’s flirtation.

“I mean, same,” Emily had said, smiling. Greyson had put his drink down on the bar top, turned away from the seat Elijah had just left to go use the bathroom, and looked at Emily, his face set into a serious look.

“No, like… look, Emily, Elijah does really like you. And like, I’ve known him for almost ten years and he’s never liked anyone, so that’s huge. But when I say he’s chronically single, I mean he doesn’t know how to be in a relationship. At all. He’s quite literally married to that restaurant. He’s there over a hundred hours a week.” He’d picked the drink back up, swallowed the remainder of it, and shrugged at her. “Just… I mean, just don’t be surprised if he picks it. When he picks it. He picks it over everything. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That had stuck with her, much as she didn’t want it to. Emily wasn’t the type of person who needed constant validation, truly; she was independent, she loved her space, and she knew Elijah was the same. It was something she enjoyed about their relationship, the fact that they didn’t have to be in constant contact or see each other more than once a week. It worked for them. But she couldn’t deny, six months into the relationship, that Greyson was right: Elijah did pick the restaurant over everything. Dates were often canceled, sometimes at the very last minute, and holidays and birthdays were a moot point. Elliot’s came first, always. And that was okay with her, really, she understood. Elliot’s was Elijah’s lifeblood, what he’d always dreamed of. She was proud that he was so passionate.

She just wished, sometimes, that he could be… more human about their relationship. Like now. When he was refusing to text back. She looked down at their text thread again – three texts from her, sent hours apart, two this morning and one an hour ago on her lunch break. No response. Fucker, she thought, annoyed. Again, the thought: maybe he’s just done. Emily sighed, clicked her phone off, and put it back in her pocket, heading towards the front for another patient clipboard.

Maybe. But she really, really hoped not.

***

“Elijah.”

“Sshh. I dond’t wandt to hear it.”

“Lij, c’mbon mban, you kndow they’re ndot going to let you -”

“Greysond. Shut the fuck up. Can you watch the servers for an hour while I’mb gone?”

“I mbean -”

“Can you?”

Greyson gave Elijah a withering, pitiful look. “Obviously I can,” he said, coughing into his elbow. “But you’re quite literally about to be turned away at the door,” he finished, voice croaky and waterlogged. Elijah placed an overly warm hand onto his own throat to keep from dissolving into his own coughing fit. He shook his head.

“I wond’t,” he said, “because I’mb ndot sick.”

The day had been… humbling, to say the least. Elijah had tried his best all morning to heed off the oncoming illness; downing tea and ignoring the constant itch in his sinuses, sucking on endless lozenges and then finally, after a couple hours of insisting to himself that he did not need it, giving in and shooting back double the recommended dose of dayquil. By the time Greyson trudged in at noon, Elijah could feel the mask slipping more and more with each passing minute.

“Oh, ndo,” Greyson said when he walked into the office and found Elijah doubled over into his elbow, coughing up a lung. “You sound like fuckigg shit.”

Painfully, Elijah rolled his eyes at his friend. “Pot, kettle,” he said, yanking a tissue out of the nearly depleted box just in time to – “HRRTSHHH-uhh!”

Greyson grimaced while Elijah blew his nose uselessly. “Bless you,” Greyson said. In return, Elijah flipped him off. “Sorry.”

Annoyed, Elijah tossed the tissue into the trash can by their chairs and squirted hand sanitizer onto his hands. “How are you feeligg?” he asked, ignoring Greyson’s blessing.

“Bad. But probably better thand you.”

Elijah deadpanned his friend, pushed up his glasses, and sat back in his chair, an attempt to look blasé. “I feel finde,” he said, trying to clear the congestion from his voice. “I amb fine.”

A soupy-sounding laugh escaped Greyson’s lips, followed by a crunching, painful cough that lasted entirely too long for Elijah’s liking. Despite his aching limbs, the GM pushed himself to a stand and went to the server station to make Greyson a tea, sickly sweet with honey, the only way the chef would drink it. By the time he returned to the office, Greyson had managed to collect himself.

“Thangks,” he said, taking a sip. “Where’s yours?”

Without meaning to, Elijah’s eyes panned over to the two empty coffee cups by his computer monitor. Greyson smiled and hummed to keep from laughing, to save his fucked-up lungs. “You sound like you have fuckigg pneumonia,” Elijah said, an attempt to change the subject. Shrugging, Greyson sipped his tea.

“Ndah,” he said, rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand. “Reed sounded the sambe the first few days; I’mb okay. Pneumonia feels way worse thand this.” If he wasn’t worried about collapsing into his own coughing fit, Elijah would have laughed.Only Greyson would have that reference point.

“You’re sickly. Like a Victoriand child. Has andyone ever told you that?”

Greyson raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said, a smile dancing on his lips. “I thingk that’s fairly well-established. I also thingk,” he said, reaching over to press the back of his hand to Elijah’s forehead, “that you’re deflecting.”

Elijah tried to pull away quickly, but his reflexes were slowed by the ache in his joints. “I’mb getting a flu shot at three, and they wond’t give it to you if you have...symptoms,” he said swatting at his friend’s hand, a poor attempt to ward off the accusation of illness. “I cand’t be sick.”

“Uhh,” Greyson said, pressing his lips together. “I mbean, I thingk your body doesn’t really give a fugck about what your plans for a flu shot were. Clearly,” he said, motioning to the GM as if he was flu-incarnate. “Also, didn’t Embily tell you to get a flu shot, like, two mbonths ago? Why are you just ndow going?”

A flush burned across Elijah’s face. “I mbay have forgotten. Like. Every time she said it.”

Greyson bit his cheek, a laugh catching in his throat. “You’re a bad boyfriend,” he joked, kicking Elijah.

“I’mb workigg on ihh – hh…” Elijah’s hand flew up to his nose, once again pinching it to keep the sneeze at bay. Not just to prove that he wasn’t ill – though that reason still stood – but because they were just exhausting. Grating and throat-scraping and seemingly endless. Before the chef had arrived, he found himself doubled over, sneezing so hard that his vision began to dance at the corners of his eyes. Passing out was not in the cards today.

“Good luck with that,” Greyson said, turning away from his boss to turn his computer on. Then, as he watched Elijah struggle out of the corner of his eye – “Lij, just let yourself -”

“HRTSCHHH-uee! GTSXXCHH-uhh! HhhhITSZCHHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-uhhh! Huh -! HuhhhETSZCHH-uee!” Again, Elijah found himself doubled over into his lap, the sneezes painfully and uncharacteristically unrestrained. Panting, he grabbed the last three tissues from the box and wiped himself up, afraid blowing would set him off again. He coughed into the handful of tissues, swallowing compulsively to try and make the fit stop quicker.

“Wow,” Greyson said. “There is ndo way in hell they’re goigg to let you get that flu shot.”

The next few hours had gone as terribly as Elijah could’ve imagined they would; he felt like fucking dog water, a descriptor the servers loved to use that felt so apt he couldn’t help but pick it up. Sludgey, tepid, nasty. The fever he’d felt warming the back of his neck at the beginning of the day now felt like it was boiling his brain, turning it into soup. The cough felt constant, and he suddenly understood why Greyson was spending so much time rubbing his chest – it hurt, hurt like a gorilla was sat between his neck and stomach. And then, there was the – the…

“IGTSZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCCHH-ieuu! Huh -! Huhh…! HuhhhETSZCHH-ieuu!”

“Bless you, Elijah.” Matt, who they thought wasn’t going to make it in, had come around two, and pointedly blessed his boss literally every time he sneezed. Greyson, who had given up on getting Elijah to admit to having the flu, had stopped an hour in and gone to the back kitchen to prep. Matt wasn’t giving up nearly as easily.

“Boss, you ndeed to take some more medicinde,” Matt said placing the dayquil that he and Greyson had just taken doses of on the desk beside Elijah. The GM shook his head.

“’m okay,” he said around the congestion in his throat. “Thangks.”

Matt sighed stuffily and shook his head. “I’ll leave it there just in case,” he said, turning to go back to prepping the line.

The cherry on top of this shitty day, though, was Emily texting him.

Emily

8:41AM

morning <3 hope you have a good day

Emily

10:12AM

are greyson & matt coming in today? fingers crossed it isnt too busy tonight!

Emily

1:20PM

this place is a fucking madhouse. think im getting misophonia from hearing so much coughing lmao

Emily

2:48PM

hellooo? earth to elijahhh

He wanted to text back, truly, but every time he opened their text thread he felt that familiar sense of dread; he’d promised her he’d get a flu shot, promised he’d stay healthy. And, of course, he’d managed to somehow fuck it up. There was little more he wanted than to text her, I’m down so fucking bad can you please come to my house tonight? To say, I feel like I’m dying and all I want is to be in bed with you. But he didn’t; he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to her.

And now it was nearly three, and Greyson was stood in front of him telling him he was going to be turned away from the pharmacy. Which of course he was right, of course he was sick, but for Emily and for his own stupid pride, he just could not admit it.

“I’m ndot sick,” he said to Greyson again, donning his coat and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So please, watch the servers. I’ll be back whend I’mb done at the pharmacy. Okay?”

Greyson just shook his head, obviously too tired and annoyed to continue to fight his friend. “Whatever, Elijah,” he said. “Good fuckin’ luck, bro.”

***

Thirty more minutes, Emily thought to herself. You can do anything for thirty minutes.

It had been just about the longest day of her life; she had to get off these twelves, they were quite literally sucking the life out of her. The stream of patients refused to let up, and all she wanted was a hot shower and a fat cocktail. And maybe Elijah to text her back, but at this point even that was neither here nor there.

“Em,” Rhonda called to her as she put yet another finished patient clipboard at the front desk. Emily grimaced at the sound of her name. Please, please don’t need anything from me.

“What’s up?” she said, trying to sound bright and happy, not like she was ready to lob someone’s head off. She walked towards Rhonda, who was holding yet another fucking clipboard.

“Room three was asking if you’re around,” she said, handing over the clipboard. Emily couldn’t help herself; she groaned aloud.

“Can Paul just tell them I left? Please? I only have thirty minutes left, Rhon. I’m so done.”

Rhonda shrugged. “Paul already said that you’re here, doll. Sorry. Just tell the guy you’re about to be off, let him know you’ll put the night lead on him if he’s so worried.” She held the clipboard out a little more forcefully, prompting Emily to, begrudgingly, take it.

“Fine,” she said, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “But if it’s that weirdo from last week who kept pretending to have a broken leg to see me, I’m calling the cops.”

Rhonda laughed. “Show ’em how it’s done,” she said. “I’ll take your name off the board for the rest of the shift.”

“You’re my hero,” Emily said.

Without looking at the clipboard – she could hear the coughing from the hallway, at this point she could diagnose the flu in her sleep – Emily knocked on the door of room three. She adjusted her mask, squirted some hand sanitizer on, and pushed through the heavy door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. -” she glanced down at the clipboard then, and stopped in her tracks. At the top of the patient intake form: Elijah Morrison. Emily’s head shot up from the clipboard and – oh.

There, on the paper-lined bench, sat her obviously very ill boyfriend. Beneath his glasses, Elijah’s eyes were lined with bags, his cheeks and nose scarlet from fever and constant rubbing, respectively. As she walked toward him, he removed the elbow he was coughing into and attempted a smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, his voice low and scratchy with illness. “I, uh… I thingk I mbight have the flu.”

A wave of deja vu passed over her, and Emily couldn’t help but to smile as she pulled down her mask. “Hmm, do you think?” she asked, placing a cool hand on Elijah’s hot forehead. “Jesus, baby. You’re burning up. What the hell are you doing here?”

Elijah managed a little laugh without coughing. “Grey wouldn’t let mbe combe back to work, said I’mb gonna scare off mby own customers. And I wanted to see you.” Ever the charmer, even when he’s on death’s door, Emily thought, shaking her head. “Is this how you talk to all your patiendts, by the way?” Elijah asked, grinning goofily – oof, that had to be a high fever for him to be making that face. “Kinda undhinged,” he said, tugging playfully at the braid she had hastily done this morning. Emily rolled her eyes, gave Elijah a little push.

“Yeah, that’s how most patients describe my bedside manner. ‘Kinda unhinged’,” she said, making Elijah laugh and then cough again, grating and painful. She stepped briefly into the hall to grab a cup of water for him, catching Rhonda’s eye as she did. Rhonda raised an eyebrow, pulled down her mask. I thought you were passing him off? She mouthed.

Emily sighed, shrugged. “It’s Elijah,” she said. Rhonda eyes grew to saucers. She shooed Emily back towards the room with her hand.

“I’ll mark the room as unavailable until you leave,” she said. Emily smiled. Truly the best, she thought as she walked back in and handed Elijah the cup. He drained it, finally catching his breath.

“Thangk you,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I’mb sorry.” Emily pressed her eyebrows together, confused.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked, taking his temperature and using the light on the otoscope to look into his ears and throat. Temp was high – 103.2 – but no ear infection, and it didn’t look like strep, so she put her tools down. “I can see why Greyson wouldn’t let you back, jesus,” she joked, hopping up on the bed to sit beside her boyfriend. “No need to apologize – I figured you’d probably end up sick, since Greyson is. You two are on top of each other like ninety percent of the time.”

Elijah shrugged, rubbing his nose and eyes – was he about to cry? Distraught, Emily started to say something, to take it back, when Elijah wrenched to the side, away from her.

“HHRDDTSCHH-ieuuu! RRTSCHH-uee! HTSZZZCHH-ieuu! Hh… hhITSZCCCH-uhhh!” Elijah folded in on himself over and over, the paroxysms so intense that they nearly moved the bed beneath them. Finally, Elijah sniffled, out of breath, and Emily jumped down to hand him a box of tissues.

“Thangk you,” Elijah said, stuffily. Emily nodded.

“Bless you,” she said as he blew his nose. “That sounded… painful.” Elijah laughed as he wiped his nose.

“That’s exactly what I said to Grey yesterday,” he croaked. Emily smiled.

“And?”

“And they are. Paindful. He said as mbuch.” Elijah shrugged. “He didn’t lie.”

“Mmm,” Emily hummed, placing the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and listening to Elijah’s crackling lungs. “You need to rest, by the way,” she said, taking the buds out and slinging the stethoscope around her neck to hold with both hands. “Your lungs sound rough. That could easily develop into walking pneumonia.”

“I also said that to Greysond,” Elijah laughed. Emily smiled again, a little sadly.

“It sounds like both of you need a day off,” she said, pointedly. A nod, a shrug from Elijah.

“Probably,” he said. There was a beat, then, a moment of silence before Emily couldn’t help herself.

“So, I assume you didn’t get a flu shot, like I told you to?” she asked, trying to play it off as light and playful, despite her worry. If Elijah didn’t get a flu shot, this was about to be a rough week for him. She made a mental note to ask when his symptoms started, to see if she could get him on Tamiflu. Elijah cringed.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why I was apologizing. I, uh, actually wendt to go get onde this afterndoon. But… they turned mbe away.” He smiled goofily again, shrugging. “Said you cand’t have a fever and get it.”

Emily pressed her lips together. “I could’ve told you that,” she said, sitting next to him again. “If you just asked.” Elijah nodded, turned to look at her.

“I’mb sorry,” he said. “I didn’t wandt you to worry. Or thingk I don’t listen to you. It just slipped mby mbind. But I should’ve just done it. I’mb sorry.”

Placing her hands on either side of Elijah’s hot face, Emily gently massaged his sinuses, nodded before he closed his eyes in relief. “Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked. One of Elijah’s eyes opened, just a bit.

“How could I forget,” he said. “I thingk it was ind this very roomb.”

“It was room nine. But close enough.”

Elijah smiled, hummed. “Dond’t mbake mbe laugh,” he said, closing his eye again. “Hurts.”

“Sorry,” Emily said, continuing to massage. “Do you know what I said to Rhonda, after you left that first time I saw you?”

“Mmmb?”

“‘That’s the hottest sick man I’ve ever met. I’d hate to see him well. It would be too much for my heart to handle’.”

This time, both of Elijah’s eyes popped open. “Yeah?” he asked. Emily nodded. “Well, Grey was basically mbarrying us the whole rest of the day. Called mbe ‘Mbister Doctor Embily’.” Emily’s face flushed – what happened to ‘he’s married to the restaurant’? – and Elijah chuckled. “That whole saga was so embarrassing,” he said, leaning his face onto Emily’s hand. He looked at her earnestly, then. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Emily’s heart thumped in her chest, butterflies swimming in the pit of her stomach. Maybe he’s just done, she’d thought earlier, but that wasn’t true. This man, this passionate and stubborn man… he couldn’t be just done. She wasn’t sure how she’d thought he could. “Lij?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Elijah looked into her eyes, his bloodshot and watery. His nose was running, just a little, his glasses askew from leaning on her hand. She’d spent all day annoyed at sick people, going from room to room to room wishing them all away, but somehow Elijah – sick Elijah, contagious and fluish Elijah – erased all of them, the whole day’s worth. Sick or well, she could look into his eyes all day long. “You’ll get sick,” he croaked out, sniffling. She nodded, brought his face close.

“I could use a day off,” she said, bringing his face close and pressing her lips to his, the kiss too warm and too wet and somehow perfect, the perfect kiss for the moment. He kissed back, hungrily, until he had to pull away to breathe.

“Thangk you,” he said. “And sorry. For giving you the flu.”

Emily pushed Elijah’s sweaty hair out of his face. “It’s okay,” she said. “It won’t be too bad. After all – I got my flu shot.”

Bruce taps the side of his phone absentmindedly at the end of his Watchtower shift. He had sent a quick message at the beginning of his shift, and Lois was just getting back to him now. 

BW: Did Clark seem…? LL: Like he's been fighting the headcold from hell for the past few days? LL: Pls tell me you have a way to force bedrest. Or at least stop him from spraying his germs all over the bullpen.  LL: Can he even be contagious?  BW: Working on it.  LL: You're welcome. And thanks xo

Apparently, the blue boy scout was sneezing through his Daily Planet shifts too. Bruce had showed up for his watchtower shift ten minutes early, as always, and headed to the main monitoring room to switch off with Kal-El. What he had found wasn't completely the Kal that he knew. Superman, normally picture-perfect and coiffed, had been a sniffly mess. Bruce had watched him try and fail to cover a spraying sneeze, the particles settling on top of the monitor board. He had been able to cover his kneejerk reaction of disgust, instead rifling through his memory bank for a previous example of Kal sneezing. Finding none, he had tilted his head slightly, asking, “Everything alright?” 

Kal had answered with the affirmative, and since Bruce trusted him, he had let it be. Mostly. After he sent a text to Lois and collected a swab of the moisture left behind on the monitors to run via flow cytometry later. 

_______________________________

Bruce had three hours between his Watchtower shift ending and Clark getting off from the Daily Planet. He spent most of it running Clark's fluids through a multitude of tests and getting too many positive results to confidently say which ones might be causing his ailments. No kryptonite readings at all, either. On a good day, Superman had an overwhelming and unique microbiome. He couldn't see many differences between Kal's baseline and these readings, except for a slightly elevated viral load. Was that enough to cause his current symptoms? And why was Clark acting like he was unaffected? It was a mystery, which was luckily Bruce's specialty.

Although he and Clark had an agreement that Bruce would let Clark know if he was breaking into his civilian apartment, Bruce figured this counted as extenuating circumstances. Since Clark had seen fit to lie to him, he didn't feel very bad about a little B&E. 

The apartment itself was telling. It was usually cluttered due to its small size, but it was in more disarray than usual. Although it was early fall, and Clark was unaffected by cold weather, there were many blankets piled on the threadbare couch. Bruce catalogued tissue boxes that usually weren't present on the small kitchen counter, the couch, and the TV stand, and Clark’s small kitchen trash can was set up beside the couch as well, filled a quarter of the way with balled-up tissues. Bruce sat delicately on the uncomfortable sitting chair that he had already tried and failed to get Clark to replace, crossing his legs by settling his ankle on his thigh just in time for the lock on the door to rattle. The door opened, and Clark appeared a few moments later, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned around and froze, wide eyes locking with Bruce's. 

The surprise took only a moment to clear from his face, replaced with a tired resignation. “Lois?” He asked, shoulders slumping in that stupid oversized suit jacket of his. 

“What's wrong with you?” Bruce always found getting right to the point was best. Clark wrinkled his nose in annoyance. 

“Would it kill you to be ndice?” Clark rubbed at his face before dropping his messenger bag at the door, making his way into the living room and flopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose over the top of his glasses as he breathed through his cracked, parted lips. Bruce hardly saw him so miserable, especially outside of kryptonite poisoning. 

“You look…concerning.” Understatement. Clark looked properly ill, cheeks slightly flushed in what Bruce figured was a fever, his nose red and raw down to the lip, his eyes rimmed pink and watery. Bruce could hear the catch in Clark’s chest when he sighed, the congestion that probably felt like cement in his sinuses (if the way he was massaging them was any indication) bogging down his words, the exhaustion in his words that were punctuated by light sniffles. Even his outfit had suffered the effects of his illness, damp spots sticking out on his gray suit top sleeves from where he presumably wiped his streaming nose into them. “How are you sick?”

Clark huffed out a laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled into the already damp cuff of his sleeve. “It happends, Bruce. Ndot oftend, but I’ve had a few colds and flus.” He sniffled, wiping the corners of his mouth with the wrist of his sleeve. He looked so delicate, which was a strange state for someone who was probably the strongest person on Earth. “Usually whend I’m already runnding mbyself ragged.” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his face where it looked like the congestion was bothering him the most. “I overdid it with that tsunami and the League mission. And a lot of people at the Planet have beend calling out, some sort of flu I think. I’m just the mbost recent victimb.” 

“This information is not in your file,” Bruce said. Discomfort prickled at his skin. Superman being affected by the common cold or Type A and B flu was the sort of thing that should be included in the files that he kept on everyone. What if Clark had fallen ill on an away mission and was unable to tell them what was wrong? Or no one could get ahold of him? A few dozen worst-case scenarios ran through Bruce’s head, but he bit them back. Clark was probably well aware of what points Bruce would bring up. 

“It’s the flu, B,” Clark looked amused. “And I hardly ever ge-heh…hah!” Bruce leaned over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the couch, holding them out to Clark, who was fanning his face with one hand and reaching towards the box with the other. He hurriedly grabbed the proffered tissues and held them firmly over his nose and mouth. “...Hihh!! Heh’KSHht! Heh’ESHH’uh! –TSCHieew! Ngh. ‘Scuse mbe.” 

If anyone had asked Bruce what he thought Superman’s sneeze would sound like, he would guess some sort of loud, abrasive, and succinct, “Ah-choo!” noise. But Clark was a hitching, damp mess, panting into the tissues and seeming almost embarrassed as his voice pitched up oddly in response to his tickling nose. His sneezes wrenched him forward but didn’t incapacitate him, though his glasses were knocked askew and the tissues squelched as he pinched off the mess he had produced. Bruce watched in silence as Clark threw the bundle of tissues away only to immediately grab two more, blowing his nose unproductively before giving a stuffed up sniff and tossing those as well after a final sniffle and a crisp swipe under his nose. He hadn’t managed to catch everything, though, or maybe the nature of his congestion meant that sniffing wasn’t effective, because a small gleam of moisture clung to his reddened nostrils. Clark sighed, exhaustion tinging the noise. “I’m assuming ndo one’s letting mbe go into work tomorrow?” 

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been going at all this week,” Bruce quipped. “It’s highly irresponsible to be around other people when you’re as ill as you are.” 

“I’ve beend masking up,” Clark protested. “And I had a big deadline.” He blinked. “Crap. I took mby mask off when I got into the building.”

Bruce shrugged, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a fever?” 

Clark shrugged. “Probably. I feel kinda achy. What…what are you doing?” 

“Taking your temperature. I assume you don’t have a thermometer.” Bruce stood over Clark on the couch, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Years of fatherhood gave Bruce a pretty good idea of what fevers felt like. “Elevated, but not too far from your normal range. Are you tired?” 

“Exhausted,” Clark exhaled. “Wait, you shouldn’t get too close. You’ll catch this.” 

Bruce ignored him, moving into the kitchen. “Get changed and make yourself comfortable.” 

Clark grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, shuffling into the bedroom to presumably change into something more appropriate for a sick day. Bruce could hear his dry, painful-sounding coughs punctuating his actions, though he was focused on cataloguing Clark’s food supply and medicine cabinet. Predictably, there was nothing stronger than over the counter painkillers, probably for guests, but Clark had a fair amount of ingredients in his fridge and pantry. Bruce wasn’t much of a cook, but Clark could hold his own, even while not feeling his best. Bruce had been witness to many of Clark’s culinary adventures, the man able to balance cooking, holding a conversation, and editing Lois’ article without skipping a beat. Sneezing and cooking at the same time would be a cakewalk comparatively. 

Although he was lacking in medicine, Clark did have some cold packs in the freezer, and Bruce got one out, wrapping it in a towel before taking it back to the living room alongside a glass of water. That was about the time Clark shuffled back in from the bedroom, clad only in a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and thick socks. He had ditched his glasses, which made his eyes look smaller and more watery. He immediately beelined for the couch again, grabbing one blanket to pull over his lap and another to wear over his shoulders. If Bruce hadn't felt his forehead, he'd be sure of that fever now. Clark had obviously chosen his outfit so that he could alternate between feeling hot and cold at a rapid pace. At the moment, he shivered slightly, tightening the hold of the blanket a little. With his reddened nose and eyes, he looked the sick man that he was. 

“Here,” Bruce held out the glass of water, watching Clark drink half of it before setting it back on the side table. He handed him the towel-wrapped cold pack. “Put that on the back of your neck.” Clark did as he was told with a sniffle, eyes fluttering shut in relief as the cold pack soothed his the heat that seemed to be plaguing him. He leaned his head back again on the back of the couch, giving Bruce a clear look into his nose, which was so swollen and red that he was positive Clark had been sick for at least a few days prior and was doomed to many more days of his illness ahead.

“Four days?” Bruce guessed. 

“Hm?” Clark didn’t open his eyes. Bruce looked at him fondly. 

“How long you’ve been feeling sick. Four days?” 

Clark hummed again, this time slightly contemplative. “My throat started hurting Friday.” 

Today was Wednesday. “Five days, then.” Clark hummed once more, sounding slightly miserable about it this time. “That’s one hell of a flu.” 

“The other symptoms didn’t start for a few days.” Clark coughed slightly. “Can we stop talking about it for a sec? It’s making me feel itchy.” His nostrils flared as if in warning, and Bruce knew he would acquiesce to almost anything Clark asked of him when he was looking so pathetic. “Tell me how the family center’s renovations went?” 

Bruce wasn’t pleased with the deflection, but he understood it. Clark wasn’t used to being cared for, he was usually the one doing the caring. He couldn’t count the times that Clark had helped a friend, a family member, or Bruce himself through an injury or illness, and he knew all too well the feeling of weakness that came with asking for help. So he sat back down and started regaling Clark with stories from the renovations. The surprisingly high volunteer turnout, the surprisingly beautiful weather in an otherwise rainy autumn, the general cheerfulness and the stupid speech he had to bumble his way through at the beginning. 

Although Clark didn't move from his lounged position, Bruce could tell he’s listening actively to his words. He puffed out a breath of amused laughter when Bruce mentioned Dick parading in with his friends, all of them playing at being airheaded socialites with minimal gardening skills while also installing an irrigation system in the newly-built front garden beds. When Bruce talked about the innovative updates to the building, he made appreciative cooing noises. And when Bruce shared his annoyance about the shareholders who decided to naysay directly to his face, Clark scoffed hard enough for snot to shoot from his nose, and he quickly straightened up, the back of his hand lifting to cover as the shifting congestion causes his eyes to crinkle, lids heavy as a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his expression turned hazy behind his hand. 

“HEUH’kkSSCHeugh! Gah, ha-h’kchiew! HII’idgsheuh. Ugh.” Clark ended the fit with a miserable gasp, snorting inelegantly into his hand. “Godda be gross for a sec, B,” he said, horribly congested, hand still pressed to his nose. He put the cold pack in his other hand down and used it to pull two tissues from the box on the couch. He probably gave the warning so that Bruce would look away, but instead he watched as Clark pulled his hand away, sniffling in large, soupy sounds but unable to snort back a rope of watery snot that connected his hand to his upper lip. Clark grimaced, looking like he was trying to decide whether to wipe up his nose or hand first, but his hand won, Clark mopping that with the tissues before following the rope of mess to his running nose and blowing, a thick, gurgling sound coming from the action. He balled the tissues up and repeated it, the same germ-laden, snotty noise filling the room. He pulled the tissue away with a thick sniffle, thumbing at his sore-looking nose. 

Bruce looked away before Clark caught him staring, and once he felt his lover’s eyes on him he turned back, smiling in genuine sympathy. “You sound miserable, Clark,” he said. “In what world made you think you should go to work like that?” 

Pink embarrassment dusted Clark’s cheeks, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter to himself. “Like I said, there was a big deadline. But I finished it this morning.” 

“And you still finished out your work day? You’re always on my case about being a workaholic, but you’re just as bad.” 

Clark sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic look, then walked over from the chair to sit on the couch, pulling Clark in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t be sorry. But look out for yourself, sometimes? It’s okay to take the time to be well.”

He could feel Clark’s nod. Once he felt that Clark suitably understood his point, he pulled away and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Put the cold pack back on your neck. I’m going to make you something to eat.” He had made the executive decision that Clark was too ill to have to do anything, especially make dinner, and although Alfred liked to pretend otherwise, Bruce could follow a simple recipe. 

“Don’t you have patrol soon?” Clark asked, squinting up at him like he was trying to remember if he was correct. 

“There’s still a few hours,” Bruce responded. “I’ll get you set up, then into bed, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back from patrol.” 

Clark blinked. “Oh. You’re…staying?” He looked genuinely touched, like his long-term partner deciding to stay in his apartment with him when he was sick from a near-debilitating cold was a gift instead of an expectation. Damn, Bruce loved him. 

“Of course. I’m sorry I have to leave for patrol,” he turned away to wander into the kitchen, pulling out the raw ingredients that Clark had for a simple curry. Potatoes,onions, peas, chickpeas, carrots, chicken, spinach, and apples, all of it with plenty of ginger and garlic. He would make a curry so healthy that Clark would immediately be healed upon eating it. 

Another liquidy sniffle and a loud, “HIh-GGKSSHUU’HA!” followed by another sopping nose blow. Okay, so maybe Bruce was being a bit optimistic. Nevertheless, he was determined to get some nutrients into Clark. 

Clark was mostly quiet in his misery, sounds of sickness but no words coming from him as Bruce chopped the vegetables as quickly as possible. So when Clark stood, he paused, giving his partner his full attention. “Clark? Need something?”

Clark blinked, thumbing at the moisture at his nose. “Bathroom,” he said with a sniffle, then shuffled off. Bruce listened carefully for the door to close, and then followed the noises of Clark relieving himself and washing his hands. He knew that this was Superman, and Superman could handle a bathroom trip, but Clark was so vulnerable looking and miserable that Bruce couldn’t help but worry. He got this way around his kids when they were sick or hurt, too. It irked the hell out of them, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the paranoia that crept into him when his loved ones weren’t feeling their best. 

He was just finishing leaving everything to simmer on the stovetop when he heard the bathroom door open again, though it sounded like Clark was making a pit stop for something in his bedroom.

Then Bruce heard a muffled thump, just a bit louder than it should have been, and he quickly moved from the kitchen towards the bedroom, concern spiking. Did Clark fall? Did he trip over something? Trip into something? He rounded the kitchen in time to see Clark leaning heavily against the wall in the small hallway that led to his bathroom and bedroom, face hovering above his forearm before he lazily brought it towards his nose. “hehh… h'uhhH'EHSSCh'uh! Heh'ESHHuh! Eh’ISHh! Esh'SHiuhh!”

Clark braced himself on the wall, head bobbing up and down with each sneeze. He tried to sniffle between them, but it seemed that his nose was adamant about being cleared, because an itchy look overcame his expression and his glistening nostrils flared again as he aimed the next flurry of sneezes towards his arm again. “-IIhp’sshHHEhww! HiihhhhiH-HiisccHHihwww!!” He tried to dab at the mess, but it was futile, a strand of it connecting his nose to his bare arm. It broke in half, dripping down his face, and it must have been ticklish enough to bother him again because Clark only had time to brace his hand against the wall as he bent in half with a, “IhZZSCHHihhwww!!” that had his huge chest heaving towards the ceiling at its start and snapped him in half by the end, his running nose shooting towards the floor. Bruce was frozen in disgusted fascination at the thick ropes of mucus that stuck to themselves as they were expelled weakly from Clark’s nose, clinging to his septum and unable to be sniffed up, despite the marshy sniffles Clark was attempting between ragged, exhausted breaths. In the sunset of the early evening that filtered through Clark's limited windows, he could see glittering spray in various sizes rain down upon his poor sick partner.

Bruce went from voyeur to witness when Clark looked up, embarrassment written in his expression at the performance being seen by someone else. “Oh mby god,” he mumbled, quickly bringing the corner of his blanket to his nose. “Sorry. Sorry, that was gross.” He snuffled without any progress, and that finally kicked Bruce into action. He turned around and grabbed the tissue box from the TV stand, handing four to Clark. He looked away politely while the other man cleaned himself up, miserable breaths and squelches the only thing letting him know that Clark was still working at it. Bruce pulled a couple more tissues out and offered them again, and Clark took them with a grateful thanks.

Once the noises had subsided, Bruce turned to see Clark still leaning against the wall, red-faced. His chest warmed at the sight. 

“Let’s get you back onto the couch. Want me to take those?” Bruce held a hand out for the used tissues, but Clark’s grip went white-knuckled on the mass of soggy paper. 

“I’ve got it,” he said, and gratefully accepted Bruce’s arm as they shuffled back to the couch. “Sorry,” he said again. “Ugh, I’ll ndever be able to forget that. Absolutely humbiliating.” Bruce rubbed his back comfortingly. He wanted to comfort Clark, but he knew his words probably wouldn't convince the man of anything. The best he could do was hand him tissues and be here to get him through the worst of it without judgement. Then he realized that there was an etiquette faux pas he had been making, something he hadn’t said yet today.

someone (A) in a fitting room, trying on clothes. they're super sneezy today and can't quite figure out why, but they need to shop for an upcoming trip so they don't have time to figure that out right now. A doesn't even think about the fact that they were recently in a crowded train with someone else with a horrible cold. the thought of being sick doesn't even cross their mind yet, not when the only symptom is so similar to their allergies.

they keep sneezing on the clothes accidentally as they change, no warning for them to try to direct them elsewhere. it's getting embarrassing, they know the other people here can hear them, but they just need to hurry up and get this done. one extremely snotty sneeze onto a black shirt makes them blush as they try to rub the snot out of the fabric, sniffling. they feel bad as they put it in their go-back pile, but they don't want this shirt, and plus it isn't gonna harm anyone right?

they don't end up taking most of the clothes, choosing just a few that they liked. they leave the fitting room, arms full of pieces they need to turn into the attendant (B). A sniffles as they hand over the clothes, thanking B with a smile. B obviously just heard A sneezing like crazy in there, but didn't think anyone would just sneeze openly all over the clothes. so B just takes them and starts sorting, touching the fabric that they don't even realize is horribly contaminated and slightly damp with spray. and like most people, B doesn't really think before touching their face, scratching their nose...

A continues to peruse a bit, hoping to find just a few more nice pieces to take with them. they accidentally sneeze openly a few times more, all over the clothes that are on the racks. they get a few nasty looks from the others there, but luckily it isn't too crowded.

B puts away the discarded clothes, the germ-covered pieces going back on the racks for more people to touch, try on, and maybe even take home.

just imagine how many people are going to get A's nasty cold soon after visiting the store...

A checks out, just managing to direct their sneezes to the floor instead of onto the cashier's face, blushing and promising they aren't sick when the cashier frowns.

and when A takes the bus home, one hand full of bags and the other hand grabbing the pole, standing right above another passenger sitting down... they try /so/ hard to stifle, really! but A has never been good at that, and it just makes the mess build up and flow out, running all over their top lip as they sniffle uselessly. all the sniffling and stifling makes the itch even worse, and soon enough they can't hold back. sneeze after sneeze sprays out, covering their own shirt and spraying the poor passenger under them with snot before they can even move. the person moves away very quickly, of course, murmuring some choice words but A is too occupied sneezing openly onto the now empty seat to notice. they should really just sit down so they can cover, but now the seat has a puddle of snot on it so they don't.

at the next stop, someone else sits down directly onto that very seat, and A cringes as they watch. they're too embarrassed to say anything, face red and nose now streaming, but the new passenger has headphones on and isn't looking up. they don't hear how A is sniffling, don't see the mess all over their face and shirt. it's humiliating, how their eyes water as they try so hard to hold it back, but they know it's useless. whatever "allergen" is causing this is worse than any one they've ever experienced, and yet, they still aren't thinking they're sick.

their breath hitches only once before they sneeze again, huge and spraying right at the floor, some of it getting on their shirt again and some reaching the new passenger. they apologize between sneezes, trying to aim elsewhere, but they're an absolute mess. that passenger moves away as well, and A is thankful that they are left alone the rest of the ride until their stop.

when they get home, their partner is already there cooking dinner. A drops all their bags and rushes to the bathroom without a single word, and their partner is left confused until A returns to finally greet them and they see the red nose, the mess on their shirt. "baby, are you sick?" it's emphasized by A's pitiful sniffles, but A just shakes their head.

"has to be some allergy. im so embarrassed, i sneezed so much today..." they're way too ashamed to mention that those sneezes were on /people/. they lean in to kiss their partner on the cheek, sniffling again as they pull away. "anyway, what can i do to help with dinner?" they start to reach for their partner's hips, but quickly have to pull back and turn to the side to sneeze again, blushing as the mess explodes out of their nose again, hand flying up to cover before their partner can see. "fuck," they breathe out.

"i don't need any help babe, but i do need you to go shower and get comfy on the couch. i'll bring dinner there when it's ready, you need to relax." obviously they can tell that A is developing a horrible cold, but they know A well enough to not mention it again. so stubborn.

later that night, they sit together on the couch, cuddling as A sneezes over and over again into their partner's shirt, the fabric drenched at this point. partner doesn't care at all, is used to A's messy sneezes, likes to hold them through it.

A won't realize or admit it's a cold until the next evening, and then thinks about how many people they've likely accidentally contaminated. hopefully none of them get it...

Essek does not need Caleb's exceptionally sharp sense of time to know that Caleb is late. The sun has long since sunk beneath the horizon of the city, the cats and himself have preened and prepared for rest, and yet Caleb is still shut away in the study, hunched over student work he has been neglecting in favor of aiding Beauregard at the Cobalt Soul. He arrives home late most nights — typically after Essek has already made a meager dinner for himself — comes to bed late, and leaves early in the morning to teach his day of classes. Truly, it feels as though the only time in the last week and a half Essek has been able to even see Caleb is in the scant few hours of the night in which Essek is awake, and Caleb is not.

Perhaps he should not feel as frustrasted as he does with the absence; Caleb has certainly endured much lengthier stretches without so much as a sending from Essek, and he never complained. The circumstances were different, though. They shared a quiet life now, the kind of life Essek had long thought out of his reach. It had taken time — a shorter length than he initially expected, but time nonetheless — and considerable effort on both their parts to embrace what grew between them, and Essek Thelyss is not one to let go of such a hard won reality so easily.

With a huffed sigh, Essek tucks a bookmark into the pages of the book he had been absently reading for the last hour, and withdraws his legs from the warm covers. He makes his way from the bedroom to the study with both cats trailing eagerly at his feet.

Caleb is sat at his desk, three small balls of arcane light hung around his head as he hunches over a pile of papers. He has a warm blue cardigan drawn around his shoulders, and his hair has begun to fall out of its bind at the nape of his neck. The monotonous sound of quill against parchment falters as his breath catches, shoulders rising incrementally in time with each inhale. His left hand comes up to press a sleeve against his nose.

Essek freezes, a pleasant warmth blossoming in his chest alongside a prickly sensation of worry. Caleb is frozen as well, shoulders shuddering slightly as his breath flutters, teasing him for several agonizing seconds. When it proves fruitless, Caleb gives a stuffy sigh and lets his hand fall back to the desktop.

Essek stands in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. That prickling heat expands and presses against his ribs — a strange mixture of frustration and anticipation — forcing him to take another step into the study.

"Has your impeccable internal clock malfunctioned? Or are you simply avoiding me?"

Caleb straightens, surprised, turning abruptly as his quill clatters to the desk. Scampering out from behind Essek, Otto chirps and presses himself against Caleb's left leg eagerly.

"Essek, I'm sorry, I've been—"

"—Busy, I am aware." Caleb's eyes go wide, brows furrowing slightly. He goes to speak but Essek cuts him off again. "With problems of your own making. The cats are very upset with the change in routine."

"Es tut mir leid, Otto, Ingrid." He leans down to run one hand through Otto's thick orange fur, then shoots a gentle smile towards the cat still sitting in the doorway. The other hand swipes at his nose through his sleeve again. "I am nearly done with these papers, then I can come to bed."

Essek approaches the desk, peering around Caleb to catch a glimpse of the small pile still awaiting his eye. When he registers what they are — the papers he had assigned a mere 2 weeks ago to his advanced transmutation students — Essek's brows furrow and he barely contains a scoff.

"You cannot have had those papers for more than a day."

"I'm going to have—" Caleb pauses to clear his throat, wincing slightly, "—a busy few weeks with Beau, so I have to grade these tonight. I'll come up when I'm done, I promise."

With a small, almost-apologetic smile, Caleb turns back towards his desk and plucks his quill from where it had settled previously.

Essek rolls his eyes, reaching into his pocket to grasp the fingers of his right hand around his focus and mutters under his breath, left hand gliding through a simple somatic. Caleb's quill halts in space where it is poised within his hand.

Caleb huffs frustratedly, muttering his own incantation and waving his fingers in a sharp line in the space between himself and the quill. When the quill does not budge, he turns around to shoot Essek a look.

"Essek—"

"It is late, Caleb, you need to rest." Essek does not comment that he is acutely aware of Caleb's lack of sleep, given their sleeping arrangements. "I will help you grade them later this week."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You are not asking. I am offering." Essek rests a hand on Caleb's shoulder, giving him a meaningful look.

Now that Essek is properly looking at him, Caleb looks exhausted. Moreso than he has the last several nights. Stray strands of auburn frame his face messily. His eyes are slightly glassy, faintly squinting up at him as though the effort to keep them open is considerable on its own. Dark bags gather beneath them, accompanied by a light rosy flush along his cheeks. His nose is noticeably pinkened, with the faintest sheen of moisture clinging to his nostrils. His lips are parted open and starting to chap.

Something about the look leaves a swell of heat settling in Essek's stomach.

"Please come to bed, 'chev, you're exhausted." He adds gently, swirling his fingertips along the linen of Caleb's shirt that hangs loosely against his shoulder.

He visibly loosens with the touch. It takes a few seconds of evident internal debate before he breathes a soft, stuffy sigh and acquiesces to follow Essek. He stumbles a bit as he stands, leaning into Essek while they walk.

When they reach the bedroom, Caleb suddenly stops in his tracks, face scrunching in discomfort. His breath snags and he turns as far away from Essek has he can — which is not far, seeing as Essek is currently supporting his weight — to smother his nose in a sweater sleeve once again.

"hHD'Zzchh!" The subsequent sneeze is softer than Essek had been anticipating.

"Gesundheit."

Zemnian still feels especially strange on Essek's tongue, but the small smile it earned him from his partner was enough to assuage any nerves about his pronounciation.

"A quick student, I see." Caleb mumbles with a sniffle, manhandling his poor nose through his sweater-paw.

"I have a wonderful teacher." Essek squeezes Caleb's shoulder, a gentle smile spreading across his lips. "Now come, I am tired simply looking at you."

Caleb gives a soft huff of a laugh, allowing himself to be guided into bed and the covers to be drawn over him. Otto settles almost immediately beside his legs, purring happily and pressing rather aggressive biscuits into the blanket. Essek climbs in beside him a moment later, followed quickly by Ingrid who begins to groom herself. Caleb presses himself closer to Essek, humming in approval as Essek's hands card through his hair, sweeping the stray pieces from his cheeks.

After only a few seconds, Caleb turns away again, chest swelling and eyes fluttering shut.

"hHhiiH-! hHEDT'Zzchhiuhh!" Caleb shudders into his left elbow, laying back afterwards with a sigh and a muttered "sorry."

"Do not apologize." Essek reprimands gently. A hand cups Caleb's cheek and bring their gazes even. "You are allowed to be unwell."

"Mm, I'm f-hHhine." Caleb furrows his brow as his nostrils flare, eyes narrowing slightly as he struggles through the phrase.

Essek shoots him an unamused look, fingers mindlessly tracing the clean shaven edges of Caleb's beard beside his ear. Heat blooms inexplicably in Essek's gut as he watches Caleb's expression shift; pinkened nostrils flaring and scrunching in evident discomfort, already glassy eyes going even more unfocused, breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps before he snaps his neck towards his chest, dislodging Essek's hands from their positions, drawing his hands to his face—

"hhHehD'ZzSChhh—! hhiHh- hHiDT'ZSshh'uhh!"

He stares as Caleb's expression crumples, trying his best to ignore the feeling of Caleb's muscles contracting against his side. A molten heat settles at the base of Essek's stomach, sending sparks of electricity spidering up and down his spine.

Oh. Essek could not help but draw in a small breath. Of all the things that could possibly wake his perpetually reticent arousal, this was not one he anticipated. Nor one he has ever properly considered before. Strange.

"Ah," Caleb's cheeks go bright red, hands remaining tightly pressed to his face.

Essek is positive his own face is flushed a deep shade of violet, if the heat pulsing behind his cheeks is any indication. After a beat of silence their gazes meet, and another wave of warm arousal settles squarely between Essek's legs. He has to resist the urge to squirm or shift away from Caleb out of embarrassment.

"Gesundheit." Essek's voice is just above a whisper, and he can only pray his desperation is not evident in his tone. Another beat of silence passes before Essek has a mind enough to wave his hand and cast prestidigitation on Caleb's hands.

"Danke." Caleb sniffles, giving Essek a shy smile as he draws his hands away and lets them settle back on Essek's body — one pressed against his chest, the other draped over his stomach. If Caleb can feel the hammering of Essek's heartbeat he does not mention it. "You don't have to say it every time, you know."

"I know."

(Essek did not, in fact, know that. Caleb has said it each of the handful of times he managed to bear witness to Essek's sneezing. The rest of the Nein, he is aware, always blessed each other dilligently as well. Without any evidence to the contrary, he simply assumed repeating the phrase was the correct course of action.)

"I think it is…" Essek pauses, his cheeks heating a bit as he searches for a proper word. "Rather endearing to have a phrase to respond with."

Caleb shifts to better look up at Essek, his leg ensnaring one of Essek's own in the process. "Is there not a blessing in Undercommon?"

"No. Or, not within Roshona, at least." He looks away with a small chuckle. "You would think for such a religious population there would be something, but, ah, sneezing is considered… impolite, I suppose, so it is frowned upon to acknowledge it."

"Well, I ahhppreciate thhehhH-! The ehhffort thehnihhH-! hHhEDT'ZZschhh'uh!"

He fumbles away from Essek, barely managing to press a hand over his face as he curls inward, forehead bumping against Essek's chest. The contact, paired with the breathless quality of Caleb's voice sends a shock of electricity radiating down towards Essek's groin. Caleb sniffles and sighs, shaking a stray lock of hair from his face before he gives Essek a sheepish look over the scarred, pale knuckles of the hand still pressed to his face.

"Ah, perhaps I could bother you to show me prestidigitation one of these days."

Essek chuckles lightly and raises a hand to cast with practiced ease, reveling in the attention Caleb pays to the gesture. A weak, gossammer thread of magic dances playfully around his fingers, and at the final moment before it take hold, Essek flicks his pinky finger and thumb together and apart in a swift motion. The arcana converges with a violet flash into a plush, white handkerchief that falls delicately into his palm.

Caleb stares at the handkerchief in mild amusement.

"Do not tell me you were unaware of prestidigitation's alternative functions." Essek raises a brow, though the expression is betrayed by the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He extends the handkerchief to Caleb, giving him a nod.

"I can't say I've ever seen it used like this before."

Caleb's watery eyes crinkle with a smile, accepting the handkerchief and examining it briefly before raising it to his face to wipe at his pinkened nose. After exactly twelve seconds, the handkerchief dissipates in a puff of sparkling arcane energy. That same, amused expression paints Caleb's features as he sniffles again, gaze flitting from the empty space of his fingers where the handkerchief had been and Essek's face.

"You're always full of surprises." Caleb says with a yawn.

Essek rolls his eyes half-heartedly, letting a hand run through Caleb's hair once again. Caleb very nearly joins Otto in his purring, craning his neck back to press into Essek's hand and letting out a stuffy, pleased sigh. His hands find their way back to Essek, their warmth adding to the pleasurable buzz gathering in his chest.

"Get some rest, alurl."

Caleb peeks at Essek, lip curling in a tired smile before he closes his eyes and rests his head against Essek's chest once more. It is a mere matter of minutes before his breath begins to slow and a soft snore begins crackling in his chest.

Trance does not come as easily to Essek as sleep does to Caleb tonight. The grounding presence of Caleb against him is usually more than suffiecient as a focus to guide his consciousness from his body, but tonight, the heat radiating off of Caleb serves only to further ground him in their bedroom. Essek is all too aware of the way Caleb's chest rises and falls against his own, the position of Caleb's hands on his body— one draped over Essek's waist, fingers splayed along the small of his back, the other curled into the soft silk fabric of Essek's nightrobe. He can feel Caleb's nose pressed against his ribs.

That, particularly, sends another flare of arousal crashing over Essek's nerves like a pulse wave. He breaths in and out methodically, willing his heart to cease its relentless attempt to beat out of his chest. His fingers tingle with anticipation, aching to trail along the fine muscles of Caleb's arms and back, to trace the edges of the many adventurer's scars that mottle his pale skin. Heat pools at the base of his gut as he feels Caleb's lungs continue to expand and contract in a steady rhythm, the slightest rumbling of congestion resonating in his chest and through to Essek's own.